Eric Flint's Blog, page 240

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 34

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 34

Chapter 17

“Sure I saw something. Gleam like a Dutch-glass, chief. They’re after spying on us.”

Finnegan raised an eyebrow. O’Halloran was definitely in the shallows in matters of scholarship and wit, and while there were a lot of telescopes in use around Europe, they were generally not used much in military business except by artillerymen, a trade O’Halloran had almost certainly never been near.

“Don’t look at me like that, chief. There were plenty of the things about when I was with Wallenstein back in ’28, at Stralsund. There were great guns going off all the time and the gunners all had them. There’s a glint to them, and I just saw it again. And is it not that that woman has a Dutch-glass on her musket to see what she’s shooting?”

“I’ve heard enough, O’Halloran, and well done with all the thinking. Go you over the cut, there, and tell Tully to bring his lads over and fall in on me. I’ll be here and gather the lads ready.” There might have been some sense in going over himself and leaving O’Halloran to watch out for that glint, but Finnegan decided he could recognise a glint for himself and there was no way he was going up on that bank in the plain moonlight for a legendary shooter to see. He settled in and began scanning further afield, looking in the treetops where O’Halloran said he’d caught sight of the fateful flash. Too much to ask of the silly bastard to actually remember which stand of trees it was, of course.

Not half an hour later the bushes around him were full of his men, and Tully had joined him. “Be damned,” Finnegan said, “if O’Halloran wasn’t entirely right. I’ve caught sight myself, not that I’m going to point if they’re watching, but I’ve an idea of distance and direction and give it but a moment and we’re off a-skirmishing.”

“Be hard to keep even open order in this shite,” Tully remarked.

“You’re not wrong, but we’ll do what we do. Pass the word. We’re to move slow and low and give a cry if we come on anyone. Pile on the bastard, get a prisoner, and we’ll pull back.”

“Not chase?”

“Not chase. Remember those bastards we made bones of in the Slieve Mishkish a couple of years ago? They’d a plan for it, and both times we went hooring in after them? We had to cut our way out, and this is far better country for that kind of work than a lot of bare-arsed mountains. All we got back then was some cuts and hurts, here we’ll have corpses come morning if we’re not careful.” Finnegan still had a spot under his left shoulder that ached in wet weather from that. The throwing dart that was the traditional weapon of most cattle-thieves — much of Ireland’s militia levies, come to that — wasn’t likely to kill a man outright if he’d any armor at all, and a buff-coat would answer that need. Getting one stuck in a man’s flesh, even the inch or so that Finnegan had briefly suffered, hurt like the very devil, though.

“Not on horse, either, I take it. Bad country for it.”

“Bad indeed, and fuck my arse if I’ll sign a man’s death warrant by putting him in front of that rifle on horseback. We’ve enough bush and sedge to have a chance of going unseen, which is a fighting chance. Pick three lads to mind the horses, no, better, three lads to string the horses back to Earith. They’ll not expect that, and our beasts will be the safer for it. They might even have a plan to take the horses while we’re chasing them into this. It’s something I’d have thought to do.”

Tully grinned back. “I’ve done the like myself. It’s amazing how fast cattle thieves give up if you steal their ponies. A man is like to stay at home and abide the law if he has to walk all the way to the stealing he’s after doing. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

With the horses sent back along the relative safety of the cut, Finnegan got the boyos moving out across the fen. For all they made as much effort as they could to go silently, not a one of them having missed out on the traditional country sports of poaching and stealing livestock, they still didn’t know this country as well as they might and there were constant small splashes, the sounds of bushes being caught, and the other minor noises of a party of men on the move. If nothing else, the sedge-grass came up to the hems of their buff-coats, so off the few narrow tracks through the stuff, it was impossible to move without a hiss.

Of course, the same went for their opponents, and so neither side would be able to hear the other unless they stopped and listened. With only eight lads following him, Finnegan was able keep them close enough together that he could have them in command with hand signals. Every forty paces he was stopping and just listening, mouth wide and eyes closed to pick up every little sound. Night-birds, the sounds of insects, the faint hiss of the tiny breeze. Nothing so far, but they were more than half way to where O’Halloran reckoned the spy had been with her glass.

****

Two hundred yards away, Darryl was just as stopped, just as frustrated with how hard it was to stalk in this kind of undergrowth. From the sounds of it Finnegan’s men were having a harder time, since they were wearing armor and had much clumsier weapons than the modern pistols and small bags of improvised grenades Darryl had equipped everyone with. The bitch of it was going to be getting close enough to start Finnegan’s men chasing, but not so close they were ever in a position to actually catch or hurt anyone.

And do it without killing or hurting more than maybe one or two of them — too many casualties and they’d break off pursuit. And, assuming there were still outlaws in the county, come back with a regiment and make life purest hell for the fen folk. That would leave Sir Henry no room in which to organise a proper resistance. Being as he was a local gentleman, any serious attempt at repression would be looking right over his shoulder if not outright demanding he join in.

Another bound forward as Cromwell hooted softly. His owl-hoot wasn’t just realistic, it sounded like the local owls. Which made sense, since he grew up less than fifteen miles from here. From the sounds of it, Finnegan’s mob were on the move as well. Now they were getting closer, and with the wind blowing the right way, Darryl was getting able to pick out the sounds of a dozen men moving together. With only six in their own party, and Cromwell having shown them that a man made a lot less noise if he was walking behind another, and from the few glimpses Darryl had caught of moonlight gleaming off helmets — seriously, helmets? It was like they wanted to give their position away and ruin their hearing into the bargain. He’d a warm woollen cap on and that was going to have to be enough. The down-timer guys had gone for wide-brimmed felt hats, obvious ancestors of cowboy hats. Another glint up ahead, the distance was down to maybe a hundred yards. Cromwell hooted again and Darryl dropped into the sedge. They’d not be moving again, and it was going to be up to whoever made first contact to open the party.

****

Finnegan’s nerves were stretched taut. He couldn’t show it in front of the boyos, no more could he. But they were nearly a mile into the fen and nothing to show yet. Once it started he’d be a lot —

The words were out of his mouth before he’d even realised he’d seen a face amid the grass — “fucking get him!” — and he had his wheel-lock levelled and discharged.

“Prisoner, chief!” Tully yelled, bounding forward, a stick he’d cut earlier out and brandished.

Whoever it was that Finnegan had shot at jumped up himself, fired a pistol twice with no smoke — definitely one of the Americans, by God! — and started to running away. Finnegan blew a whistle of relief — after all the ranting he’d done about the need for a prisoner, if he’d hit the fellow he’d have looked a prize amadan — and strode out to bring up the rear of his men. Time enough to start running when he had his pistol away. He inhaled the brimstone reek of his own powder smoke.

Time to chase! He felt so much better for the whiff of gunsmoke. No more nervous waiting for him!

“Two of them!” There were more shots. The crack-crack-crack of the American pistols, and a deep, throaty bellow as someone gave fire in return with a wheel-lock.

“Fucking PRISONERS!” Tully yelled into the ear-ringing silence after the wheel-lock shot.

Finnegan made note of who had fired, the smoke hanging ghostly in the moonlight behind him. O’Halloran, as might have been known, the soft-headed fool. He’d have words with that one, after. He’d fired a signal shot, sure, but O’Halloran was just returning fire because he was too stupid to see that over fifty yards even if a man in buff and cuirass were hit, he’d not be harmed beyond perhaps a bruise.

Finnegan broke into a fast trot behind his men. Ahead he could see their quarry — two of them — leaping and hurdling over hummocks of sedge, dodging about bushes.

“‘Nother!” someone yelled, breathless. Now there were three. Finnegan grinned as he loped along. They only had to catch one, after all.

 

The Seer – Snippet 39

The Seer – Snippet 39

“I don’t welcome them at all. Who knows what they will say once they leave? To trust the Teva is one thing. To trust Arunkin is folly. We should know this by now.”

“It’s a little late to curse the door for letting in the wind,” Ksava observed mildly from where she sat, her baby at her breast.

“Why would we say anything at all about you?” Amarta asked.

The room fell silent, looks exchanged.

The one-armed man sat down next to the young woman with the lap-harp. She handed it to him. Closer now, Amarta saw that his arm ended in a sort of crater, out of which poked a thumb’s width of yellowed bone. She struggled not to stare.

He began to strum with his one hand, then stopped, meeting her look squarely. “Because we’re worth a fortune, girl.”

“Oh,” Amarta responded, trying yet again not to stare at his arm. “But we would never do that.”

“We know how to keep secrets,” Dirina added earnestly.

“Go on, look at it.” He held up his stump for her to see. “The king’s law and justice, girl. Take a good long look.”

Amarta was tired of being attacked, tired of being polite. “What did you do to earn it?” she found herself saying.

Dirina hissed. “Ama –”

He shook his head, negating Dirina’s reprimand. “It’s good she asks, woman. Some things should be said aloud.” He fixed Amarta with his startling blue eyes. “I escaped my owner, is what I did. When I was recaptured, he brought out his axe. Smiled while he cut my arm.”

“But…” Amarta trailed off, confused.

He waved his stump slowly in the air for her to continue.

Amarta felt herself warm again, wishing she’d stayed silent.

“Go on, girl. Ask your question.”

Everyone was watching her. No one was smiling. She swallowed, hoping she wasn’t blushing too redly. “Don’t slaves need hands?” she asked.

He barked a loud laugh that seemed to echoed off the cave walls, and then looked around the room, meeting the eyes of the others. When he looked back at Amarta, his eyes were dancing in dark amusement.

“Some sorts of slaves need hands. Some don’t. It all depends on what kind of slaves they are. Me, I was used for –”

“That’s enough.” Dirina said harshly.

Startled, Amarta looked at her sister. “Diri?”

“We don’t want to hear about it.”

The man’s incredulous look matched Amarta’s. “Woman, this is the truth of the matter. We are all old enough to hear such truths. Why do you object?”

“None of your business, man,” Dirina said, standing and grabbing up Pas from where he lay. Pas frowned furiously at being woken, his arms now wrapped around his mother’s neck, staring his displeasure at the room. Then Dirina grabbed Amarta’s hand and drew her along to the opening of the cave.

“Diri,” Amarta whispered, resisting.

“There are things it is better not to know. Yes?”

Amarta thought about her visions. “Yes, of course, but –”

“This is one of them.”

Darad joined the three of them with a lantern.

“I’ll take you to the sleeping room where the Teva are staying. You must be tired after your long journey.”

Amarta abhorred his polite tone, ached for his teasing wit, and gave her sister a hard, resentful look.

