Sourcethief (Book 3) (60 page)

Such power I now wield. The
Kadrin Empire is a gutted shell, but I can oversee its rebirth.
Part of that rebirth involved
the apportionment of unclaimed lands, lands whose noble custodians had been
wiped out by Kyrus and Rashan.
Brannis, I must remember
. Celia knew that
Brannis was alive and well in some other world. Kyrus—if he lived—was the
murderous traitor.

"Next petitioner is Sir Tod Hellet,"
Varnus announced.

Tod stepped forward and knelt to the royal couple.
He was wearing a doublet bearing the Hellet family crest—a recent invention to
be certain. It depicted a golden owl on a purple diamond. Ostensibly the owl
was a sign of wisdom, but more accurately it was a silent, nocturnal predator.
He had a sword at his hip, of the kind an aspiring noble would be expected to
carry. It was jeweled and lightweight, fit only for dueling an unarmored
opponent or for wearing as decoration.

"Sir Tod, you are granted hereditary rights to
Reaver's Crossing and the surrounding lands," Empress Celia proclaimed.
"In keeping with the standing of this holding, you are awarded the title
of Lord Hellet. Your services to the Kadrin Empire are well documented in
Warlock Rashan's records, though no official acknowledgment was granted at the
time. Know now, that Lord Hellet was assigned to perform crucial acts of
reconnaissance and sabotage within the borders of Megrenn during the recent
war."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Tod replied,
accepting his ennoblement just as he had been coached, even managing to
suppress his peasant patois for all of four words.

"As you are aware," Empress Celia
continued, "the city of Reaver's Crossing has fallen to Megrenn hands, and
must be reclaimed as part of the empire before you may take residence. The
conquest and rebuilding efforts fall to you."

"Yes, Your Highness. Thank you, Your
Highness."

Tod stood and saluted. Then, with a turn and a fox's
grin, walked back among the crowd to listen to the rest of the petitions. Petty
matters had been swept clear of the proceedings. All that were left were gifts
and promotions.

"Next petitioner is Sir Jodoul Brecht,"
Varnus announced.

Jodoul presented himself in livery he had designed,
despite numerous advisory objections during the process. It was arranged in a
box pattern, the upper left and lower right quadrants bearing a pair of dice,
showing six and one. The upper right bore a gold coin, and the lower left a
skull. If one was tempted to think that Jodoul may have intended to use his
elevated station to make a better man of himself, one was a fool, ignorant of
both the man and nobles in general.

"Sir Jodoul, you are granted hereditary rights
to Munne, and the surrounding lands," Empress Celia announced. "In
keeping with the standing of this holding, you are awarded the title of Lord
Brecht. Your service to the Kadrin Empire coincided with that of Lord Hellet,
and you served with equal distinction. Many battles were won that otherwise we
may have lost, based on the intelligence you gathered."

"Thanks, Highness," Jodoul replied, giving
the empress a wink. Celia set her jaw and pretended not to notice.

"The city of Munne suffered greatly under the
Megrenn occupation. The task of restoring it to its prior glory falls to
you," Empress Celia said.

"Won't be a problem, Empress Celia,"
Jodoul assured her. "I know a thing or two about how cities run. I'll have
her back and whistlin'
The Fishwife's Welcome
again in a summer or
two." Celia was less than familiar with tavern songs, but did not
appreciate the gist of the allusion.

The idea had been to fill the noble ranks with
biddable fools who had plausible ties to Warlock Rashan's hidden schemes. Celia
had taken many of the warlock's notes herself, so forging false heroics had
been an act of an afternoon's scribbling.

When Lord Brecht was cleared from the audience
chamber, she proceeded to bestow the city of Reislor to the newly ennobled Lord
Aelon Beff, and Illard's Glen to Lord Sanbin Colvern. She had considered
commissioning the dragonsmith as imperial armorer and swordsmith, but he served
her better as a lord than a small pile of runed blades ever would.

The final pronouncement to the audience was not hers
to give. She nodded to Captain Varnus.

"High Sorcerer Axterion Solaran, if you would
step forward please," Varnus announced. "This final decree is your
domain."

