Aethersmith (Book 2) (73 page)

“But then, what about the murders?” Brannis said. “Celia
told me you arranged them, had her carry them out.”

“That was for your benefit, I am afraid. Dolvaen’s support
was growing, threatening to expand beyond the point where it could be hidden.”

“How does that benefit
me
?” Brannis asked.

“Kyrus was going to be forced to take sides. There could not
be an open rebellion in Kadris with you remaining neutral. If you sided with
Rashan, then Dolvaen’s faction would have been crushed. If you sided with
Dolvaen, you would have been pitted against Rashan directly. Strong as you are,
I do not think that would bode well for you, or for our chances of eventually
putting the fire to that demon.”

“So what now?” Soria asked.

“We wait for the time to be right. Brannis, you must make
sure Kyrus takes no overt interest in battle magic or anything else that makes
you a more immediate concern for Rashan. He likes you, values you, but at the
same time, one misstep might be all it takes for him to decide you are no
longer worth the risk of keeping alive. If luck plays into our hands, we might
secure the Staff of Gehlen, which might give Kyrus enough of an advantage to
risk a confrontation, but I think it may be more prudent to slowly master magic
until your control matches your Source.”

“So in the meantime, we just do—”

“One moment,” Harwick interrupted. His eyes stared past them
with heavy lids, unblinking. Brannis and Soria waited, recognizing that far-off
look as either aether-vision, or more likely attention paid to Veydrus. “You
two should awaken in Kadris. We can continue our discussion another time.”

Chapter 41 - A Wagon’s Burden

A steady wooden rumble and the clop of hooves were the only
sounds for hours at a time as a lonely wagon made its way across the
countryside. Its driver, an elderly Kadrin man with stooped shoulders and a
shriveled face, guided it along the trade road toward the city of Kadris. It
was wartime, so soldiers were wont to stop stray merchants to check for
smugglers and spies. The old wagon driver had been stopped thrice thus far, climbing
down from his seat, throwing back the blankets that covered his cargo, and
waiting as the soldiers came to look. Each time, the Kadrin soldiers had
hurried him along on his way, wanting nothing further to do with him.

His journey was nearly at an end, he saw. The great towers
of Kadris could be seen in the distance, peeking over the low rolls of the
uneven landscape. To his left, as he drove, lay Podawei Wood. A moment’s dark
whimsy took hold of the driver, and he wondered if the old stories were true
about there being spirits deep within the ancient forest. He could leave the
wagon, and disappear deep into Podawei, never to be seen by men again. The
driver shook his head, dismissing such folly; the horse had never so much as
slowed during his musing. No, he preferred to accept his fate, and meet it with
some dignity.

Upon his arrival at the outskirts of Kadris, he was stopped
once more. The guards at the city limits were of more use than the soldiers he
had encountered on the roads. They directed him to the Imperial Palace, where
Warlock Rashan Solaran had recently returned. Cargo covered once more, the
driver climbed up onto the seat of his wagon, and took the reins in shaking
hands. He drove his little wagon across Kadris as the sun set, darkening the
streets and his fears. Each step of his horse’s gait was like a grain of sand
falling through an hourglass, counting the time until he reached the palace,
and his doom.

* * * * * * * *

Kyrus rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he strode down the
palace hallways. He had yet to ascertain the reason for Caladris’s warning, but
noted that there was more activity than there ought to have been in the palace.
Certainly the servants worked round the clock at small tasks, cleaning and
preparing while the common areas of the palace were deserted, but nothing on
the scale he was seeing.

“You there.” He stopped one of the porters who was passing
him in the opposite direction. “What is this ruckus about?”

“Out in the courtyard, your lordship,” the man replied,
botching Kyrus’s title in his haste to be free of the conversation. The porter
continued on past Kyrus, disappearing down a side hallway.

Kyrus’s mind began puzzling as he walked. There were too
many possibilities to even venture a guess. The
Daggerstrike
had been landed
in the gardens behind the palace; the porter might have confused which outdoor
venue from whence the disturbance originated. It could also have had something
to do with their new charge, Anzik Fehr. Kyrus had heard about the trouble the
boy had been in Zorren, and wondered if perhaps he was now causing mischief in
Kadris on a scale that would warrant such frenzied activity. Kyrus’s feet kept
moving as he thought, guiding him toward his answer, whether he could work it
out before he got there or not.

“Brannis!”

The shout came from behind him. He turned to see Celia
hastening to catch up with him. A bile rose in Kyrus’s throat as the thought of
her betrayal came foremost to his mind. Tempting as it was to confront her
about her role in impersonating Abbiley as a twinborn, he knew he had to follow
Caladris’s advice.
You are a fine actress, Celia, but it is your turn to
play the fool.