“Yes, we are,” Dirina answered Darad, ignoring the look. “Thank you.”

#

That night and the next day, Dirina looked so tired and downcast that, as annoyed as she was, Amarta could not bring herself to say anything about the night before.

In truth, it was not her sister’s fault that they had come here, that they had been forced to leave the farm, that they were on the run again. That was entirely Amarta’s doing.

She would, she resolved, hold her tongue. Treat her sister kindly. It was the least she could do.

After the first silent meal of the day was done, Amarta happily fed with more wonderful food, she listened as the Teva discussed what goods they would leave here for the Emendi and what they would take forward with them to market. They mentioned cured nightswine jerky, which she found reassuring. Darad had been telling the truth about that, at least.

“Let me do something useful,” she begged Jolon when he had a moment. He smiled and brought her to a well-lit room that had a loom and hand-mending tools. “I saw what you and Dirina did with the rips in our wagon covering. I think you can help them.” The other Emendi sitting there knitting and working the loom made her quietly welcome.

For hours she sat there, absorbed by the work, relaxing for the first time since she had arrived. She repaired one shirt’s torn seam, then another. She picked up a sock and darned it, then looked for more work.

“There you are,” Darad said from the doorway. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

She leapt up to follow him into the hall.

“How is your ankle?” he asked.

She had not even thought of it today. “I think it is all better,” she said with surprise.

“Nakaccha is skillful.” Then he took her hand, leading her along the stone tunnels. She was suddenly, keenly aware of the warmth of his fingers on hers. It felt very good.

“Have you lived here your whole life?” she asked to make conversation, to cover the awkward feeling suddenly coming over her.

“Kusan-born, yes. My grandmother came here after she was blinded by her owner. He wanted her eyes.”

“Her eyes?”

“Gold flecks in the blue, you see. Some of us have them. Look.” He stopped suddenly and held up the lantern. She looked into his eyes, which gave her an odd and not unpleasant feeling in her stomach.

Until she remembered why.

“That’s awful.”

“Yes,” he agreed, simply, taking her hand again, resuming their walk. “She was lucky to find Kusan at all, blind as she was. Brave. So brave.”

“Where are we going?”

“You talk too much,” he said. But she could hear the smile in his voice that belied the words, and felt the squeeze of his hand.

More minutes passed. They went from one tunnel to the next, and she wondered, though not very seriously, if he was going to lead her around in circles and leave her here in the dark. She quietly hummed the distress signal, and he laughed, squeezing her hand again, a reassurance.

They entered a lamp lit room lined with shelves of folded burlap where some ten children sat around at a table. Nidem was among them.

A silent conversation between Darad and Nidem commenced. Amarta was sure he could have more effectively used both hands, but he insisted on keeping hold of hers. At this she felt a sweet sense of something she had not felt before. He wanted her there. It was almost like belonging.

Then she met Nidem’s look. She looked away at an open chair, then back to Amarta again. As Amarta watched this repeat, she realized that it was a direction, an invitation. Darad drew her with him to two open seats.

“It is a game,” Darad said softly, his the only voice in the room. “A silent one. You’ll learn. I’ll help you.”

With a combination of eye flickers and blinks and hand signs, they taught her the game, which turned out to be about moving each other from seat to seat with eyes and signs and rules that became clear to her as they played.

Before she knew it, she was smiling. And now she did feel as if she belonged.

Finally Darad let her hand go, but she was engrossed enough in the game that she hardly noticed.

#

The next day and the next the two of them helped in the kitchen, cleaning and preparing vegetables, and then set about to help mend clothes.

Every now and then she saw Dirina smile. So unusual, Amarta realized. Both of them were starting to relax, to breathe more easily. At meals Darad sat by her, teaching her more signs.

At the evening meal of the third day, the annoying and ever-present Nidem broke in between his instruction, interrupting with her hands. Resentment flashed through Amarta, so it took her a moment to realize that Nidem was telling the very joke that she’d made the day Amarta arrived, when they were first introduced. That she was telling it now for Amarta’s benefit, repeating it slowly, making sure that Amarta understood.

Then the three of them laughed, soundlessly, together, and Amarta felt a joy she had never felt before.

She realized she hadn’t thought about her hunter since she had arrived.

“Somewhere safe,” Jolon had said. Maybe he was right.

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 33

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 33

“True, but on the bright side, if I’m right about that American bitch with her rifle, the closer the cover, the less she’ll shoot at us, I’m thinking.” Even in the full daylight of the evening, the long shadows made the fen a riot of patchy shadow and plentiful cover.

Tully nodded. “Probably as well to be down off this bank before long, I’m sure. Even a regular fowler would be good around here. Sure and you’d see the smoke of a regular piece, but getting there after, through that shite?”

“True enough. You watch over the lads covering the north-and-west side, there. We’ll work north-and-east bit by bit, see what we don’t flush out, so.” Finnegan was already into a pattern of looking over the undergrowth, thinking about how he’d be best to send men into it to probe the denser patches. Whoever was out there, they and Finnegan’s men would have to stumble over each other, and in that he’d have money on his own gang of brawlers any day of the week. No easy way to see where they’d be coming from, either. The embankment he was on stood maybe six or seven feet above the ground it was dug from, no more than a linear spoil-heap either side of the cut that, even without being connected to the river, was knee-deep in water already. Outside the cut, the country continued flat for miles. Somewhere a couple of miles away he could just see the smoke and church spire of a village on a slight rise of ground. There was another hamlet a little closer on the side he’d given Tully, but apart from that he and his boyos could be the only men in the whole world.

In other words, prime country for a man after being an English tóraí. A man could vanish, here, and give the authorities the devil’s own work to root him out. And so, for the next few hours, it was the devil’s work for Finnegan’s band, as they scouted, and hoisted themselves up as much as the trees would allow, and swore at the patches of bog that sucked at boots. Twice shots went up as a man, spooked by the shift of light and shadow in the brightly-moonlit fen and the silence they were all maintaining, thought he saw something and emptied a wheel-lock into the shadows.

Twice, not a trace of human passage did they find either time.

****

Around midnight, Darryl McCarthy was perched in the top of a willow tree where Stephen Hamilton had boosted him and scanned the distant earthworks with binoculars. “They look like they’re having fun. They’re going up and down from that levee and beating the bushes. They’d surely find us if we were there.”

“No need to shout,” Hamilton replied in a definite indoor voice. “And better not to, sound carries at night. I learned that the hard way, poaching, when I was a lad. Nearly got caught.”

“Gotcha,” Darryl said, lowering his voice a little. “So, are we sticking with leading them through the night?”

“I think it best. They’re more likely to make stupid decisions in the dark.”

“Like chasing armed men through a swamp?”

“Just like that. I’ll use the radio now and get the others on our position. Sting them and fall back, and when we have them moving draw them back toward Ely and Colonel Mackay’s position. Then it’s into the saddle and hell-for-leather for King’s Lynn, and hope someone there has managed to arrange a ship. I don’t want to be stuck there when that lot catch up, I want to be able to give them two fingers from the stern of a departing ship. The aim is to show them that we’ve all left the area, and hopefully, the country, so they leave the locals alone. Not, and I think we’re all agreed on this, get stuck in a fight with children to protect. There’s precious few ways for that to end well.”

“Julie and Gayle and the kids’ll be there hours before us, you saw how fast that barge went.” Darryl had been surprised as all hell by that. He’d seen barges towed by horses before, the things were common all over Europe. He’d been expecting that for any kind of speed you’d need a rowed boat, though, and Hamilton, Londoner born and bred, had assumed the same. It turned out that they had different ideas on the fens, and the river towpaths were also home to fast trotting horses that pulled boats at a speed that left a substantial wake, pulling the boat up onto a kind of bow wave. Once the horse got the boat moving, it was off at a smart pace quicker than it could have pulled a cart. Passage on the thing had cost far more than just riding or taking a regular barge would have, but it was a smooth ride and a quick one and there was every possibility that even if the menfolk went from Ely to King’s Lynn at a dead gallop, they would still arrive hours behind the advance party.

They’d finally gotten rid of the wagon, donating it for the use of Ely’s Committee of Correspondence, who didn’t have any pressing need for a wagon right now — they were nearly all river bargees, for a start — but would more than likely come up with something. Nothing else, it’d make it possible to steal more tools from the earthworks for Bedford’s River. Darryl was kind of in two minds about that one. He’d done some reading up on England before he came, and knew that in the future this was going to be some of the best farmland in England, where right now it was — pardon the language — nothing but a fucking swamp. He could appreciate good hunting country as well as the next man, especially if the next man was a hillbilly, but hereabouts was good for fowl and that was about it. Especially, apparently, snipe, and he’d had one pointed out to him earlier after he’d expressed suspicion. Cromwell had laughed at that and informed him that they were indeed a byword for being hard to spot, shy birds that skulked in reed beds and undergrowth.

Still and all, good hunting was a nice thing, but a lot of the folks hereabouts would be doing better with some good farmland to work.

While they waited for Cromwell, Welch, Leebrick and Towson to move up to their position, Darryl mentioned as much to Hamilton.

“Well, I’m not from around here. I was born in Kent and settled in London, but I don’t think it’ll be too different. A lot of that farmland will come from enclosing common land that most of these poor bleeders depend on for their living. And people get very angry about that kind of thing. There was a revolt about it up Northampton way about twenty years ago. I was a green young soldier back then, not doing much more than substitute enlistments in the Trained Bands for fat old merchants who didn’t want to drill, before I took to wandering abroad to find a fight. They had trouble with some bastard of a landowner fencing off the common lands and this mad fellow as called himself Captain Pouch started a revolt. They pulled down the hedges and fences and filled in ditches, and there weren’t many going to stop ’em, since the militia refused to muster for it. So the word went out they wanted hired soldiers to put down the revolt. Well, by the time I got there it was all over. Captain Pouch had been saying he had this magic pouch that would protect everyone with him from bullets and swords, and that worked about as well as you’d expect. When they hanged him, all he had in it was a bit of mouldy cheese.”

Darryl tried to take that in, and at the same time figure out if he was having his leg pulled. “Cheese?”

“Cheese,” Hamilton affirmed. “I was there for the hanging, when they finally opened it and showed it to the crowd. Didn’t even look like good cheese. Can’t remember the bugger’s real name, now, and that’s going to nag at me, it surely is.”

“And you went to join in with puttin’ down that revolt?” Darryl said, wondering how he was going to express this tactfully.