"Aye, indeed," Axterion grumbled in reply.
His steps came haltingly, aided by a sliver-tipped cane. It was not so much
that he needed the aid, but rather that he spent more time on his feet of late,
and preferred to spread the aches out, rather than hoard them all in his lower
joints.

When he had ascended to stand next to the imperial
thrones, Axterion swept the chamber with a rheumy gaze, as much for show as
anything since his eyes saw little. He looked more his part as high sorcerer
than Celia thought she did as empress. He had not held the position since
before she was born, but he knew it backward and front.

"Today's final petitioner is Danilaesis
Solaran," Varnus called out.

Curious mutters pervaded the hall. Rumors about the
boy warlock had spread throughout Kadris and much of the southern empire. With
Warlock Rashan's disappearance, there was great comfort in the fact that there
might be an heir to the empire's defense, when so much of the world had so
recently sought their destruction.

Danilaesis wore all black, in the style of the
Imperial Circle that he had yet to officially join. Across his back was the
sheathed
Sleeping Dragon
, as tall as he was. There had been attempts by
various adult sorcerers to reclaim the blade from him, but none was willing to
go so far as to try to take it from him by force.

Danilaesis walked up and stood at the base of the
steps to the thrones. He stared up, glancing back and forth between Empress
Celia and Axterion, sparing just a quick sidelong look at Emperor Sommick.
Celia noticed Axterion waggling his eyebrows furiously at the boy and giving
stern glances toward the floor, but the boy persisted in standing, either
oblivious or willful.

"High Sorcerer— " Celia prompted, too
weary from the long audience to prolong it over protocol in regards to a boy of
eight summers.

Axterion cleared his throat. "Danilaesis
Solaran, you have shown both power and valor in your service to the empire. You
have proven to the satisfaction of both General Chadreisson and myself that you
are capable of handling the mental rigors of magical battle. As such, you are
acknowledged as a provisional warlock of the empire."

"Provisional? What's that mean?" Danilaesis
asked, his little brow knit in a mixture of consternation and the sense that he
had just been denied the proper title of warlock.

"It means that while you have the power and
nervous fortitude to be warlock one day, you lack wisdom and experience. Your
rashness in securing your own ship was excused only insomuch as you were so
successful with it. I cannot condone a warlock acting on such rash impulses
with regularity," Axterion explained, his tone borrowed from high
sorcerers a thousand winters dead and handed down one to the next ever since.

"But when will I—"

"You will attend the Academy, as you were
always meant to. There you will learn the finer details of magic, to fill in
the gaps between your rather disturbing adeptness with spells that a lad twice
your age should never have learned a word of. You will participate in Ranking
Day starting with your first year, and you will be paired against the winner of
each age in turn. Your title of Provisional Warlock will be contingent on
coming out atop the rankings each year."

"Hey, that's not—"

"No, it is not fair," Axterion said.
"You can go about killing men thrice your age, and stand against sorcerers
eightfold your age, but I will not put the safety of the Kadrin Empire at the
whim of an overly incautious boy, no matter his talent. Warlocks died young, as
a rule, and we have just seen what became of the exception. If I have my say,
you will walk a better path.

"Dismissed," Axterion said, an edge in his
voice brooking no argument. Even Celia, sitting safely outside his gaze, felt a
shudder through her. The ancient sorcerer wrapped authority around him like an
old cloak—the sort with dried reddish stains belonging to old foes.

* * * * * * *
*

There was an island in the southern part of Khesh
that few visited. It was a little sliver of land in the middle of a lake that
looked like the slit in a dragon's eye—or a cat's, if your civilization was the
sort that thought dragons were mere myth. Too small to settle and devoid of
mineral riches, it was given over to the trees. Hidden among those trees was a
pair of stone markers, carved of granite, adorned with runes that would outlast
mountains.

Upon those markers, side by side, were carved two
simple inscriptions:

BrannisSoria

There was no force on Tellurak that could disturb
either the markers or the bodies laid to rest beneath them, nor would there be
unless the ancient gods returned.

