Sourcethief (Book 3) (59 page)

Their arrival was met with the scent of briny air
and the sensation of falling. The
Starlit Marauder
tumbled down. It was
nighttime and the sky was clear but for a few clouds.

"Kyrus!" Juliana screamed. She saw the
exhausted sorcerer slumped over the prow, feet drifting up from the deck as
they fell free. She enacted a shielding spell for herself, and tossed Kyrus
away from the ship with a telekinetic push.

Please let us be at sea, and not
over a port. Please Tansha, this is the last thing I'll ask, just please let us
be over water
!

They hit with a splash and an impact that drove
Juliana against the deck. As soon as the worst of the subsequent bobbing
stopped, she unbuckled the captain's harness and dove over the side.

She plunged into what she could only guess was the
Katamic Sea. She could fathom no reason why Kyrus would not have brought them
straight to Brannis and Soria, other than him being unable to. The surface of
the water marked the border crossing into a world of darkness. Juliana switched
to aether and spotted Kyrus immediately. She was a passable swimmer, not prone
to frequent diving rescues, but neither was Kyrus particularly difficult to tow
to the surface once he was found. Even a small tug of aether went a long way to
achieving buoyancy.

They broke the surface, Juliana gasping for air,
Kyrus sputtering and coughing out water. Either the plunge or the impact with
the water had awakened him.

"Kyrus!" Juliana shouted. "We made
it!" She hugged him, still treading water.

"Wonderful," Kyrus replied. He coughed and
tried to point. "Now let's ... stop the ... sinking!"

Juliana turned. The
Starlit Marauder
was
never built to float. Fashioned in the shape of a ship's hull, it had arrow
slits and landing ramps that were not quite sealed to shipwrights' standards.
It was filling with water, and the Katamic was threatening to take it from them.

The ship listed to one side, dipping a railing into
the water. Juliana swam to it and climbed aboard.

"Come on, hurry," she shouted back to
Kyrus, who was either the worst swimmer a fishing town had ever produced, or
was just too exhausted to move more quickly.

"... right there," Kyrus muttered, just
loudly enough that Juliana could make out the last bit.

She helped drag the weary sorcerer aboard, and
boosted him onto a deck that was nearer to being a wall than a floor as they
sank. Kyrus grabbed the edge of the stairway to the hold and climbed into the
bowels of the ship.

Juliana balanced on the ship's rail as it drifted
below the water's surface, and leapt to catch the ship's wheel. Unlike on most
ships, the
Starlit Marauder's
wheel was fixed in place. She used it to
climb up, and struggled into the harness.

The ship hummed and throbbed, but slowly began to
obey her commands. The
Starlit Marauder
lifted out of the Katamic,
pouring water like a decorative fountain better suited to palace courtyards
than to the sea.

"Kyrus! We made it!" Juliana cheered.

There was no response from below.

"Kyrus?" she called down.
"Kyrus!" she shouted into the runes that bellowed her voice into the
hold.

* * * * * * *
*

Brannis stirred. "He's fine. Just let him rest
... bring him here."

Soria nodded her head in reply, though Brannis's
eyes remained closed.

* * * * * * *
*

Kyrus awakened to a kiss. He put his arms around
Juliana before even fully waking, pulling her close.

"Time enough for that later, lay-abed,"
Juliana said, pushing free of him. "We're here."

Kyrus looked around. He was lying in the corridor of
the
Starlit Marauder
, soaking in nearly a hand's depth of water. He sat
up, sopping wet clothes clinging to him, along with the overpowering scent of
saltwater musk. He took Juliana's offered hand, and she helped him to his feet.

"How long—"

"It's nearly daybreak," Juliana answered
before he could finish. "Move!"

Kyrus hurried as best he could. It was a strange
feeling, like traveling in time. With Brannis asleep, his mind had gone blank.
It had seemed just a moment ago that he had—

Wait, is Brannis asleep?
A cold fear settled within
Kyrus, unrelated to the wind or his wet clothing. He tried to relax and see
through Brannis's eyes, but either the relaxation or Brannis's mind eluded him.
He closed his eyes, but Tellurak had too much ambient aether for him to see the
thread that tied him to Brannis.

Kyrus's foot caught something his aether-vision did
not see, and he stumbled. Juliana's arm around him was the only thing that kept
him from falling face first onto floor.

"Watch where you're going," Juliana
scolded.

Kyrus followed her down the ramp, and onto the rocky
bank of a stream. His eyes seemed to have been cast afar. He saw himself lying
on his back, eyes closed, draped under Soria's tunic. Soria he recognized, but
with Juliana's arm wrapped about his shoulders, it was hard to reconcile her
presence. Soria was wearing just her chest wrap, despite the coolness of the
lingering night air. She stared at them with disbelieving eyes.