“Oh, I ain’t proud of that,” Hamilton said. “But I ain’t ashamed neither. It was shovel shit for a penny a day or drill for fourpence, and I was good at the drill. Saved me a few times in the Germanies, all that training I got paid to do, as well. Way I saw it, there was going to be a fight, and I could get maybe sixpence a day and mustering bounty into the bargain if I got there fast enough. I didn’t, end of story. Northamptonshire wasn’t worth sticking around for, so I came home.”

There was a soft hoot from the darkness. Darryl answered it, they having found out earlier that Hamilton’s bird noises were comical at best. Cromwell and Welch drifted in out of the night — and hadn’t Darryl smirked about that, when it turned out that pairing the Irishman with Cromwell made sense, as they paired off for raw muscle and ability to get up trees to spy out the country. Leebrick and Towson came in shortly after.

It was time to start the entertainment.

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 06

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 06

Chapter 6

“They…they seem to be exactly as they were,” Bolthawk murmured, in a tone of mingled fear and awe.

It followed the false Justiciar’s gaze to where Mist Owl stood in conversation with the earlier Silver Eagle, Gareth Lamell, and Skyharrier. “Oh, indeed, they are exactly as they were.” It chuckled. “I suppose your surprise comes from your first reintroduction to your fallen comrades?”

Assured by its tone that this was not a dangerous subject, Bolthawk nodded. “They stank of the grave, their eyes were dull, they seemed graverisen, nothing more. But over the last week…”

“Yes, they have perked up quite a bit since then, haven’t they?” It gestured for Bolthawk to take a firmer grip on the damaged piece of Silver Eagle’s raiment which was currently on the creature’s workbench, and then began gently hammering on the metal; faint ripples of green and shadow flickered from the armor as the being worked on it, bringing the armor back together. Ahh, Spiritsmith, your work is supernal; a shame it had to be marred so. My repairs will be serviceable, but hardly up to your standard. Then again, you would rather they were not repaired at all than serving my purposes, so I suppose that’s as you’d prefer it.

“The fact is that for one such as myself, bringing the dead back fully takes a bit of time,” it said, continuing the discussion. “The body must be either repaired or in some cases rebuilt, the soul brought back, and the connection between the two must heal as the body…learns, I suppose is the best term, how to live again. By now, that process is quite complete.”

“You mean…they are not just wraiths or revenants?”

“They are as fully alive as they were before they met their deaths, yes. If I were somehow felled tomorrow, they would not collapse and turn to moldering corpses or anything of that nature. They are not imitations of their prior selves, Bolthawk. They are precisely who they appear to be…just with some rather unique experiences that you have been fortunate enough to avoid thus far.”

Bolthawk’s expression was a delicious mingling of awe and fear. “Never have I heard of anyone reviving the dead after so long a span of time, in the case of Gareth, many years indeed. Not even the gods.”

“It does, in truth, require some rather unique circumstances, I admit. But more than that you have no need to know.”

“Where is Thornfalcon, then? Surely you would have wanted him back more than the rest of us.”

Your stolid exterior, Child of Odin, is rather misleading when you show so clear an evaluation of the world around you. “You are of course correct, Bolthawk; he had the best overall…mindset for the job as I envisioned it. Unfortunately, and rather ironically, his journey along the path to become one of my people led to him meeting the final death, one from which even I could not retrieve him.”

“That path gave him a weakness, then?” Bolthawk’s face suddenly went pale; it could tell that Bolthawk was realizing that the question itself was potentially dangerous, one that could draw an immediate and fatal reaction.

Instead it laughed. “Certainly it did, Bolthawk. Of course poor Thornfalcon, being so new to his power, was far more vulnerable to that weakness than I; I would have been wounded by the same strikes, but not slain, let alone had my soul shredded irretrievably. All things have their weaknesses, even the King of All Hells…or me. But while I might, if it amused me, tell you his weakness, I think I will leave mine for others to guess.”

“I would expect nothing else, sir.”

It grinned again, and straightened, looking at the now almost invisible seam. Almost done. “It wouldn’t do you a great deal of good, Bolthawk; the oaths you and the others have sworn would make it inadvisable for you to plan a rebellion, even if I not only told you my weakness but allowed you to prepare to make use of it. It’s more a dramatic preference than anything else; all things must be done properly, you understand?”

Bolthawk started to nod, then cocked his head, and shrugged. “I can’t say I do, sir.”

“I suppose not. If you live long enough, perhaps we shall have this conversation again and your answer may change. But–”

A signal touched its consciousness in a way another might have described hearing a faint but significant sound. “Ah. I have something to attend to. Clean this up and lay it aside; I’ll complete the work later.”

It took only a few minutes to reach the inner sanctum of the Retreat and place the silver-and-gold scroll on its pedestal. “Yes?”

The scroll did not show a face; the person on the other end did not have the capability to make a full connection. “Initial attempt complete. Progress as expected.”

“Good. Do not contact me more often than once every three weeks. The more you disturb the matrix, the greater the chance you will be discovered. Let its truth hide your own.”

“Understood. I will only act under the agreed-upon conditions.”

“Correct. Thank you for your report.”

It leaned back in the chair with a smile. Placing agents at the right places, with the right preparation, could be so much more effective than sending armies or monsters. And–as with Miri, the poor girl–it wasn’t even necessary that the agent understood what their true goals were, or even that they follow its literal instructions. Many agents, again including Miri as well as Master Wieran and Kalshae, were best when they thought it was their agent, or at most ally, and thought that by disregarding its instructions they would foil its plans.

But if you knew how such people thought, you could make sure that even their betrayals were part of the plan. So far, everything was going according to that plan. The most dangerous–and by the same principle, most entertaining–parts were coming soon, however.

But, it reminded itself, even the most careful manipulator could also be manipulated. And as the endgame approached, it had to watch the board more carefully than ever. Even the smallest piece–like, say, a Toad–could upset plans years in the making.

That would be extremely costly for it; setting up these precise conditions had taken more years than even Thornfalcon would have believed. It certainly did not want to lose this particular game.

And yet…if that were to happen…wouldn’t that be exciting?

Smiling broadly, it turned and strode out to rejoin the Justiciars.

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 32

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 32

Chapter 16

Earith

“So that’s the Dutchman’s ditch, is it?” Tully looked down from the bridge. Away in the distance, to perhaps half a mile, there was a small settlement of tents and behind that there were earthworks stretching away; from the look of the thing it was more like a pair of embankments than a ditch. “I don’t envy the poor bastards digging in that boggy shite, nor do I.”

“We’ve to talk to the poor bastards, you can ask them what the life is like,” Finnegan answered. “Best way to be sure of who’s causing trouble is to ask the folk who’re being troubled.”

“And if they’ll not answer?”

“Trouble them.”

In the end, there wasn’t any difficulty in getting the various overseers and so on to talk. Mister Lien, the man-in-charge, wasn’t around today and Finnegan could see why not. Canal-building seemed to consist of mud, and lots of it, being carted from place to place by a small horde of laborers. Everyone else had plenty to say, mostly on the subject of mud, but occasionally on the subject of the fensmen who had all manner of clever tricks to play to interfere with the works. Tools stolen, diggings filled back in, cuttings made over the preceding winter in an attempt to flood the works, cart wheels smashed and a whole series of other petty annoyances. Several of the clerks who were on site grumbled about the cost of hiring watchmen.

None of them could put a finger on precisely where the fensmen were based out of, but they were all agreed that there was a positive nest of agitation in Ely. In as much as there was a definite grievance — beyond objecting to the earl of Bedford enriching himself — it was that the change in the Great Ouse navigation would cut Ely off from passing trade, and the increased drainage would turn the fens that the fensmen of that vicinity made their living from into summer-land, pasture that only flooded in winter.

Finnegan waved his commission around a little. The wording of the thing was vague enough that he could use it to elbow his way into the works, follow their line and go hunting for the fensmen and he made sure that he was heard stating he was going to do so. Let him once grab one or two of those and squeeze them a little, they’d get somewhere, and if trailing a little bait to get them to come to him worked, so much the better. The clerks of works were a little disgruntled that the earl of Bedford, whose land this was, hadn’t already sent someone in to investigate the trouble they were having, and Finnegan commiserated heartily. Wasn’t it always the way, that the man in charge didn’t care for the poor souls doing the work? Still, he was here now, with the king’s commission and all, and taking care of business.

“We’ll be a while nosing around here,” Tully remarked after they’d gone back for luncheon at Earith’s meagre alehouse. “A lot of ground to search, and plenty of it to hide in. Remember the trouble we had last time?”

“I do at that,” Finnegan said, chasing the last scrap of his stirabout with a hunk of bread, “but what of it? From what Steward said yesterday, he’s found his children and means to be a bandit here until he can raise a rebellion. He’s got to get us off his back, and that means he’ll come to us.”

Tully grinned. “I get to smiling every time I think of that, so I do. The English, rebelling? Who the fuck will they find for the plantation of them when it fails? The Welsh?”

“Maybe his noble Earlness will move us all over here?” Truth to tell, Finnegan thought that was pretty funny too. “We’ve still a tricky cross-country ride ahead of us. Plenty of daylight, good weather. We’ll have our plates and helmets on, too, whatever the heat. Those slingstones hurt like the devil.”

“They did at that. I’ll see the lads all have their water-flasks full, they’ll be sweating like pigs.” That was, of course, why most cavalrymen preferred a buff coat and a soft hat for riding, and even left the buff off if they weren’t expecting trouble. The sturdy leather of a buff was at least good protection without broiling the poor bastard wearing it alive, which a horseman’s cuirass was prone to do in the sunshine. The linen lining ended up drenched in sweat, which was cooling in itself. For helmets, a few of the boyos had old-fashioned morions, still popular in Munster by reason of being cheap — the Spaniards who fled after the Nine Years’ War had left plenty of them behind — but most of them had picked up German zischagge-style cuirassier’s helmets that provided plenty of protection and were, for helmets, fairly comfortable. Most of their armor had come from at least a short spell of service with the Imperial forces in the German wars and were munition-chest quality at best, but Finnegan had spent the money to get a good one made in London by one of the armorers who supplied the trained band companies. If ever there was a fool’s bargain and a false economy, Finnegan reasoned, cheap armor was the one.

They made easy progress during the course of that afternoon, riding perhaps two or three miles beyond the beginning of the earthworks at Earith. Trotting along the paired embankments was an easy, gentle, pleasant ride with a cooling breeze and a good view of the surrounding greenery, most of which seemed to be at least chest-high if not higher. The clerk of works at Earith had told them there was another encampment at the half-way mark, but after a look at the number of watchmen they had had turning up for duty at the first one, Finnegan had decided that hanging around the camps would be a waste of time. Anyone trying anything there would be doing it by stealth, and definitely avoiding parties of armed men.

