Forging Divinity (3 page)

Lydia recoiled from the assault, nearly stepping into Taelien. He caught her as she staggered, ashamed of his aborted effort to hold her hostage, and observed as smoke rose from the front of her body.

His eyes shifted downward for just an instant, registering that a circular section of her robe a few inches in diameter had been incinerated, but her flesh looked unaffected.

Lydia shook free from his grasp and lunged forward, while her attacker dropped Taelien’s weapon and retreated in apparent surprise.

Looks like she’s helping me after all.
Taelien grasped the metal encasing his left wrist, focusing for an instant.
Unfold
, he told it, causing the seam that held the cylinder together to separate.
Ball
, he continued, reshaping the metal into a tiny sphere.

Istavan grabbed a dagger from a nearby table and hurled it at Lydia as she advanced. Taelien’s metal ball intercepted the dagger in mid-flight, sending both weapons to the floor. Lydia didn’t spare a glance back at Taelien as she advanced, her right hand sitting menacingly on the hilt of her weapon.

Lydia’s masked opponent pulled a naked longsword from a nearby table, holding it in front of him defensively. “I suspected we had a traitor among us, I didn’t think it’d be you, Lydia.” Taelien winced. His earlier impression of the man hadn’t been very good.

The red-haired woman bent her forward knee as she approached the range of Istavan’s longsword, keeping her weapon in the sheath. Taelien had never seen such an impractical stance – and he wasn’t ready to watch his rescuer be butchered. Taelien followed behind her, rushing to the table that contained his own weapon, among others.

Istavan raised his longsword and swung it downward heavily, attempting to utilize his reach advantage. Lydia’s cut came diagonally upward – not aimed at her opponent’s torso or weapon, but at her attacker’s wrist. She twisted the blade at the last instant, slapping his arm with the flat of the blade rather than the edge. The jarring force of the strike sent Istavan’s own attack awry and forced him to take another step backward, directly into a chair. To his credit, Istavan both retained his grip on the weapon and his balance, growling audibly as he kicked the chair aside.

Lydia flourished her blade silently, pointing it directly at Istavan’s chest. Taelien snatched up a random sword of from the table, not daring to draw his own weapon in a place like this. The risks were too great.

Before Taelien could move to flank their opponent, Istavan jabbed his palm in Taelien’s direction. “Burn,” the man said viciously, a flickering sphere of orange flame surging in Taelien’s direction. Lydia moved to intercept the spell, but the table blocked her path. This time, however, Taelien was ready.

Taelien’s blade flashed twice.
Disperse
, he told the flame as it met with iron, and the incendiary globe obeyed his command. Flame was the second of the two dominions he could shape using Core Sorcery, but his mastery over it was feeble by comparison. Rather than setting him aflame, the ball split further apart each time his weapon struck, washing harmlessly over him in a wave of warmth.

Istavan lashed out at Lydia again with a slash aimed at her midsection. Lydia caught the horizontal strike on her hilt and pushed his sword toward the floor, stepping in and tapping him on the face with her off hand. “Sleep,” she said.

Istavan collapsed unceremoniously, colliding with the chair and knocking it over as he fell.

“Effective,” Taelien mused, staring at Lydia and furrowing his brow.
Either thought or dream sorcery
, he considered.
Both extremely difficult to perform, both among the most dangerous types of sorcery to fight against.

“Efficient,” she replied. She leaned down to Istavan, pressing a hand to his forehead again. “Dominion of Knowledge, shatter his last memories into fragments,” she said. There was no visible effect. Afterward, she leaned down further and whispered another phrase in the downed sorcerer’s ear.

Memory erasure? I was led to believe that was impossible
, Taelien considered. He said nothing. Either the woman in front of him was proficient in a type of sorcery he was unfamiliar with, or she was trying to trick him into thinking she could do something that she couldn’t. In the latter case – and possibly the former – he was better off pretending he believed her.

Lydia stood up and gave him an incredulous look. “Did you bisect his fireball?”

“No,” Taelien replied in his ominous emulated sorcerer tone, “I cut it into quarters. Halves might still have hurt.”

Lydia quirked her eyebrow. “You’re going to have to tell me how you did that later.”

“Trade secret,” he replied, grinning broadly.