* * * * * * *
*

Illiardra sat in her home, lost in thought, eyes and
her sense of the aether closed. The universe had been disturbed. Seasons would
not be long enough to calm the sense of unease she felt since the final clash
between Kyrus and Rashan. The mortal's decision to tempt fate in the deep
aether rather than accept his loss had shaken her; she should have foreseen the
possibility.

It was such a slim hope, to trade at least two
hundred summers' life ahead for the faintest whisper of a chance at
immortality. He had so much to live for ...

"So, it's over," a voice called, snapping
Illiardra from her reveries. She looked up and saw a face she had never
expected to see again. Coal black skin and a gleaming smile looked back at her.
He looked Safschan, but was not—he predated the founding of that land, and most
of the various kingdoms, empires, and city-states that had preceded it. "I
suppose patience prevails once more."

"Bvatrain!" Illiardra exclaimed. "I
thought you were dead." Few things could surprise her, she thought, but
fate had just delivered a dissenting opinion.

"Of course you did," Bvatrain replied,
smirking. He eased himself down into a seat next to Illiardra, and put an arm
around her. Illiardra was having no such half measure, and threw her arms
around the demon. She wept openly onto his chest.

"Rashan killed you. We were convinced, but
could not prove it," Illiardra said, voice trembling.

"He would have, I was convinced," Bvatrain
replied. "But I was not willing to get myself killed to prove it." He
pulled Illiardra close, and stroked her long ears, smoothed her wild hair.

"Did Xizix know?" Illiardra asked. She was
ready to be furious with the reclusive ruler of Azzat.

"No. No, I merely seeded his thoughts with my
concerns over Rashan and his jealousy. I could trust no one with the secret,
until Rashan was dead," Bvatrain replied. "Can you forgive me?"

Illiardra said nothing, but her lips reached up for
his, and she pulled him down atop her.

Winter sneaks into Acardia in mid-autumn, somewhere
around the turn of Greywatch, and digs its talons deep. By Hearthwatch,
sensible folk huddle indoors at night and venture out in daylight only with
pressing business and three layers of clothing between them and the winds. Each
year there is a vain effort made to keep the streets swept clear of snow, but
Acardian doors open inward with good reason: each year, the snows win, and
would otherwise trap all of Acardia indoors until spring.

Common folklore tells that there is a certain magic
to weddings. In the case of one particular wedding, it was more overtly true
than was typical. The sky above it was a steel grey of clouds that had
forgotten to look puffy and instead had squeezed together so tightly that no
space could be found between them—that of itself was not unusual, nor was the
light snow that drifted from them. What was positively unprecedented was that a
large gathering was taking place outdoors beneath those clouds, and not a
single guest could honestly have said they were chilled. The grasses were green
and flecked with droplets of freshly melted snowflakes, and the hedges smelled
of being recently trimmed.

The guests sorted themselves onto two sides of an
aisle between rows of white-painted benches. To the left side, the wealth and
power of Acardian nobility was on full display. Lords, dukes and earls,
merchant tradesmen, politicians, magistrates and scholars—many belonging to
more than one of these groups—sat with wives and daughters adorned in silks and
jewels. Even in a kingdom so dedicated to social progress, the Acardian upper
class still shone brighter than the lesser stars below them. They had turned
out at the behest of Lord Dunston Harwick, a man well respected throughout
Acardia for his wisdom—and for his close association with King Gorden, though
fewer claimed this as their reason.

To the right of the aisle, there sat the brick and
mortar of Scar Harbor—the butchers and drovers, the dockworkers, the shop
assistants, the seamstresses, and those of indeterminate profession. These
guests awaited the ceremony with less dignity and more open joy than their
social betters. They gossiped and joked, smiled and shook hands, and gave every
impression that they were adept at the skill of living life.

Kyrus stood before them all, dressed in a tunic of
muted midnight blue, dark enough to be somber without being grim. His hair was
freshly trimmed, his face clean shaven—he even smelled a bit like lavender from
his morning bath. Heavens Cry, his stolen prize, was belted on his hip merely
as decoration.