“Boyos,” Finnegan said when he judged them far enough from the major work-sites to start looking for a rest spot. “We’re after the shites that are trying to wreck these works, but only so’s we can get after Cromwell. Now, the last thing they’ll be doing is trying anything clever in broad daylight, they leave that kind of thing to ignorant paddies like us.”

That got an ironic cheer. Out of the twelve men under him who weren’t in York with O’Hare, eight had at least some grammar school and they were all literate. O’Hare had taken the two besides Finnegan who’d finished grammar school along with the one illiterate in the band. Which reminded Finnegan; if Mackay was, as he suspected, with Cromwell, there was no reason to leave O’Hare cooling his heels there. That royal commission would come in useful again, permitting him access to the Royal Post to get a letter to O’Hare. A task for the day after tomorrow, if they couldn’t turn up any sign of the malcontents that Cromwell’s son had taken up with. And, of course, there was always the possibility that the father had joined the son.

Realising he was woolgathering, Finnegan collected himself and went on. “We’ll wait here, find a spot of shelter, while the heat of the day dies down. When things get a little cooler we’ll spread out and find what hiding spots there are hereabouts, and poke in them. We’ll likely find nothing, but we’ll know where to look when night falls. It’s a full moon, or near enough, and the promise of a clear night to come. With that we’ll range up and down these works, they’re but ten miles, and sound a shot if we stumble across anything. Remember, I want a captive or two to question, so in with the bata first, if you please.”

A chorus of acknowledgements and they began seeing to horses and looking for shade.

Off the embankments that were eventually going to define the new river, there was plenty of that. There weren’t many bushes or trees, but the soft growth was man-height or higher in places and at least waist-height everywhere else. Worse, if anything, than they had dealt with only a couple of weeks previously out nearer the edge of the fen. Well, this time they were armed and armored for it and expecting trouble. Half the difficulty they’d had the last time was they’d started out expecting to arrest children and ended by enduring slingstones from well-hidden fensmen. This time there’d be more grit shown by all, Finnegan included.

Tully was standing at the top of the embankment on the eastern side, looking down into the fen. The ground was trying to be dry, at least, and overgrown to the height of a man with sedges and low, scrubby trees, hardly more than bushes most of them. There were tracks through it, to be sure, but they were few and narrow and twisting and, if anything, were more of an addition to the hiding places than any means of getting across the country. Anyone with half a mind to move hereabouts, Finnegan decided, would probably do best to ignore the paths and just shove his way through the greenery on horseback.

“Going to be a bastard searching that lot,” he said, as Finnegan walked over.

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 05

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 05

Chapter 5

“It makes all too much sense,” Tobimar said quietly.

He saw Kyri nod, still pale under her dark skin. Rion had nearly collapsed after that last revelation, and it was clear that he needed rest badly. Now he and Kyri stood at the edge of Valatar, and he rested a hand on her shoulder.

She started at that, then nodded again. “Of course. And fits perfectly with that sensation I had around him–the one that first led me to be suspicious of the Unity Guard.”

“That’s right, you sometimes really liked him and sometimes got a creepy feeling about him,” Poplock said, nibbling on a beetle he’d caught bumbling by.

“Exactly. Just like the Unity Guard when they were being switched from their real selves to their other…mode of operation, I guess?”

“But if that’s the case…this Demonlord isn’t a simple Eternal Servant type simulacrum or anything,” Tobimar said, trying to make some sense out of the situation. “What does this…two sided sense mean?”

Kyri shook her head. “I can’t say for sure. Just…there were times that I’m absolutely sure that the man I was talking to was a man, and one who sincerely cared about me and my family. Perhaps the demon possesses him on occasion? Maybe this Viedraverion has trapped the soul of the original Jeridan? I don’t know, but I’m sure that it’s not as simple as the demon simply pretending.”

“I’m sure too.” Tobimar remembered how accurate her senses were; he wasn’t sure if that was because she was the Justiciar of Myrionar, or if one of the reasons Myrionar had chosen her to begin with was that she had such a keen ability to see through deception. “Though Thornfalcon fooled you.”

“That’s been bothering me a lot, too,” Kyri admitted. “But I think I know why. I’d been raised with him around–much more than the Watchland, too–and with everyone treating him on face value. I think I’d learned to shove those warnings away even when I was very young, because it was obvious that he couldn’t really be a bad man. And by the time I was older, he’d really perfected his role and, maybe, could use his powers to hide his very nature.”

He saw her face suddenly lighten with surprise. “What is it?”

Kyri looked both angry and sad. “Just remembered another clue that I missed. When the Justiciars came into the house and gave me their…apology, something I guess was almost honest for some and less so for others…they kept glancing back, through the door, watching someone else. I thought it was just worry about privacy, and later I wondered for a while if it was Mist Owl they were watching…but now I realize it was the Watchland.”

She looked up towards the green-shadowed leaves of the trees before them, slightly touched with gray as a huge cloud changed the sunlight to dusk. “We can’t wait much longer.”

“No, we can’t,” agreed Poplock. “Tobimar’s solved his riddle, you’ve paid us back for our help, it’s time for us to help get to the bottom of yours. And with what we just found out…”

Tobimar cursed. “Great Terian. The Watchland’s in charge of your entire country, and we just left him there while we walked off into what everyone thought was a deathtrap!” He had a sudden vision of what could have happened to that tiny, isolated country with a Demonlord in charge, one who now had no one to hold him back and whose plans were now well underway. Even Kyri’s Sho-ka-taida Lythos would be no match for such a creature; Tobimar remembered the other people he had met and come to know during the weeks he’d remained in Evanwyl–Arbiter Kelsley, priest of the Balance and one of the most truly holy men Tobimar had ever been privileged to meet; little Sasha Rithair, Evanwyl’s resident Summoner and all-purpose magician who’d done her best to teach Poplock her craft; Master of House Vanstell, dryly competent and faithful retainer; Minuzi, tall, dark-haired apothecary and housewife who despite her business found time to visit Kyri often as a neighbor and family friend rather than someone looking for the “Justiciar Phoenix.”

The thought of them under the rule–or worse–of the demonlord who had planned the assassination of the Sauran King was almost more than he could bear. “You’re right, we have to get back. With us out of the way, there’s no telling what he’s been doing since we left.”

“Yeah,” Poplock agreed, “and even our friend Xavier might be in trouble. He said he’d be trying to meet up with us once he finished his trip, right?”

“Balance, you’re right. And he started out weeks before we left for the Spiritsmith. If he actually made it to the Mountain…” Kyri trailed off. “Well, he either did or he didn’t. But he could easily be on his way back right now. And if he gets there and doesn’t know what Jeridan is…”

“…things could get real ugly,” the Toad finished. “Lots of reasons to go, not too many to stay.”

Tobimar could see her hesitation, and took her hand. “I know–Rion. Don’t worry, Kyri. Do you think I’d tell you to just leave your brother–if that’s what he really is–behind?”

She looked embarrassed. “I…don’t want to make other people wait just for–”

“It’s not just for you. Or him, for that matter,” Tobimar said emphatically. “His presence here can’t be a coincidence. Maybe what they planned was to have him sent back to Evanwyl at a certain point. Wieran would have been able to implant all sorts of directives in him without him even knowing. But Wieran never got around to it, not with his main project consuming his time. Maybe Rion was a backup plan. But there’s no way this doesn’t connect to you, and we’re not ignoring it, or making you ignore it either.”

She looked at them both gratefully, and then hugged him tightly; Tobimar could see one of her hands give Poplock a pat, including him in the embrace. “Thank you both. And if you’re right…if Hiriista’s right, and that really is Rion…”

“…then we’d be plain stupid to leave behind another real honest-to-gods Justiciar of Myrionar when we’re going to face down a demonlord,” Poplock finished for her. “If their country didn’t need ’em so bad right now, I’d be begging Miri and Shae to come with us.”

Tobimar thought of that and smiled. “And I think we could probably convince them even so; they owe us a lot, and I can tell that Miri, at least, would rather like to see Evanwyl and the rest of the world as it is now, rather than the way it was thousands of years ago.” He shook his head. “But that wouldn’t be the right thing to do.”

“No,” agreed Kyri, still not quite letting him go. “Kaizatenzei does need them, and I think they need Kaizatenzei.”

“Oh yeah,” Poplock agreed. “We don’t want them away from the bright shininess and going back to being demons. They only changed their minds a little while ago. Let that set a bit, I think, kinda like pourstone. ‘Course, I don’t know how long that shiny perfection’s going to last now that the Sun’s gone poof.”

Tobimar shrugged. “You’re probably right that it will fade in time,” he said, finally stepping away from Kyri after a quick kiss. “But I’d guess that’ll take quite a while, especially since the force that was causing all the corruption beneath was probably Sanamaveridion, and he’s gone.”

“I hope so,” Kyri said, looking out at the peaceful shining of stars above the city. “I’d like to think it will always be like this.”

“So do I,” Poplock said, but his tone was serious. “But that’s sure not gonna happen if we wait much longer.”

Tobimar nodded. It had been a wonderful, terrifying, and in some ways healing journey through Kaizatenzei. But now they knew that they had left the architect of the world’s disasters–of what in fact must be the next Chaoswar–behind them, and Viedraverion was surely not idle.

Time was running out.

 

The Seer – Snippet 38

The Seer – Snippet 38

“I’ll be in the trade wagon by year’s end, sister. Watch and see.”

She reached over to him and rubbed his head affectionately, laughing a little. “We’ll see how your hair likes the walnut dye. Take Amarta to see if Nakaccha can look at why she’s limping.”

“I’m fine,” Amarta said quickly. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Then it won’t take long,” Ksava answered. “I’ll show Dirina and her young one the baths.”

#

“She’s good at seeing things that you don’t want seen,” Darad said to Amarta as they made their slow way up the stairs.

“But I’m fine.” Amarta glanced back to see if Nidem was following, felt relief that she was not.

“Not me you need to convince. Oh, here,” he said, pausing at the door of a room and bringing out from the darkness a flat, hand-sized rock, handing her the rock. “A pillow for you to sleep on tonight.”

“This? A pillow? What?”

“Well, after it’s been softened, of course.”

“What?” Amarta said, bewildered, examining the rock more closely.

“Yes,” he said, taking the rock back, knocking his fist lightly against it, then knocking his own head. “Our blond hair, you see. It’s magic. It softens the rocks until they become so soft they’re pillows. Tell you what: I’ll give you my already-softened pillow for tonight and sleep on this one until it’s ready.”