Without any further hesitation, Taelien abandoned the ordinary blade he had acquired and retrieved his own sword from the table. The ornate weapon was still in its unique scabbard, and that scabbard was still on his belt. He fastened the belt on his waist, immediately feeling a sense of comfort at the presence of the weapon that had accompanied him through every memory he possessed.

Lydia glanced at the sword, narrowing her eyes. “We need to wrap that up in a bundle of cloth or something, it’s too obvious,” she explained.

Taelien nodded. The sword was about as conspicuous as any weapon could be. The hilt consisted of a pair of silver wings, outstretched as if in flight. Between the wings sat a single sapphire, glowing perpetually with sorcerous light. The hilt held a similar, larger sapphire, grasped within four claw-like prongs. The blade – once unsheathed – was even more distinctive.

Ordinary
, he told the sword with a pang of regret. He found his eyes momentarily closing as the spell drew from him, and he shook his head to dismiss the feeling of exhaustion. When his eyes reopened, the weapon’s guard had been replaced by a simple cross. The pommel appeared to be a ball of metal.

“What have you done?” Lydia asked, her voice tinged with an unfamiliar note of panic.

“Nothing of significance,” Taelien replied calmly, raising an eyebrow at her outburst. “I simply reshaped the metal, covering the gems-“

“That is a
sacred
weapon,” Lydia said desperately, wringing her hands in the air. “Assuming, of course, that it isn’t a counterfeit,” she added in a more typical, analytical tone.

“It is most certainly genuine,” Taelien replied with a chuckle. “What’s the problem? I thought you were Edonian, not a Tae’os follower. Why would you care?”

“Your observations do you credit, but your assumptions are flawed. We need to leave,” Lydia insisted vehemently, “And then we have a talk. A long talk,” she assured him, taking an audible breath.

“By all means,” Taelien said, adjusting the familiar sword on his waist. “Lead the way.”

Chapter II – A Contemplation of Constant Complications

Twelve Hours Earlier

Lydia woke to the sound of a gentle rapping at her door. This was unusual, as few dared to interrupt the sorceress during the early hours of the morning; it was well known that her work often kept her awake past the rising of the dawnfire.

Lydia rolled out of her bed and to her feet, taking her sheathed sabre from beneath the sheets along the way. After a moment of debate, she set the weapon beside her dresser and withdrew a set of her uniform robes from within. She didn’t like the idea of keeping whoever was at the door waiting long, but appearances were important.

Once she had donned her robes, the sorceress retrieved her spectacles from the pages of an open book that sat on the chair next to her bed. She put the glasses on, glanced at the mirror near her dresser, and cringed. Vanity was not among her flaws, but even she could discern that her hair was in dire need of aid.

Retrieving her weapon, Lydia strode to the door, carrying the sheathed saber in her off hand rather than belting it on. It was a conscious decision, intended to draw attention to the sword and away from her perilous lack of grooming. She swung the door wide.

A young man stood before her, his demeanor modest, his pose timid. Lydia somehow managed to look downward at him, slanting her eyes, though the man was at least her own height.

“F-forgive me for the intrusion, sorceress,” he began.

At least he knows he’s bothering me
, she considered.
This must be important. Why don’t I recognize him?
She quickly noted that he wore a single earring shaped like a harp – the symbol of the queen - on his left ear, that he had a small but noticeable facial scar under his right eye, and that his stance favored his right leg. She found that identifying distinctive characteristics helped her recall individuals more easily, which was useful in her line of work.

“Yes?” Lydia inquired, lowering her left arm to rest the saber against the ground. Though the movement was the opposite of hostile, her action would serve to attract even more attention to the weapon’s presence.

“A meeting of the court’s sorcerers has been called,” the man explained, standing up a little straighter.

“For when?” she asked.

“Right now,” he said in an apologetic tone, wincing slightly.

“Resh,” she cursed lightly, using a popular expletive that literally meant ‘raw garbage’. “All right, I’ll be there. In the Cobalt Room?”

“Yes, I’m to take you there-“

Lydia scowled, leaning forward just a fraction, “I believe I am more than capable of walking up a flight of stairs on my own.” She felt bad for the lad – she had been a timid youth herself, and intimidating others did not come naturally to her. But her present role, “Lydia Scryer”, required meeting certain expectations. Lydia Hastings might have been gentle or compassionate, but Lydia Scryer most certainly was not.