"How am I ... is he?" Kyrus asked.

"Not good. He's barely breathing," Soria
replied.

"This is weird," Juliana whispered.

"I know," Soria replied, though she could
not possibly have overheard. "Just do this, quickly.”

Kyrus stumbled along the rocks, trying to make it on
his own, but having to rely on Juliana instead. When they finally reached
Brannis and Soria, Kyrus collapsed to his knees next to his twin.

"No, not much of a Source at all, is it?"
Soria asked, watching him look Brannis over.

"No, maybe not, but it's all the Source we
need."

Kyrus took Brannis's hand in both of his. It was
crusted with dried blood, and a bit larger than his own, calloused and
thickened by rigorous use.
Is this murder? Is this suicide? Is it something
completely unique?
Kyrus contemplated his charted course.
If it works,
what then?
He had not stopped to think about tomorrow—or aftermorrow—the
quest so consumed his 'today' that it seemed presumptuous to consider beyond
it. He turned to look at Soria and Juliana, eyeing one another with childlike
perplexity, as if seeing a mirror or their reflections in the water for the
first time.

Two of them?
Kyrus shook his head ever so
slightly, lest they notice it.
It will be worse than Tippu and Kahli vying
for my attentions. And yet, in forty or fifty years, they will be old ladies,
and I'll still be as young as ever.

Brannis winced in pain, and gasped for breath. Kyrus
felt a sympathetic pang of his own.
I did not come all this way to let
Brannis die.

He placed a hand on Brannis's chest.

He drew.

Brannis cried out, a brief, strangled yelp, and
convulsed. After that, he was still.

Kyrus felt the weakened whiff of a Source wrap
around among his like a cloak. It fitted in, tucked around, and blended
together, as if it was always meant to be there.

"Brannis!" Soria and Juliana cried out in
unison. They each turned to look at the other at the same moment, crinkling
their noses in the same little frown.

"I'm fine," Kyrus said.
Am I?

"What about Brannis though?" Soria and
Juliana demanded. They exchanged a mirrored glare.

"I said I'm ... fine," Kyrus replied.

A quick exchange of looks and glares passed between
Juliana and her twin.

Juliana was the one who spoke. "Then what about
Kyrus?"

"I'm right ... here," Kyrus said. Brannis
said? Perhaps both said.

"I see," Juliana and Soria replied.

"I guess you were more right than you even
realized, Soria, when you said you and Juliana were one in the same,"
Kyrus said.

"How do you feel?" Soria asked.

"You don't look tired any longer," Juliana
added. The two looked at one another and gave identical, satisfied nods.

"I feel fresh, new, reborn. I think I need a
new age-day. Can you see my Source in the aether?"

"No," they both replied.

"You two need to figure out a system,"
Kyrus said. "That's going to get annoying."

Soria and Juliana got wicked gleams in their eyes.
They turned toward one another. Kyrus felt the aether snap toward them, two
points of attraction, vying for supremacy.

"A draw, really? Is that any way to settle the
whole talking privilege thing?" Kyrus asked, exasperated at the juvenile
display.

The two sorceresses, Tezuan Sun and Sixth Circle,
ignored him. Kyrus stepped back, waiting for them to play out their
foolishness, and resisted the urge to stop them. He watched the contest. Their
draws were more evenly matched than their Sources would have suggested. It
seemed a matter they were determined to settle for themselves, but Kyrus began
to wonder if perhaps he ought to be acting as judge.

"Hold," Kyrus called, since force of draw
seemed not decisive enough to end the contest. Both of them ignored him.
"Hold, I said." They continued to draw. "Blast it, hold, both of
you."

Soria collapsed. Kyrus caught her with magic before
she fell onto the rocks and smashed her skull. But then he noticed: Juliana's
Source sealed itself closed with the stolen aether from Soria's.

"What did you do?" Kyrus shouted, aghast.
"You murdered Soria!"

"You just murdered Brannis, then," Juliana
replied.

"No, I saved him. He was dying. Soria
was—"

"Dying too. Just a lot slower. You think I was
going to let you wander off into eternity alone? You'd get bored."

"But—"

"You had your plan. I had mine," Juliana
said. "I didn't want you trying to become an immortal because I thought it
meant I'd lose you. As soon as I realized I could join you, I knew I had to
try."

Kyrus turned away from the bodies. "I can't
even look at them."

"Us," Juliana corrected.

"I remember everything, right up until I tugged
my own Source loose," Kyrus said. "Then I stopped feeling the pain in
my gut, the little aches and hurts from combat. I can't tell where Brannis ends
and Kyrus begins."