Amarta’s mouth hung open for a long moment.

He grinned wider.

“You’re fooling me?” she asked, stunned.

He laughed. “Of course.” At her expression, he sobered, adding. “I’m playing. Don’t you play, sometimes?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer that.

“Perhaps later,” he said, giving her an odd expression. “Down this way to the hot springs. The soaking baths. Clothes washing. When was the last time you had a bath?”

“You mean to be submerged in water?”

“Warm water. You’ll like it. Now here, see this huge opening?” He waved his lantern so she could see over the lip of the opening, which dropped down sharply some ten feet. “This is the lesser canyon, which opens way back there into the greater one. We hunt in there, but only in large groups. Don’t go in here alone.”

She peered into the darkness, for a moment thinking she saw distant movement, black on black.

“What is that, back there?”

“The ruins of old Kusan, now taken over by the night forest. It goes a long, long ways. There’s a lake back there. Cavewillows and white trout. On the hills we harvest mushrooms and nightberries. That’s where we hunt nightswine.”

“Nightswine?”

“You must have heard. No? Ah. Pigs. They get fat on cave-truffles, white thistle, the fruit of spider trees. They taste better than any pig in the world.”

“You’re toying with me again.”

“No, no. This is true. The Teva take our salted nightswine to the great markets in Munasee and Garaya. Sell it for us.”

In the lamplight she gave him a suspicious look. “Truly?”

“Ask the elders.” At that, his face broke into a grin. “You can ask them about the pillows, too.”

#

At the meal, Amarta realized she had never before seen so many people gathered together in one place. Hundreds, it must be, all sitting around the large, low, circular tables.

Ksava directed them to a table where the Teva and Darad and Nidem sat. The remaining open spaces were bounded on one side by Nidem, on the other by the Teva.

Well, Nidem already hated her; no sense in putting Dirina in her path as well. So she chose the seat nearest to the other girl, letting Dirina sit by the Teva.

They had come from visiting the woman named Nakaccha, who had taken Amarta’s ankle in her lap. She’d pressed gently in places, turned it a little, and told her that it would be fine in a day or two. To Amarta’s surprise, it felt better immediately.

When she had thanked her, Nakaccha had responded: “It is what I am called to do, girl. That is the best any of us can hope for, to be called to our work. What is it you are called to do?”

Amarta had mumbled that she didn’t know. The encounter left her unsettled. Whatever it was that she did, she must make sure to do it very quietly here. She felt watched keenly.

Despite the hundreds gathered here in this cavernous room, there was no noise other than the soft sounds of wooden spoons against bowls, the brush of leather-clad or bare feet on stone floors. No one spoke.

Nidem pushed a large, full bowl of something that smelled wonderful in front of her, somehow making the gesture convey no warmth.

Mara crouched down behind her, hand on her shoulder. She said softly: “The Emendi are silent at meals, using only hands and eyes to speak.”

“What should we do?” Dirina asked her in a whisper.

Now that Amarta looked, she saw the fluttering, flickering motion of hands and eyes across the room. Silent, perhaps, but there was plenty of talk.

“Speak if you wish,” Mara whispered, “but they will not, here at the meal. As slaves they were forced to hide voice and thought, and this practice honors their ancestors who gave their lives in silence and obedience. After dinner there will be other rooms, where there will be plenty of voices and singing.”

At her side, Nidem was laughing voicelessly at something Darad had signed to her. Amarta felt a twinge of envy.

#

After dinner, after the clearing and cleaning, the Emendi left in groups in various directions. Ksava invited the three of them into another, smaller room, while the Teva went with the elders.

The Emendi began to array themselves across the floor on blankets. With a laugh, Darad offered her a pillow, a real one. A kind laugh, as if they shared a joke between them, not as if he mocked her. She smiled back, feeling herself warm.

A woman with hair in loose curls around her face put a long, thin, stringed wooden box across her lap and began to pluck out a tune. A young man about Dirina’s age brought out a small drum and began to lightly tap it with his fingers in time. Nidem sat in a corner, watching.

“Do you come from Yarpin?” asked another girl, not quite Amarta’s age.

“No,” Dirina answered, looking as ill at ease as Amarta felt, with the Emendi all watching them. Pas climbed off her lap, found a thick pile of blankets, and curled up there, asleep in minutes. At least one of the three of them was relaxed here.

“My uncle is still there. At House Helata,” an older boy said. “Do you know it?”

Dirina and Amarta shook their heads.

Another spoke. “My mother escaped from transport when I was still in her belly.” His voice dropped. “My cousins didn’t. I hope they’re still alive.”

“We’ve never been to Yarpin,” Amarta said again.

“How about Munasee?” asked another eagerly, a boy, perhaps nine. “We had to leave my sister there. At the governor’s palace. She was young then, like your boy. She’d be eight now. If she — if she…” He fell silent.

“We have never been to Munasee, either,” Amarta said, feeling oddly as if she should apologize.

The room was quiet a moment.

“Perripur, then? Sometimes they take us down there; some of the merchants there own us. They –”

“They say they don’t,” said a young man with a scraggly, pale beard. “It’s a lie.”

“They lie. They all lie. All Arunkin lie. What do you expect?” asked another.

“No,” Amarta said. “We have never even been to Perripur –”

“Yes, yes,” Nidem cut in from across the room. “We know now. You’ve never been anywhere. Why are you here?”

Amarta started to blush, saw Darad watching her curiously. It was his look that decided her. Guests they might be, but Nidem was treating them as if they had enslaved all her people singlehandedly.

Well, they were only here with the Emendi, whom she had never seen before, until they left with the Teva.

“Why do you have marks on your face?” she asked Nidem. “With all the water you have running through Kusan, don’t you ever wash?”

“Ama,” Dirina said, shocked, a hand on her arm, but it was Darad’s amused smirk at her response that she sought, that gave her some satisfaction.

Nidem held up an index finger to the right side of her face. “Two generations free from my mother’s side.” She moved the finger to the other side. “Three from my father’s. How many lines of freedom would you have, Arunkin?”

Anger flashed through Amarta as she struggled and failed to come up with a clever reply. She pulled her arm out of Dirina’s tightening, warning grip.

“You have an odd way of welcoming strangers, Nidem,” said a man standing in the doorway, one of his arms ending in a stump above the elbow.

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 31

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 31

From the corner of his eye Finnegan could see Tully bristling. “I understand your distress, Sir Henry, truly I do. This day I’ve lost three good men, three! The two who you have awaiting decent burial outside your home, and it would soothe my heart so it would if you could tell me you’ve got them decently covered and laid out ready for the burying of them, and poor Constable Barry, who bled to death in his saddle while evading the bandits’ pursuit. He, the poor creature, is laid out even now ready for the burying of him, far from home and by rites alien to him, but he was doing his duty to the last, the very last, Sir Henry! Do you care to view the corpse of him?” Finnegan wasn’t sure quite where the bullshit came from on occasions such as this, but he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. The easy part was that, yes, his boyos had indeed suffered tragedy this morning.

“That won’t be necessary, I assure you. From all the shot and riot I heard I was quite convinced there were at least a dozen of your constables there, what happened to the others? And if their numbers didn’t answer, why is it that I have had no return visit with more? Could not militia be turned out?”

“There was but the one man, Constable Tully as you see here, who took flight with his injured comrade, on a wounded horse, and had his heels across country to evade the very bandits you mention. Only when he was sure of no pursuit was he able to come here, with the dying Constable Barry, and make his report, such as you see writ there by him on the table, and it was as we were debating the best course of action you arrived, so you did. Do you tell me the villain has flown?”

“I do. And I am here to lay information in the proper form of the sighting. I presume you are already officially cognizant of the prison-breaking he stands accused of?”

“I saw the mined walls of the tower with my own eyes, the very day I was commissioned by His Majesty to catch the man Cromwell and his every associate and accessory.” Finnegan sighed expansively. This was a complication he hadn’t been expecting. He’d have no trouble leaving the lawsuit Sir Henry was plainly planning behind when he shook the dust of this town off his feet, but the earl wouldn’t be happy about the complication. Half the troubles in this blasted country were down to county gentlemen being difficult about things. Giving one of them the means to raise a scandal was certainly not going to help. On the other hand, here was also one of those local gentry raising a complaint about his quarry; if he couldn’t get one problem to solve the other it was a poor look-out.

“Sir Henry, Cromwell is as cunning as the very devil and I don’t doubt he has seduced several others to his aid. I know not what mischief he proposes to work as his final end, but I came here, rightly as it seems, to wait for him to try and capture him as he came for his children. If I could have found those, I might have had bait for the beast and caught him before now.”

Sir Henry harrumphed. “This, Mister Finnegan, is not what any man or woman of this locality thought you were about. There’s not a one of them believes other than you proposed to throw the poor mites into the Tower in place of the father.”

Finnegan gave the man his best hurt look. “I’ll allow, Sir Henry, that I am a rough and plain man, with none of your gentry airs, and my boyos that I swore in as constables are an ungentle lot to a man, but I’ll thank you to aver to all you have cause to tell that we’re not in any way monsters. Sure we’d have used the little ones quite civilly while we held them, and returned them where we found them once we had the father in chains. A mean trick to play on the man, in all honesty, Sir Henry, but he killed a dozen men with his own hands while breaking out of the Tower and he or his ruffians have accounted for three of my men dead and several others wounded already. I’ll spare no tears of sympathy for him on that account, and nor should any law-abiding man.”

Sir Henry contrived to look a little mollified from the state of high dudgeon he’d come in with. “You’ll hear my information, then, I take it?” The tone had become somewhat querulous.

“I will, at that, Sir Henry.”

Two hours later, Finnegan was as glad as a man could be to see the back of the pedantic bastard — not that he’d been able to call him that aloud — who’d gone over every finest point of his account of the morning, pointed out every minor incorrectness of the oath Finnegan had administered to make it formal, drawn to his attention two breaches of the Profane Swearing Act within earshot in the inn’s taproom, wondered aloud whether it was seemly to conduct such business in a common alehouse, inquired whether all of the boyos present were sufficiently resident not to be offending under the Act Against Common Tippling when they had beer with their luncheon and generally made a bloody nuisance of himself. To his credit, he’d pointed out that Cromwell’s children were in the care of the breedlings in the fens. It seemed the oldest Cromwell boy had been in communication with England’s answer to the bog-trotters. Finnegan had guessed as much already from the first trail he’d followed, but Steward had been more forthcoming. He’d even had an idea of where the breedlings were gathering to work mischief against the fen drainage and navigation works. And didn’t Sir Henry have opinions about that, now?