“Celia! Are you all right?” Kyrus called back, pausing to
wait for her. The primitive parts of Kyrus warred within him, one side
continuing the belief that she was either Abbiley or at least close enough that
it did not matter; the other side screamed for him to slay her where she stood
for toying with his feelings.

“Yes, but what is going on here?” Celia reached him, huffing
for breath.

“Something outside in the courtyard,” Kyrus replied.

* * * * * * * *

A crowd had gathered, and not the usual rabble that gawked
at every little thing of interest. Much of the palace staff had gathered
outside in the middle of the night. Courtiers that stayed near the palace were
present, and Kyrus saw many of the Empire’s sorcerers in attendance as well. A
few had cast balls of light in the air overhead, pushing back the gloom of
night, but also casting the crowd in eerie pallor of washed-out light and harsh
shadow.

Kyrus pushed his way through. Though he lacked the size to
force folk out of his way, the press of bodies parted before him when they
realized who was trying to get by. Celia had ventured down to the courtyard
with him, taking him by the arm, but he left her behind at the outskirts of the
throng.

A horse-drawn wagon was at the center of the mass of
gawkers. Rashan was standing in the back of it, looking downward, the demon’s
expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. He saw Juliana nearby as well;
she had apparently had a quicker time of it than Kyrus had of getting down to
investigate. She was pressed against Caladris, not looking at Kyrus as he
approached, her face buried against his shoulder. Caladris said something to
her, and she turned to see Kyrus.

“Oh, Brannis,” she sobbed, releasing Caladris, and rushing
over to Kyrus. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t teased
him and shown him up, he would never have gone.”

“Juliana, what’s wrong? What happened?” Kyrus asked,
gathering her in his arms, and pulling her close, careless of who saw them
together, even with Rashan looming.

“Iridan,” she said simply, turning her head to the wagon.

Kyrus’s blood froze in his chest. He eased himself away from
Juliana, walking over to the back of the wagon. Looking inside, he saw the
body.

Iridan was laid out inside, wrapped in white linen except
for his head. His friend’s face was a greying blue, pocked with small wounds
that would now never heal. He saw a bit of discolored flesh around the neck,
and surmised the cause of death. Someone had used magic—a bit still lingered
about Iridan’s neck in the aether—to reattach the head. The joining had been
imperfect, but was more respectful than returning the body in pieces.

Kyrus looked up at Rashan Solaran, who had not moved since
he had arrived. The warlock’s head turned slightly, acknowledging Kyrus.

“My legacy …”—Rashan spoke softly; Kyrus could barely hear
him—“… snatched away from me yet again.”

* * * * * * * *

By sunset of the following night, all the arrangements had
been made. On the grassy grounds behind the Solaran Estate, folk from all over
Kadris had gathered. Airships had spent the day delivering nobles and sorcerers
from the nearby parts of the surrounding empire as well. No one wished to risk
the warlock’s ire by refusing the invitation in his hour of grief.

A pyre of carefully stacked wood stood chest high to Kyrus,
covering an area the size of two trellis tables set side by side. Iridan’s body
lay atop the pile, dressed in clean, new warlock regalia, with Sleeping Dragon
resting on his chest, its hilt beneath Iridan’s crossed hands. The smells of
wood chips and pitch overpowered the scent of death that clung to Iridan
despite the oils and unguents that had been used to make him look less gruesome
in death.

Guards in imperial livery surrounded the pyre, keeping back
all but a select few. Emperor Sommick was among those who were permitted near
the pyre, as were Juliana, Rashan, Kyrus, and Iridan’s foster parents. Kyrus
had made a point to seek them out, personally flying the
Daggerstrike
out to their home to fetch them, and to tell them the news of Iridan’s death
personally. They had taken it better than he had imagined, proud that their son
had died fighting for the folk in Munne. Kyrus wished he could have shared
their peace of spirit.

One guest whose arrival had caused no small amount of
surprise, and whose presence within the guarded area went unchallenged despite
receiving no permission to be there, was Illiardra. She arrived accompanied by
a disturbance Kyrus felt in the aether that he could only describe as something
like the passing of a swarm of butterflies; he saw it more than felt it, and
had he not been looking at the time, never would have noticed it. She was
dressed in a full-length gown of black silk and matching black cloak, hood
pulled low.

“I am sorry for the loss of your friend,”
Kyrus heard
in his mind. He knew that it was Iridan’s demonic mother who had addressed him.

“How did you know to come here?”
Kyrus asked in kind.

“I watched. I saw him fall. I saw him brought here.”

“If you were watching, why did you not save him?”
Kyrus demanded, his anger flowing clearly in a medium of nothing but thought.