"I never used to worry about the difference,
and I'm not going to start now."

Kyrus looked down to where Brannis lay. "I know
what you mean. I wish I could have ended up in that body instead. It's a fair
sight more useful than this one."

"So what? We're immortals. Do you think
Illiardra or Rashan kept the bodies they were born with?"

"This doesn't mean I'm going to turn out like
Rashan."

"I never believed that you would."

"Tallax either," Kyrus said. "I'm
done meddling in kingdoms. I'm not going to be the constable, judge, and jailor
for the world. I don't even know that I could find my way back to
Veydrus."

"Why not?"

"I followed the link between Kyrus and
Brannis," Kyrus said, still unsure which would have been 'I,' had he used
just one of the names.

"You could find it an easy thing to rule
Tellurak," Juliana teased, but Kyrus shook his head.

"No. There's no rush to decide. We need time to
think, time to sort out our affairs. So many things awry left to put
right—" Kyrus's eyes widened. "Abbiley and Tomas ..."

"They probably saw the ship," Juliana
mused. "No point in making us all walk to a port now."

"We can't possibly show them—"

"Why not?" Juliana asked. "What are
you afraid of? That no one will believe them? Another witch trial? I think
we're pretty well done with worrying about things."

* * * * * * *
*

Abbiley gawked up at the
Starlit Marauder
,
walking in a dream. Tomas was only slightly less overwhelmed. They concocted a
convenient lie to cover Rakashi's betrayal and death, which Tomas and Abbiley
swallowed whole, along with hook and line, in light of the wonders before them.
That Kyrus looked thinner in his armor than Brannis looked without it passed
without comment. Juliana's daggers might well have been broadswords instead of
dragon teeth for all the notice the Acardian took.

"I knew magic was real," Tomas said in a
breathless whisper, "but not
this
real."

"This is wonderful," Abbiley said.
"We're going flying on a ship?"

"Indeed," Kyrus confirmed. "Come on.
Time to take you home."

A breeze lazed over a sheltered cove, bragging of
the places it had been; it held the scent of spices from Feru Maru, and the
silks and gold of Khesh. Traces of Acardian ale and Takalish black powder mixed
in among even subtler aromas of wheat fields and wildflowers. A bloodhound
might have picked out such nuance, but to the sailors of the
Fair Trader
,
it stank of nothing but fish and salt.

The cove was little more than a divot in a misshapen
piece of rock that jutted into the Katamic. It was unnamed and marked on maps
only as a hazard. Its barren crags were too steep even to land a boat on. Its
only redeeming features were shelter from view on three sides, and a draft deep
enough to anchor safely.

Denrik Zayne stood on the quarterdeck, hands clasped
behind his back, staring out over the Katamic. It was their third—and last—day
of waiting. Before the sun set and made the leaving treacherous, they would be
on their way once more, to stalk the trade lanes and take their plunder where
they found it. Come the first of Hearthwatch they would take respite in another
hideaway, enact repairs, and wait once more for the
Merciful
to find
them.

Denrik's days passed slowly of late, but his nights
were gone in the closing of his eyes and the opening of them again. Sleep took
him, and it seemed morning came instantly. He had not been aware of Jinzan for
a long while, neither seeing his exploits nor remembering them after the fact.
Last he remembered, he was sitting in a dank, moldy crypt, reading volumes on
necromancy left by Loramar. After that, things grew hazy, then non-existent.

"Ship on the horizon!" the lookout called
down from the crow's nest. Denrik's eyes had grown old. Though he stared out at
that same horizon, he saw nothing, nor did he acknowledge the lookout.

The sky was like an overfilled tankard, a tarnished
pewter grey, likely to spill at any moment. Denrik wondered which would arrive
first—the ship or the storm.

"Mr. Holyoake, prepare one of the guns. Fire a
shot," Denrik ordered.

"Aye, Cap'n," Holyoake replied smartly.
Denrik heard his mate disappear belowdecks, and start bellowing orders of his
own.

Kthooom
.

Denrik felt the familiar old jolt through the decks
as the cannon fired. On even the best of days, only the sharpest and luckiest
of eyes catch sight of a cannonball in flight. Denrik saw nothing of their shot
until it splashed in the water, well clear of the approaching vessel.

Denrik waited.

Kthooom
.
Kthooom
.
Kthooom
.
Kthooom
.

By the sound, every gun on the approaching ship had
fired at once. Denrik smiled, the first genuine smile he could recall since ...
he could not recall that either. He shook his head at his friend Stalyart's
wasteful and dramatic style.