Finnegan heaved a big sigh as Sir Henry, his lawyer and his lawyer’s clerk went out the door. “Thank Christ those fuckers are gone,” he said, “I was sure my ears were about to fuckin’ drop off. Have I profanely swore and cursed enough yet? I think it’s time for some fucking tippling to top it off. Someone get that idle bastard over here with more ale.”

That got a chuckle out of Tully. “We’ve had some use out of the gaimbín, for all that. If I remember aright, this Earith where they’re agitating against the new river is no more than half a dozen miles past where we got to last time. Should I ask around and find why they’re agitating?”

“They’re agitating because a Dutchman’s digging a fucking ditch, Tully, and I much doubt me that we’ll ever need to know the why of either side of the tiresome business. If it comes up in conversation, make note of it, and we’ll leave it at that. What we do know is that Cromwell’s boy fell in with the agitators and that’s where he hid himself and his little brothers and sisters. Now, it’s too late in the day to get out there, but while I see poor Barry decently buried, get you a cart and take half a dozen boys and go fetch Kennedy and Quinn back here for the same. I said to Sir Profane Fucking Henry I’d see them away from his doorstep, and I’ll keep the promise for their sakes. I’ve a notion that if we shift ourselves we can have them decently in the ground by sundown, for all the bloody Protestants won’t let them have holy ground for it. There’s plenty of ground we can use, and I am in no mood to hear argument on the matter.”

“Nor I,” Tully said, grabbing his hat. “I can be to St. Ives and back in three hours, so we’ll have the evening to wake them properly. Then to Earith in the morning?”

“Earith in the morning,” Finnegan affirmed. “And then we start the hunting.”

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 04

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 04

Chapter 4

“Ready,” said Poplock.

Kyri looked around the large, rectangular room and saw Miri, Tobimar, and Lady Shae in combat poses. “Do you actually think he’s going to lunge out of the tube to kill us all?” she demanded, feeling a somewhat unreasonable annoyance at this suspicion. We don’t know it’s Rion, she reminded herself. It really can’t be him. Can it?

“Expect, no,” Hriista said from beside her. “Think it is a possibility not to be utterly discounted, yes. You yourself admit that you saw your brother killed, were present when your priest failed to keep him alive due to his soul being torn apart. It is, therefore, vanishingly unlikely that this is indeed your brother. It is thus rather more likely that this is some form of trap. I am still unclear as to what the nature and purpose of such a trap would be, and the fact that apparently this tube was present for well over a year prior to your arrival argues against it being a trap in the conventional sense. But such caution is wise, would you not agree?”

“I…yes, I do,” she admitted reluctantly. She sighed and looked down at the shadowy face behind the glassy port of the tube. “What do I have to do?”

“If this is your brother, it is obviously best that you be the first person he sees,” Hiriista said. “By your account he was a formidable warrior, and awakening without warning to an unknown group of people could be…unfortunate for all concerned. Physically it appears that these tubes have provisions to keep the being within in good health for some indefinite time; we know that this should be the case as Zogen Josan was able to be retrieved and returned to duty as his living body relatively quickly without anyone noticing anything particularly odd. But I would still doubt that he is actually going to emerge with all faculties and physical capabilities at full strength.”

He pointed to a series of three gold and blue catches. “Release those three–first this one, then the one on the other side, then the third–and then you can lift the cover up. Poplock and I have performed all other preparations; you may proceed when you are ready.”

Kyri found herself hesitating, her fingers trembling as they rested on the first catch. Am I afraid of finding out it’s not him, or am I afraid of what it will mean if it is him? What will it mean if it is?

With an effort she banished the questions. They’ll be answered once I open this thing. With swift, precise motions, she unsnapped the catches, the smooth clack of their operation echoing around the laboratory that was currently being borrowed from one of Kaizatenzei’s best alchemists. Taking a breath, she threw the cover back.

The top of the casketlike tube was hinged in the vicinity of the figure’s feet. As soon as the cover had risen nearly vertical, it seemed to trigger something within; the cloudy liquid with its faint, sharp smell began to drain out the bottom of the tube, running swiftly towards the drain set in the floor. Slowly the liquid level dropped and the figure within was revealed; lighter-skinned than she, blond hair matted, and features she knew almost as well as her own. It’s Rion! No…it’s Rion’s face, she corrected herself. I’ve heard it said that everyone has a double in some other town. Maybe this is Rion’s double, someone I’ve never met and never would have.

But the coincidence that this “double” would have been sealed in a tube “a year or two” ago–perhaps, even, the same time that Rion had died–how likely was that?

Liquid dribbled from the figure’s nose; a blue-green light shimmered from the sides of the tube and the liquid fountained from his nose; the chest suddenly rose and fell.

With abruptness that startled her, blue eyes snapped open and the figure half-sat up, a weak, pathetic scream wheezing from the mouth that was open in a horrified “O.” The eyes blinked, then focused on her. “K-Kyri…”

It was her brother’s voice, speaking her name. She couldn’t forget that, couldn’t possibly be mistaking it for any other voice. “R-Rion?”

He took a deep breath, then coughed, reached up a hand to grip her arm shakily, spoke, staring at her with horror still written across his face. “The…Justiciars…Kyri, they’re corrupt…it was Thornfalcon, Kyri, Thornfalcon who…”

His other hand moved to his stomach and froze. He tore his gaze from her and looked down, then back up in disbelief. “What…was it a nightmare? I…”

She didn’t know what to say or how to respond. It sounded like Rion, it looked like Rion, it was saying what Rion would say if, somehow, he had been brought back from the moment of his death, yet…

In that moment it seemed that the young man became aware of the surroundings. “W-w-where am I?”

“You’re in the city of Valatar in the country of Kaizatenzei,” Miri said, apparently having decided at least for the moment that he wasn’t dangerous.

“What do you remember last?” Hiriista said.

Rion (Kyri couldn’t help but think of him as Rion now) blinked and his brow furrowed at the sight of the mazakh, but then he shrugged slowly. “I…had finally found the proof I needed that the Justiciars were not what they seemed, and I was running home, when Thornfalcon caught up with me. We dueled, but he–”

His gaze snapped back to Kyri. “Kyri, he’s a monster, he’s not even human, I couldn’t beat him, even Myrionar’s power was–”

She found herself laying a hand on his arm. “Rion, it’s all right. It’s over. Thornfalcon’s dead.”

“Dead?” He stared with comical disbelief. “How?”

“I killed him myself. Though not without a lot of help.”

“You…?” His eyes finally seemed to focus on what she was wearing, and the horror drained away, slowly replaced with dawning wonder. “By…the…Balance. You? A Justiciar? My little sister, a Justiciar?” He started to rise, but his arms wouldn’t support him enough to let him stand. “But…I don’t recognize that Raiment.”

“You found out the Justiciars were corrupt,” she said. “So once Myrionar answered my prayers…well, actually,” she blushed, remembering, “once Myrionar answered my demands, I had to go get the Spiritsmith to make uncorrupted Raiment.”

He burst out laughing, and it was Rion’s laugh–weak, interspersed with fits of coughing, but Rion’s laugh, oh, so very much. “You demanded something of Myrionar? And then went and found the Spiritsmith to…how long has it been?”

She thought back over what had happened: Rion’s funeral, packing and traveling over the Great Road to Zarathanton, confronting Myrionar in the Forest Sea, finding the Spiritsmith and gaining her Raiment…killing Mist Owl and Shrike and nearly being killed by Thornfalcon…then all the terrible and wonderful adventures since that took them through Rivendream Pass and Kaizatenzei to where she sat now…”Almost two years, Rion.”

“Two years?” He fell silent, staring first at her, then looking around the room, studying everyone and everything with the careful, considered gaze that she remembered so well. “Where is Urelle?”

A pang of worry that she had repressed for months resurfaced. “I…I wish I knew for sure. We left Evanwyl–went to Zarathanton, and…well, after I was chosen and headed out…” she stopped. “Oh, gods, Rion, it’s too much to explain right now.”

“Especially,” said Tobimar, stepping up, “since we have much more important questions to be answered. I’m sorry, Kyri,” he said to her, and she could see his genuine sympathy, “but we can’t hold off on this.”

Rion raised an eyebrow, then glanced up. “I suppose you know what you are doing here. More than I do, at any rate. But could I get out of this…elaborate coffin and get some clothes on?”

Miri burst out giggling. “Our apologies!” she said. “Poplock, could you…”

“No problem.” The little toad hopped onto the edge of the tube, Rion regarding him with bemusement, and did a mumbled gesture that caused a rainbow mist to march from Rion’s head to his toes, leaving him–and the interior of the casket–perfectly clean and dry. Hiriista handed Rion a robe. “That will do for now, I trust.”

“Sufficient to be acceptable, yes,” Rion agreed, and slipped it on and tied it before standing slowly up; he wavered and Kyri caught his elbow, steadying him. “I guess I am not entirely myself,” he muttered.

She guided him to a table on the other side of the room and let him sit down; the others followed and took their own seats around the table. She remained standing for a minute, worrying, before she forced herself to sit.

“Before we do anything else, I need to introduce you,” she said. “Rion, this is Tobimar Silverun, Seventh of Seven of Skysand. The Toad on his shoulder is Poplock Duckweed; together with another friend of theirs, Xavier Ross, they saved me from Thornfalcon’s trap and helped me finally kill him and wipe out the monsters he had brought into Evanwyl.”

Rion bowed from his waist. “Then both greetings and my thanks, Tobimar and Poplock, for helping my sister avenge our parents’ deaths–and I suppose my own–and making my country a cleaner place.”

“Believe me,” Poplock said, “it was our pleasure. Some people just need a lot of killing, and Thorny there, he was about top of the list.”

“Yes, he was,” Rion said, not even a trace of a smile visible.

“The mazakh with the magnificent crest is Hiriista, finest magewright in Kaizatenzei, and a wonderful companion to have on any journey.”

Hiriista shook his crest in pleased embarrassment as Rion acknowledged him.

“And this is Miri, Light of Kaizatenzei–that means one of their protectors and warriors, like the Justiciars back home–and one of my new and best friends.”

Miri nodded and blushed at Kyri’s praise, but Kyri felt it was important to emphasize her position both personal and professional. It couldn’t hurt to make sure that an ex-demon remembered why they decided to make that change, and more importantly would help prevent unfortunate reactions when they had to discuss her nature in front of Rion.