“He could have been saved, but not by me. Had I
intervened, I might have spared his life for a time, but he would have suffered
more greatly in the end.”

“If you could not have saved him, who could have?”

“Two who, each for their own reasons, could not bring
themselves to.”

“Do you mean me and Juliana? Were we what stood between
Iridan and death? What could I have done?”

“No. You, perhaps, are the one who had saved him for far
too long already. But enough for now, twin of Brannis, the ceremony is
beginning.”

Kyrus shook himself from his magical conversation, and
reacquainted himself with his surroundings. He stepped up to the pyre as he saw
the others doing.

“We commit this hero to the fire,” Rashan spoke, his voice
carrying through the crowd as if he personally stood next to each man, woman,
and child. Rashan released a tiny lick of flame that sparked a fire in the
kindling packed in and around the logs of the piled wood. Juliana, Kyrus, and
even Illiardra did likewise, setting flames at points roughly spaced out around
Iridan’s pyre.

A small stone slab, inlaid with runes, had been placed in
the ground at the head of the pyre. Emperor Sommick walked over, and stood upon
it. When he spoke, his voice was amplified throughout the estate grounds.

“We gather this night to honor Iridan Solaran, Warlock of
the Kadrin Empire. Though he never spoke his pledge before me, he was pledged
to the service of the Kadrin Empire at the time of my coronation, and he will
henceforth be considered to be the first warlock of my reign. Though we have
not gathered the entire circumstance of his death, we know that he fell in
battle, and that his death was bought at the price of many Megrenn lives. I
honor him, and wish that I could have had a dozen more like him, that we might
never face an enemy willing to contest against us.”

Emperor Sommick left the slab amid a respectful hush, and
the soft crackle of four small fires as they began to spread. Rashan took the
emperor’s place next on the slab. Though he did not need the magical aid it
provided, he allowed it to amplify his voice as well.

“I was gone from the Empire a very long time. In that time,
I fathered Iridan, and left him to the fosterage of these kindly folk who have
joined us this evening. They raised a fine young man, and sent him to the
Imperial Academy when his magical talent became evident. As a child of an
unknown bloodline, he fought for everything he got, earning his way to the top
of his class. Upon my return to Kadrin, I sought to mold that boy into my own
image. I saw the potential of a warlock within him, and indeed he became a warlock.
But tonight I beg forgiveness for not doing enough to prepare him, for allowing
him to go off alone when he might have been better served by more training.
Twice before, in winters long past, I have said good-bye to sons who failed to
walk the path I blazed for them. I find my curse in the repetition of mistakes
I knew better than to make. I was blinded by the potential I saw, the visions
of glory, of the legacy I would be able to pass on. Now I consign those dreams
to ash.”

To oblivion with you, demon, this
is
your fault.

Taking small steps, seeming unsure of her balance, Juliana
took her turn next upon the speakers’ slab. The magic made clear not only the
words she spoke, but the sniffling between words as she struggled to maintain
her composure.

“Iridan, I am sorry. We have quarreled since long before we
were wed, and the childish torments I once inflicted on you … I never outgrew
them in time. You deserved much better than I gave you, and I cannot help
wondering how much better your life would have been if not for mine. We would
have grown together, in time, but I pushed you away. I made you feel like you
needed to prove your worth. It was my fault you went off alone to Munne. It is
my fault that you now lie before us, instead of standing alongside us.” Juliana
stepped off the slab just before she burst into tears.

Standing in the front row of spectators, just behind the
halberds of the guards, Axterion stood with his hand on Danilaesis’s shoulder
for support. He leaned down, close to the boy’s ear, and whispered, “Do you
still want to be a warlock now? This is what happens to all of them,
eventually.”

Danil stared at the spreading fires but did not answer.

Illiardra took an unanticipated turn upon the slab herself,
though only metaphorically. She chose to float above it, letting the crowd see
her clearly as she threw back the hood of her cloak. She had done nothing to
hide her inhuman appearance. Her thin, delicate horns framed her face, and her
long ears poked from beneath her hair. Her voice echoed with her own magic as
she shunned the stone runes.

“Iridan Solaran was born of my body, but was Rashan Solaran
reborn. Every bit of power and potential that a young Rashan possessed, so too
did Iridan. Raised with no knowledge of his lineage, Iridan developed kindness,
compassion, and humility. This gave me hope that his father might learn these
traits himself. Instead, within little more than a season of their meeting,
Rashan destroyed Iridan, shattering a blade he believed himself to be
tempering. Arrogance, wantonness, cruelty, a quickness to violence—all lurked
beneath, exposed as the rest was stripped away. Today I mourn the death of
everything that was good within Rashan Solaran.”