When the
Merciful
finally pulled alongside
the
Fair Trader
, Stalyart was the first across, leaping the gap between
ships even before the gangplanks had been laid across.

"Captain Zayne!" Stalyart exclaimed, loud
enough that the crews of both ships could hear. "We have the best of
newses for you!" He swept his arm to the deck of his ship, and Denrik saw
a slip of a boy standing among the ruffians. He was the very image of Anzik,
allowing for a shorter cut of hair and a gallon or so less meat on him.

"His name?" Denrik muttered through closed
lips.

"Jadon, Captain," Stalyart replied,
leaning close.

"Welcome aboard, Jadon," Denrik called
across to his son.

The boy said nothing, which gave Denrik not the
least cause for surprise. Jadon seemed to understand, at least, what was
expected of him. He stood at the end of the gangplank, peering down into the
dark waters below.

"Come on," a grating voice interjected.
"I've got ya."

Tanner scooped the boy up and set him on a shoulder.
He crossed the gangplank with Jadon riding a hero's salute. Crews from both
ships cheered. Tanner slid the boy down from his shoulder right in front of
Denrik.

"Hullo, Father," Jadon said, looking up at
him with a neutral expression. It was an improvement over the utterly blank one
he was accustomed to seeing on Anzik's face.

"You know who I am, then?" Denrik asked.
He gave the boy a shrewd look. A child twinborn was an iffy thing. He needed to
know how well the boy understood what the worlds really were.

"Of course, Councilor," Jadon said.
"Sorry. Captain, I mean." The boy gave him a wink that looked like he
had caught a fly in his eye.

"Let us adjourn to my cabin," Denrik said
quietly. To the rest of the crew he shouted: "Break out the rum!"  A
cheer went up from both ships, and the four of them slipped quietly to the
captain's quarters.

The door closed behind them. "Mr. Tanner,"
Denrik said, "you have far exceeded my dismal expectations of you."

"This mean you're gonna make good?" Tanner
asked.

"Of course. A pirate's word needs to carry
weight. Then again, we never agreed on a price ..."

"Tanner was most helpful," Stalyart
vouched. "We could not have been successful without his clever
plans."

"How clever were they?" Denrik asked. He
pulled a chair out and got Jadon to sit in it.

"I had Anzik help us out," Tanner replied.
"He was a spy right with 'em. My folk, the rotter of a magican and my best
lad, weren't talking about it Veydrus side. I went sideways 'round 'em."
Tanner leaned his chair back against the wall and smirked.

"What became of the kidnappers?"

Tanners smirk dissolved. "Ain't no more, at
least on this side."

"We had intended to spare the life of Tanner's
friend, but our rescue became a test of swords in the dark," Stalyart
said, hands spread wide. "I prevailed. The magician used real magic to
disappear, but Tanner saw his footprints in the snow and shot him as he
ran."

"Snow? How far north had you gone?" Denrik
asked.

"Hey, time for tales later," Tanner
interrupted. "I know what I want for payment."

Denrik set his jaw, prepared to hear whatever
outrageous demand the coinblade made before deciding to gut him and toss him
overboard.

"I want a ship," Tanner said, "and a
crew."

Denrik burst out laughing. "After all your
bellyaching, you have decided to go into piracy after all?"

"Nah, I don't want a fancy ship like this. I
want something built for cargo," Tanner explained. "And I want that
ship off limits to you and any pirate who pays his tributes to you. I think
I've about worn out the coinblade path; the grass is gone and the ruts are
about knee deep. I've got coin enough now, I think, that it's cheaper buying
more coin than it is working for it."

"Hah," Denrik replied. "You, a
merchant!"

Tanner nodded.

"Deal," Denrik said. "I have nothing
on hand right now, but we'll find you a ship and a crew fit for her. You can
remain aboard until then."

"You're not like other Father," Jadon
said. Denrik had almost forgotten the boy was there—as Jinzan so often had with
Anzik. He had only one son now, he knew, and he vowed not to make the same mistakes
as Jinzan had.

"No," Stalyart said with a smile and a
suppressed laugh. "He is not."

"What news from the other side?" Denrik
asked.

"Rumors, but none of them happy," Stalyart
said. "There was a battle so fierce it was felt in the aether even in Ghelk.
Kadris and the royal palace are in ruins; Brannis and Rashan Solaran are
missing, presumed dead."

"None of that sounds bad to me," Denrik
joked.

"Lon Mai, as well, was destroyed by Rashan
Solaran," Stalyart said.

Denrik's face fell. "Jadon, is Anzik well?"
he asked the boy.

Jadon nodded.

Denrik breathed a sigh of relief.

"I saved them," Jadon said.