“Of course. Forgive me,” the man replied, folding his right arm across his chest and bowing slightly at the waist before retreating. The gesture was slightly odd – in the local culture, one only bowed using the right arm when addressing a member of the nobility. Perhaps she was being mocked, or this man held the court sorcerers in particularly great awe. She had seen similar behavior before, but most of the palace servants were acclimated to the presence of sorcerers.

At the moment, that bit of minutia was too insignificant for Lydia to waste her time on pondering it. She shut her door the instant the messenger departed and rushed to prepare for the meeting.

What could be important enough for a meeting at this hour?
She pondered possibilities. An invasion. An assassination attempt on the queen. Perhaps Edon, the leader of the local gods, had laid down a new edict.

The worst possibility occurred to her as well – her identity could have been discovered.

It didn’t seem likely, since her head was still firmly attached to her shoulders, but it was possible.

After swiftly maneuvering her hair into a workable bun, Lydia belted on her sword and a small leather pouch. She glanced at her writing table, a handful of books stacked atop it near dozens of smaller scrolls and pieces of parchment. When attending a meeting with her fellow sorcerers, she always did her best to be – or at least look – prepared.

Her eyes briefly lingered on
The Nature of Worlds
by Erik Tarren, the first book she had ever owned. It had been a gift from her actual father – not the man she had grown up with thinking was her father – to her mother. Her mother had never taken an interest in it, but Lydia had found the contents fascinating.

The tome described the various Dominions as physical locations – which the author sometimes called “Planes” – and claimed that inhabitable areas existed on these other “Planes”. The world Lydia lived on was said to reside within the “Core Plane”, and it was speculated to be one of many. The term Core Sorcery, now commonly used among sorcerers, was named in reference to this planar theory.

Dismissing her errant thoughts, Lydia retrieved a scroll at random from the pile, knowing it was almost certainly unrelated to the discussion at hand, and headed toward the meeting chamber.

As she walked down familiar halls, Lydia pondered the possibilities for the meeting.
They could want us to interview a new potential apprentice, or someone to serve in the Queensguard. Selyr might have sent another ambassador, since things with the last one didn’t go anywhere. Or maybe someone has finally identified the assassins that were discovered in the palace a few months ago?

Two months before, a group of armed men had been found near the chambers of the crown prince. They had been noticed, but most of the men had managed to evade capture. Rialla, one of the local gods, had personally interrogated the man who had been captured. Whatever she discovered had caused the prince’s coronation to be delayed, and the new date for the crowning ceremony was currently three weeks away.

Lydia rubbed at her eyes as she approached the door to the meeting room.
Gods, I hate mornings. Maybe I should have sent that hugely conspicuous servant to get me some breakfast.

The Cobalt Room was named after Corrigan Cobalt, one of the city’s founders. While most of the rooms in the palace had colorful names – literally in some cases, figuratively in others – the Cobalt Room was utterly plain in appearance. The nondescript gray walls completely lacked adornment, which Lydia had quickly realized was a security measure. Sorcerers tended to find ways to turn mundane objects into tools, and practically any item could hold hidden danger.

The lone wooden table in the center showed many years of use, though the chairs around it were plush and comfortable. There were no windows, and the room only had a single entrance.

“Close up the room, we’re all here,” said Sethridge, one of the three sorcerers seated at the table. Lydia nodded and shut the door behind her as she entered, moving to take her place in the single vacant seat.

Lydia glanced at her colleagues, noting who was present. Sethridge had spoken first and, if his usual behavior patterns held, he would do his best to speak last. He was senior among all those present, having served the queen regent for more than fifteen years. His face was lined with light wrinkles, not from mirth, but the deep creases of worry.

While Sethridge wore three pins on his collar just as most of the others did, he unofficially functioned as the group’s leader and primary organizer. This meeting had most likely been his idea; the majority of the other sorcerers tended to avoid each other unless they needed something specific. Aside from coordinating the sorcerers, Sethridge spent most of his time politicking with the city’s nobility. The city’s nobles commanded comparatively less influence to what Lydia had seen in Velthryn and other cities – the queen regent commanded virtually absolute power, at least in theory. This was, at least in part, because Queen Regent Tylan was also considered one of the four local gods.

To Sethridge’s left sat Veruden, a younger man with skin bronzed by the dawnfire’s rays. With only two pins, he was the lowest ranking of the sorcerers present, but apparently senior enough that whoever organized the meeting wanted him there. Apprentices wore a single pin, and apparently none of them had been invited.