“Finally, this is Lady Shae, the Lady of Light, ruler of this country,”

For that Rion did rise and do a proper bow of respect. “You should have introduced her first, sister. Don’t you know etiquette at all?”

She giggled, and Shae laughed and responded, “Nay, young man, she introduced the saviors of my country first, and so I, being the ruler who made certain…errors that led to it being in danger in the first place, am truly the last that needed introduction.”

Rion looked at her with half-disbelieving eyes. “Savior of another country–that I never heard of–after managing to become a Justiciar and killing off Thornfalcon? You’ve been awfully busy, little sister.”

“Yes, she has,” Tobimar agreed. “But we have to turn to the more serious question of whether you have the right to call her ‘sister.'”

Rion’s head snapped around. “What?”

“Well, that was a little more blunt than I would have recommended putting it,” Poplock said with a kick of reproof to the blue-eyed Prince, “but, yes, basically. See, you died two years ago in front of your sister and that nice old priest Arbiter Kelsley, who practically killed himself trying to put your soul back together–and failed. You had your funeral and everything, and your body was there for it all. So…how can you be here at all, and still be Rion Vantage?”

His wide-blue gaze returned to her, eyes now wide with shock. “Kyri? Is this…true?”

“Yes,” she said, and restrained the impulse to comfort him. My heart thinks this is Rion…but my head can’t see how that’s possible.

“Well.” He sat in silence for a few moments. “I certainly see the problem,” he said finally. “If my body, or what’s left of it, is back in Evanwyl, and I died in front of Kyri…then I shouldn’t be here. But by the Balance I sure feel like Rion Vantage!”

Hiriista leaned forward. “You mentioned what happened to you, Rion–for I suppose that is the best name for us to use for now, provisionally. Think back. Think carefully. Tell us the details of your last thoughts, and I especially want you to pay attention to those which may seem nightmare or delirium; this may provide us with key insight as to what truly happened to you…or what was used to create you.”

Rion shuddered. “I…suppose so. But while it has been two years for you, for me it was…just moments ago, by my memory.” He paused. “And yet…yet it feels longer. As though my death was far in the past.”

“Go on,” Miri said gently.

Rion drew in a deep breath and let it out. “All right.

“I was at the Justiciar’s Retreat, trying to find the last piece of evidence I needed to prove what I had come to suspect–that the Justiciars were, somehow, false. I don’t have to explain that to you now, I guess, but do you realize how hard it was for me to even think of it?”

Kyri would have laughed, but it hurt too much. “No, you don’t, Rion. Even after you…died, they fooled us again. I only found out the truth almost by accident.”

“Well…The problem for me was that while everyone acted as though Mist Owl was supposed to be the leader, he would often put off a decision and then come back with his orders an hour or a day later. He usually excused this as his preferring to think on things, and at his age that took time, but somehow it felt as though he was going to ask someone else for advice and coming back with his orders later. And every once in a while it seemed that he would glance at someone else–usually Thornfalcon–as though seeking confirmation.

“So I managed to enter the sanctum, where the leader of the Justiciars is supposed to hold council in case of emergencies, special events, you know the kind of thing. I’d done this as carefully and quietly as I could, even praying to Myrionar for the ability to hide myself and pierce illusions. And as I said, I managed to get the door of the sanctum open and looked in.

“It was very dark, with only a faint light about a quarter of the way across what was a much, much bigger room than I’d imagined. But there was a person outlined against that faint light, and I could recognize the thin, tall figure easily: Thornfalcon. He was talking to one of the other Justiciars–Skyharrier, I’m pretty sure–and the bit I heard mentioned my name in a tone that wasn’t positive.

“Honestly, I hadn’t expected anyone to be in that room, or that if anyone was there that they’d be in the dark. Even as I heard my name, Thornfalcon glanced around and I knew he couldn’t possibly miss me outlined in the light from the hall. I slammed the door to as soon as I heard Thornfalcon’s sword sliding out of its sheath, and threw a sealing prayer at the lock, then ran like Hell itself was after me.”

His face was even paler. “I think it was, then. I called on Myrionar, and I was fast, so fast that even Mist Owl barely had time to turn and gape as I passed him and was out into the forest. I knew that all I had to do was get to the temple. I was sure in my heart that Kelsley was still untouched, still a man of the Balance, and so I didn’t have to hold back, just run, run faster than any man, so fast with the power of Myrionar that they would never catch me.

“And…I thought they wouldn’t. I was sure. It takes many hours to get to the retreat normally, you know that, but I think I was almost home in two, the jungle flying by, Myrionar’s power buoying me up, and I had hope, Kyri, I was sure that Myrionar would not fail me–

“–and then I saw Thornfalcon step out of the shadows ahead of me, smiling.”

Kyri shuddered herself, and saw both Tobimar and Poplock shiver. They had faced more powerful adversaries…but she wasn’t sure that any of them, even the parasitic itrichel, could have matched Thornfalcon for sheer, vile malevolence.

Rion looked at them and managed a faint, wan smile. “I don’t suppose I need to describe how I discovered that I was outmatched.”

“No,” Hiriista said. “But you must describe your final moments, to the very end, in as much detail as you can. Because there we may find a clue as to whether you are an impostor, or in some wise the true Rion, impossible though that would seem.”

“Of course.” Rion’s shoulders hunched, part of him trying to crouch, to hide and protect himself from hideous memory. “Could I…have something to drink? Stronger than water, please.”

Kyri reached into her neverfull pack and brought out a bottle of Gharis Sunset–an ale that was one of her favorites, but that Rion really didn’t like at all. “Here.”

Rion took the bottle, pulled the seal aside absently, and took a swig. Immediately he made a face. “Oh, Balance, I should’ve guessed you’d have packed some of that swill along,” he muttered. “Oh well…it’s better than nothing right now.”

If he isn’t really Rion, he’s incredibly well-trained.

The blue eyes were haunted as he continued. “Thornfalcon and I exchanged several passes of blades. I’d sparred with him before, but I knew even before we drew swords that he had been holding back. Then again, so had I, some.

“At first it looked like we might be even…and that meant that with the Vantage strength and my endurance, I had a good chance, I could wear him down, eventually hammer Skytalon right through his guard. But then I heard screams in the distance and I saw him smile–the coldest, most bone-chilling smile I’ve ever seen.”

Kyri couldn’t repress another shudder, remembering that smile herself.

“I remember demanding from him what he’d done, and he explained very calmly that the entire idea was to arrange my death in a way that none would ever associate with the Justiciars.” He drew a shaky breath. “And then he…he changed. This huge, dark shadow seemed to grow out of him, a shadow with moon-blank eyes and huge claws and spectral fur, and I suddenly felt my sword sagging, feeling as though it had become a dozen times heavier.”

His hands tightened on the bottle, and there was an abrupt crack; loam-dark ale foamed across the table as Rion jumped back with an apologetic curse.

Poplock rolled his eyes, but repeated his cleansing spell; the table and Rion were neat again, though there was a sparkling mass of broken glass in front of his seat.

Rion smiled weakly. “Wasn’t even aware I was doing that.”

“Don’t concern yourself with it,” Lady Shae said, and gestured; the glass vanished. “Continue, please.”

He nodded. “Of course.” He swallowed, then went on. “I called on Myrionar, of course, and for a moment I felt stronger…but as we fought I felt my power draining away and I finally understood what kind of a monster Thornfalcon was. But that was far too late, and his sword started carving me apart–one cut at a time, and with every cut I felt my strength departing, my endurance failing, the night growing darker, with him laughing, laughing all the time…”

He paused. “…or was he? Part of me says he stopped laughing at the very end, but another part says I heard that laughter for a long, long time.”

“You don’t remember me reaching you? I talked to you, Rion! You tried to tell me what was going on, you just couldn’t before…” Her voice wavered and she stopped.

Rion’s brow furrowed and he was silent a moment. “N-no. I’m sorry, I can’t remember a thing. And I wanted to see you, so much, Kyri. You and Urelle and Aunt Victoria. But it just went black, with that laughter…”

He trailed off again, but this time thinking. “The laughter did go on a long time. But then…I don’t know how long, I wasn’t really conscious I think, these are more impressions than memories, if you know what I mean?” He looked anxiously at Hiriista, who gave a slow assenting nod.

“So after a long time the laughing faded, and I felt cold, icy cold, and…I don’t know, I felt as though I had suddenly been brought into a gigantic chamber, a chamber filled with the essence of ice. But there was fire, too. And it wasn’t either. Myrionar’s Blade, I can’t say what I mean.”

“You mean to say that these were impressions, analogies, not literal truths,” Hiriista said. “You do not, for instance, believe you were brought into an actual giant chamber.”

“Yes, that’s it. I’d been somewhere…warm yet deadly, with laughter, and now I was somewhere huge and both hot and lethally cold, and instead of laughter the cold was amused and then…”

Kyri was so tense she realized her nails were digging into her palms. She forced her hands to relax. “Then?”

Rion stared into unguessable distances. “Then…I was forgotten, I think. Or put aside? I don’t know. I can’t make sense of these sensations. My words just aren’t…it’s something I feel but it wasn’t real, not like here. But after some time I can’t guess I finally I felt something change around me, more darkness, but with feelings that weren’t all dark and laughing and hate-filled, and then everything faded away completely…” he glanced to her, “…until I opened my eyes and saw you.”

Kyri didn’t know what to think, and from his frown neither did Tobimar. But Poplock and Hiriista were exchanging glances, and she saw both Miri and Lady Shae nodding slowly.

“All right, it seems that made sense to most of you,” she said finally. “What did that mean? What happened? Is he Rion?”

The four looked at each other, then the others nodded at Hiriista, who rose and bowed slightly.

“There are…tests I would like to do, but I believe that we all have a good idea what happened…and if we are correct, then he is, indeed, Rion–or a part of him.”

“A part of me?” Rion echoed.

“A new body–manufactured from what I cannot be sure–but with a fragment of your soul placed within, to grow and heal. If we interpret those images correctly, Thornfalcon had taken parts of your soul, but instead of simply consuming them, gave them to someone else, I would presume this Patron–”

“Who is almost certainly Viedraverion,” Miri put in.

“–as I said, his Patron, possibly the Demonlord she has named, and certainly a being of far greater power than Thornfalcon. The Patron kept your spirit-fragment intact within himself or possibly some sort of spirit container, and eventually placed it into the body you now wear and shipped you off to Wieran. For what purpose I cannot fathom, but this would appear to be the likely scenario.”

Rion was studying his arms and hands as though they would give him a clue as to how this had all happened. Kyri was however more interested in something else. “Miri, who is ‘Viedraverion’? You’ve mentioned him to us earlier but in all the other work we’ve been doing we didn’t have time to talk.”