"Saved who?"

"Mother, and Aunt Nakah, and Aunt Zaischelle,
and the new baby, and—"

"They're all alive?" Denrik asked.
"Everyone survived when Rashan attacked?"

"Well, you were dead and you left anyway, so
someone had to. He was too strong, so I just hid us all with my magic."

"I
was
dead?" Denrik asked,
catching the curious turn of phrase in Jadon's explanation.

"Well, you were like the dog: dead but still
moving. I didn't say anything, because I figured you knew it was wrong. I
didn't want you to get in trouble."

"I ... I was dead ... wasn't I?" Denrik
looked at Jadon, an empty certainty nestling inside him. The loss of Jinzan in
his dreams made perfect sense.

Jadon nodded.

* * * * * * *
*

All
across northern Khesh, tiny caches were unearthed. Little pockets of wealth and
keepsake trinkets were excavated from walls and floors, pried from beneath
boulders, and dug up from remote landmarks. The very soil of Khesh was made
poorer by the efforts, its hidden treasures stripped from its safekeeping and
returned to, in most cases, someone other than their rightful owner, but in all
cases to the same person who had hidden them away, or at least to her twin.

* * * * * * *
*

Celia loomed over the seated Emperor Sommick,
fussing with the collar of his regalia. There had been a whole gaggle of
servants busying themselves about him, but none had done it the way Celia had
wanted; she shooed them all away.

"What if I misspeak some portion of it?"
Emperor Sommick whispered. "If I offend anyone, we might end up with civil
war."

"Nonsense," Celia whispered in reply.
"You know the whole plan back to front. No playing the spoiled fop now.
It's been nearly a season; if we don't settle things soon, it will be worse
than leaving it to chance. Nobles will gobble up unclaimed lands and hold them
like misers' coin."

"Yes, but the finer points—the names, the
cities, the ... the names ..." Emperor Sommick said. His gaze drifted.

Celia took Emperor Sommick's face between her two
hands and turned him to look up into her eyes. It was hard enough holding the
man's attention when she was not wearing a low-cut gown, but she had that to
deal with as well.

"Listen to me. If you want me to handle this, I
will. Is that what you want?" she asked. A pleading look answered her
before any words were spoken.

"Yes," Emperor Sommick answered.

"Fine. That means I go out first," Celia
said. Emperor Sommick nodded. She patted him on the cheek, checked to make sure
she had not mussed his hair, and set the crown a trifle straighter atop his
skull.

Celia snapped her fingers, and an attendant took the
signal that they were ready. Celia walked out into the audience chamber—a
portion of the palace that had not been reduced to rubble and scorched rock by
Kyrus and Rashan's battle.

Varnus saw them approach, and gave a tiny frown.
Celia's subtle hardening of her glare was all the counter argument it took for
the guard captain to understand.

"May I present Her Highness, Empress Celia, and
His Highness, Emperor Sommick, first of his name," Varnus called out.
Everyone in the audience hall fell to a knee, save two: Varnus himself, and
Axterion, who by common accord would involve himself in no activity likely to
kill a man of one hundred and forty-two summers age. This category included
unnecessary bending, kneeling, and hurrying of any sort. He gave a curt nod as
a stand-in.

Celia sat down in the higher of the two thrones. She
was clad in a scarlet gown that dipped low around the neck and stretched tight
across her stomach. It was intended to accentuate, not hide, the early signs
that she was carrying the imperial heir. The crown on her head matched Emperor
Sommick's in style, but with gentler curves and less prominent jewels. It also
fit far more comfortably on her head, and not for reasons of size or shape.

The aftermath of the first attempt at an imperial
wedding left the governance of the empire in shambles. Celia's quick thinking
had not only saved the emperor, it had left her as one of the few in any
position to wed him. Sommick had lobbied for a sorceress bride initially, and
with all who had objected now removed, he had taken Celia as both empress and
confidante. No longer did he have the vague threats and hints of advisors leading
him by the leash; instead he had a proper wife to do it, her motives at least
co-mingling with his own.

The list of petitioners in Varnus's hand dangled
from shoulder to floor. Each had their turn before Empress Celia (though most
had come expecting the more jovial Sommick to hear their entreaties). Noble
succession, inheritance, transfers of debt and lien, petitions for reparations,
pleas for aid in rebuilding this ruined city or that burned out village, Celia
heard them all and passed judgment. All her decisions had been made in advance;
written petitions had been submitted prior to the audience. Sommick knew and
agreed with all of her pronouncements, and had even memorized them as best he
could. Celia had been willing to let him sit in the high throne, and act the
proper emperor, but she was seeing more each day that he was going to defer to
her.