Veruden was the only one among them who spoke openly of his past, often telling stories about his father’s farm, which he supposedly still visited. Sorcerers from the lower classes were rare, if only because few could afford the education required to hone their skills. Veruden had been fortunate enough to find a wealthy sponsor, though Lydia did not know the details of their arrangement. It must have been a pleasant one, since he wore a smile like a second set of robes.

Veruden had a series of bandages wrapped around his right hand. They looked pure white, which meant that they must have been freshly applied.
Recent injury
, Lydia noted, filing the information away for later.

To Sethridge’s right was Morella, a woman Lydia guessed to be a few years older than herself. She was a genius at Memory Sorcery, one of the most difficult types of sorcery to master. Lydia had long considered Morella for lessons, but they rarely spent any extended time in the same location. Morella’s talents made her incredibly potent at finding criminals and she was frequently utilized for that purpose. Her presence was peculiar, indicating that a crime was most likely involved.

“You heard anything yet?” Veruden asked Lydia, leaning against the table with both arms. In spite of many years in the queen regent’s service, he had never learned appropriate courtly manners. Lydia had a soft spot for him – he reminded her of Keras, one of the boys – now men, she supposed – that she had trained with.

“No,” Lydia replied, shaking her head.

Almost all of us are here,
she considered.
Peculiar.

Lydia had heard that Istavan, the last of the five full sorcerers in the queen regent’s service, had been assigned to a diplomatic mission outside of the city. She had heard that it had something to do with Prince Byron’s upcoming coronation, but she didn’t have any details. She presumed it involved attempting to track down the potential assassins that had been discovered near Byron’s chambers. Regardless of his agenda, she did not expect to hear from him for weeks.

Odd that the queen regent always sends Istavan on long-distance assignments, rather than Veruden. I’d think that she’d want Istavan here – he’s familiar with multiple types of battle sorcery – and Veruden only knows travel sorcery, as far as I know. Maybe she just trusts Istavan more. Veruden is a bit impulsive.

In the many years since Orlyn had been freed from Xixian rule, sorcery had retained a degree of mysticism amongst the general populace. For centuries, sorcery had been the tool that was used by the most powerful Xixian nobility to keep their slaves in check. While slavery was illegal in modern Orlyn, sorcery was still considered an endeavor reserved for society’s elite. Sorcerous training was passed on directly from experienced practitioners to a small number of apprentices.

The other major cities on the continent handled sorcery differently. Liadra and Selyr tested children for inherent talent at a young age, drafting them into mandatory training and military service if they demonstrated a significant degree of potential.

In Velthryn, sorcery was largely controlled by the burgeoning merchant class, with sorcerous academies selling educations of varying degrees of quality to those wealthy enough to afford the privilege. Some degree of elitism remained among the highest degrees of Velthryn’s nobility, who proudly attributed their training directly to the city’s greatest masters.

As a result of these cultural differences, Lydia estimated that the sorcerers in Orlyn numbered in the low hundreds, and the three who sat with her now were among the most influential. By contrast, Velthryn had hundreds of sorcerous students in their academes at any time and thousands of trained sorcerers in the city as a whole.

“We have an invasion to plan for,” Sethridge said without any hint of emotion, his hands folded in his lap.

Veruden shot Sethridge an uncharacteristic look of dismay. “We don’t know that for certain.”

“What’s this about a potential invasion?” Lydia asked.

“Those worthless zealots in Velthryn seem to be feeling the itch to expand their territory again.” Sethridge scowled, and Veruden raised his hands defensively in response.

“Leaping at a conclusion there, Sethridge. He doesn’t even look like he’s from Velthryn.” Veruden leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

Morella ignored Veruden and Sethridge’s argument, looking straight to Lydia. “This morning, the city guard brought in a man for carrying a symbol of the Tae’os Pantheon.”

Lydia nodded and the two men ceased their banter, turning to listen to Morella’s explanation.

“Normally, this would be a minor issue. I don’t think you’ve had to deal with any cases like that yet, but we typically don’t even arrest people for Tae’os worship, even though it has been outlawed for over a century. We estimate at least a fiftieth of the population still worship the older gods, in spite of everything,” Morella continued. Lydia knew much of that already, though her estimate of Tae’os worshippers in the city would have been much lower.