“Viedraverion,” Lady Shae answered, “is one of the most powerful Demonlords–a Child of the First to Kerlamion himself. In fact, Viedra is supposedly the actual first child of Kerlamion, which would make him vastly more powerful than any Child of the Second and even most other Firsts.”

“He…helped us a lot,” Miri said hesitantly, something which caused Rion’s head to snap up in consternation.

“Sorry, Rion. You’re not the only mixed-up entity here,” Poplock said. “Our two good friends over there used to be Demonlords themselves before they changed their minds. And that wasn’t all that long ago.”

Rion blinked. “Used to be Demonlords?”

“It’s a long story,” Miri said uncomfortably. “And I’ll tell it to you, later. But let me finish. He was…well, not a direct ally, but a resource. He sent Weiran to us, let us know you were coming, verified that Tobimar was the Key, all that sort of thing, but that’s not really the important thing. The really important thing is that he’s the architect of Kerlamion’s grand invasion.”

Kyri felt her mouth drop open. It took a moment to close it again. “Wait. Are you saying that…that the monster responsible for making Thornfalcon, for corrupting the Justiciars, is also the one who arranged the Sauran King’s assassination, the invasion of Artania and Aegia and–”

“–yes. I am saying exactly that. He has been living in Evanwyl most of the time, and I think his private project is there, somehow, but he’s been directing almost everything that Father and his forces have been doing.”

“Terian’s Light,” Tobimar murmured. “I remember talking with King Toron about all this; we couldn’t figure out who was responsible for the coordinated unrest; we even contemplated it being one of the Great Wolves that assassinated the prior Sauran King, because of the perfection of the disguise.”

Poplock bounced assent. “But we knew that couldn’t be the case because this was an assault by demons and lots of other nasties, all across the continent, and the Wolves don’t work for anyone except–”

“Yes,” Miri said. “Except the Godslayer, Virigar, their own king. They do not work with any other creatures, which is just as well.”

“But it being the first child of Kerlamion, one of the most powerful of all demons? That fits, especially with the tricks he might have gotten from Master Wieran along the way. And this all connects to Evanwyl somehow.”

“I presume so,” Miri said. “I’ve seen his current human guise many times; would you like to see it?”

Kyri’s hands tightened into fists. “See the monster responsible for all this? Oh, yes. I want to know him when I see him.”

Miri concentrated for a moment, then touched one of the gems set in her left armlet.

Light shimmered in the air between them, coalesced into a human figure.

Kyri found herself on her feet, her chair clattering away unnoticed, feeling as though a terrible abyss had opened at her feet; Rion had risen too, and Tobimar as well, all of them staring in disbelieving shock. “Oh, drought,” Poplock finally said, and his tone was utterly devoid of his usual humor.

Before them, floating perfectly defined in midair, was the handsome, blond-haired figure of Jeridan Velion, Watchland of Evanwyl.

 

 

The Seer – Snippet 37

The Seer – Snippet 37

Jolon answered back, and Amarta recognized their names. To them Jolon said: “These are the first and second of Kusan’s ten elders, Vatti and Astru.”

The elder woman, Vatti, spoke. “Welcome to Kusan, sometimes called the hidden city. Do you know these names?”

“No,” Dirina admitted.

“Good,” the elder man, Astru, replied. “That is as it should be.”

“I am Ksava,” said the woman with the long, ropelike gold hair, swaying slightly to rock the baby on her chest. She nodded at the other two, a boy and girl about Amarta’s age. “My brother, Darad. Our cousin, Nidem.”

The girl’s cheekbones had three lines painted on one side and two on the other. She back at Amarta with a pointed, unfriendly expression. She addressed Jolon and Mara. “You bring strangers here? Do our lives mean so little to you?”

“They seek a haven,” Jolon said. “We thought you might understand this.”

“That’s a reassurance, then,” Nidem said nastily. “What do they bring us? Supplies? News of our beloveds in the cities? Or do they only take, like Arunkin do?”

“Nidem,” said Astru, in what might have been a quiet rebuke.

“We bring them,” Jolon said to her. “As we bring you bags of grain and salt and nuts, bottles of spice and oil — the many things you cannot get for yourselves, even in your out-trips.”

“And in turn,” Vatti said to him, her voice mild, a contrast to Nidem’s venomous tone, “we supply you with water and hidden shelter for your people and your horses on your journeys north and south.”

“Yes, and we are grateful to you — ” Jolon began.

Vatti held up her hand to silence him, a firm gesture, and continued. “And you bring us coin when we need it. News of the world outside. Your counsel and knowledge.”

Astru spoke. “Hear us clearly: the Teva are valued partners to the Emendi. You are welcome here.” He looked at Nidem. “Nidem is a child and does not speak for us.”

“We will help however we can,” Dirina said quietly, respectfully.

“We will work hard,” Amarta added quickly, looking between the elders and Nidem.

“You had better,” Nidem said.

A sigh from Astru. “You gift us with your companionship as well as your trade, Teva,” Astru said. “And now Nidem will gift us with her silence until she is told otherwise.”

At that Nidem made a series of gestures with her hands and fingers. A clear signal, judging by the sharp reactions of those around her; Vatti pressed her lips together in what might have been annoyed forbearance, and Ksava suppressed a smile as she moved her baby to her shoulder. Astru looked long at Nidem, his eyes flickering back and forth.

Nidem scowled and stamped out of the room.

Astru made a gesture with both hands, a brushing of the air, somehow conveying a cleaning of the unpleasantness that had preceded. Vatti put her hands together at her chest, then reached out to Mara and Jolon in turn, fingers out. They met her fingers with their own.

“We honor your presence here. Your friends are welcome in Kusan,” Vatti said.

“Our gratitude to you,” Mara said.

“Come,” Astru said, “show us what you have brought us.” Then, to Amarta and Dirina: “Ksava will show you how to conduct yourselves here. We will see you at the meal.”

As they left, Jolon paused, put his arms lightly around Dirina and Amarta’s shoulders, head tipped downward, and said quietly: “Their forebears were enslaved by Arunkin. They can perhaps be forgiven for mistaking you for the enemy. Be patient with them.”

#

“We have our meals here,” Ksava said, motioning to the large room. From the low, round tables scattered around the room, pale-headed adults and children watched them with expressions from curiosity to looks rather similar to Nidem’s. Amarta looked at Ksava rather than meet their eyes. “We eat two meals together each day. If you are hungry another time, go the kitchens back there. Someone is always present to help you find what you might like to eat.”

What she might like to eat? This was wealth, to always have food, to be invited to have a preference. Her mouth watered, and she wondered if it was too soon to ask.

She would wait.

Ksava took a lamp from a nearby table. With Darad trailing behind, she led them down one of many bewildering cave tunnels. They passed numerous doorways, and she was soon lost, though she noticed letters carved into the stone at every juncture. As she stared at one of the signs, trying to sound it out, she noticed Nidem had joined Darad behind them.

A hand sign from Darad brought a smirk to Nidem’s face that vanished when Amarta looked. Nidem gave her another hard glare.

“There are those among us,” Ksava said, “who believe all Arunkin are slavers and not to be trusted. You are the first to visit Kusan in quite some time.”

At this, Amarta moved a little closer to Dirina, wondering how long until they would be leaving.

Ksava gestured to a door much like the last handful they had passed. “I sleep here with my family. You are welcome to join us, or stay with the Teva.” The room had six thick pallets across the floor, cabinets, and the soft sound of running water. Ksava motioned with her lamp toward the back of the room. “The water in the sleeping rooms is for drinking, not toilet or bath or clothes. I’ll show you that next.”

They descended wide stairs that Pas insisted on taking himself. Amarta was glad for this slowing; as they walked, her foot hurt more. She was resolved not to limp.

“The city descends many levels. Even we do not know the extent of the tunnels. Go nowhere on your own until you have learned all the ways. If ever you are lost, do this.”

She sang out in a loud, clear, high tone that then dropped low, then climbed again. “Repeat that until you are found, yes?”

They nodded.

Motion at the floor of the corridor caught Amarta’s attention. Darad knelt to the ground, and a long, thin creature with a ratlike face ran to him, then up his arm and onto his shoulder, nose twitching, sniffing his ear. Pas was reaching upward and making wordless sounds of longing. Darad dropped down and let Pas pet the creature on his shoulder.

“The ferrets are our companions,” Ksava said. “They find misplaced objects in dark corners. They bring us home when we are lost. They know the tunnels better than we ever will. Be good to them.”

Darad let the animal back to the ground. It ran to the wall and then paused, standing up on back legs. Ksava brought out a piece of something and tossed it to the ferret, who caught it between handlike paws and transferred it to its mouth. In a twitch it was gone again, back into the dark.

They descended another flight of stairs to a room with many holes, under which were the sounds of a rushing waterway.

“These are the toilets.”

“Oh!” said Pas, tugging on his mother’s hand.

“Don’t drop anything in there,” Darad said with a grin. “It goes all the way out to the ocean. You’ll never see it again.”

This was a toilet? Amarta looked around. Something was missing. “It doesn’t smell,” she said wonderingly.

“The shiny areas around the holes are mage-made. Nothing sticks. This helps.”

“Mage-made?” Amarta said. “But that’s…”

“Yes?”

“Isn’t that… doesn’t it bring death and bad fortune?”

Ksava chuckled, handed her baby to Dirina. She took Pas’s hand, walking him to the edge of the hole, holding him while he peed into the hole. Pas laughed in delight.

When she returned, she said, “My people were brought into the worst of bad fortune when we were abducted from our homeland and taken in chains across the sea and made into slaves. Kusan has been a sanctuary for a thousand years and more, older than the Arun Empire. The gifts that mages have left for us here have been far more welcoming than anything the Arunkin have done. Who brings death and bad fortune, Amarta?”

To that Amarta had no answer.

“Are there other mage-makings in Kusan?” Dirina asked.

“Perhaps the waterways, but they may be simply cleverly made. It is hard to know.” Ksava returned Pas to his mother and led them out of the toilet room. “We Emendi have been here only some hundred years.”

“Do you ever leave?” Amarta asked.

“We visit the hidden gardens up top,” Darad said. “To see the sun, when the keepers allow.”

Nidem tapped Darad and signed at him.

“And,” Darad added, “the out-trips.”

Ksava spoke: “We travel to nearby towns to buy those things we cannot make, grow, or hunt. Darad might do so. Even Nidem, in a few months, if they study the ways of the outside well enough.”