His glance met Juliana's. She stood not three paces
away, and could not help but look around her. She wore a strapless gown that
matched the color of his tunic, cut demurely just below her collarbone, with
silken gloves to match. Her gown brushed the grass, hiding from all but Kyrus
the knowledge that her feet were bare beneath. There was some jest at play which
she had not explained, but Kyrus took it for the whimsy it appeared to be. Her
hair shone like firelight reflected on brass, and she wore it curled into a
swirling knot atop the back of her head, pinned in place with a pair of wooden
skewers.

This is all so peculiar
, Juliana's thought traversed the
space to Kyrus's mind.

Of course it is
, he replied in kind,
it's
Hearthwatch two paces above our heads, and you've got snowflakes melting on
your eyelashes.

And no one is saying anything
about it,
she
added.

The magic of the day, I suppose
, Kyrus replied, a sly smile
accompanying the thought.

A woodwind quartet played the opening bars of
The
Wedded Mystery
, a song so old no one knew the composer, and both sides of
the aisle settled themselves for the ceremony. Kyrus straightened himself, and
tried to hide the fact of his wandering thoughts from the audience. He turned
his attention back to the two-tiered podium to his left, and the figures
standing upon it.

Tomas was dressed in a style that had gone out of
fashion before Agga's time. He wore a long-tailed green coat with sleeves that
stopped before the elbow, with white sleeves of a thinner fabric beneath. He
had on matching knee-length trousers and hose as well, tucked down into low
boots with buckles on them. A short-brimmed black hat with a turkey feather
stuck in the band completed the ensemble. In any other venue, he would have
been laughed at, but on his wedding day, no one would have expected him to be
dressed otherwise.

Tomas stood on the lower tier of the podium, which
only brought him just a bit taller than Kyrus. The upper tier of the podium
belonged to King Gorden. While the elderly monarch was frail and looked emptied
of most of what had once resided within him in youth, the podium still had the
privilege of bearing his royal gravitas. The egalitarian king had eschewed his
more humble garments for the day, and looked the part of king from boots to
crown.

The crowd squirmed and twisted about in their seats,
and Kyrus turned to follow their gazes as everyone watched Abbiley approach.
Her guileless grin spoke of wonderment, showing off pure white teeth with a bit
of a gap in the middle. Her dress toed the master seamstress's line between
immodest and stunning with a corseted bodice that just covered enough of her
bosom to avoid scandal. The skirt of the dress flared out like a bell and ended
just below her knees, showing off a petite pair of bare feet as she strolled
through the wet grass. She wore a circlet of white roses in her unbound hair.
Having no father to escort her, her brother Neelan took her by the arm, and
seemed to be going to great lengths not to look at her.

Bare feet? Whose idea was that, I
wonder
, Kyrus
remarked.

I see you staring
, Juliana shot back.
If Tomas
happened to keel over, she'd be yours, you know.

I'm his second, not his
Oathkeeper. It doesn't work like that in Acardia
, Kyrus explained.
I just hold
the rings. If Tomas died before the end of the ceremony, there would be a
scandal, a panic, and no wedding at all
.

Is that all that's stopping you?
Juliana asked.

Be nice. She asked you to be her
second; it's an honor
,
Kyrus scolded her.

I was nice. I helped her clean up
those teeth a bit before she spent a whole day smiling at everyone
, Juliana replied.

Their silent argument ended when Abbiley was finally
brought to the podium and stepped up opposite Tomas. Her eyes were fixed on
Tomas. To look at her, you could never have guessed that a hundred and more
folk had their eyes fixed upon her, nor that she had the sole attention of her
king. Tomas appeared to have his wits a bit more sorted, but still stood
beaming like a lighthouse.

King Gorden began a longwinded speech—pontificating
being a privilege that extended beyond academia to include monarchs as well. He
spoke of marriage in general, and the social necessity of good families. He
waxed poetic on the subject of love and how greatly he missed Queen Wendra. He
rambled on a tangent about societal progress that seemed to go rather far
afield from wedding invocations before he brought it back to course by telling
Tomas and Abbiley of the world they would help shepherd in. Royal rhetoric
aside, there were common elements that all Acardians knew to expect in their
due time.

"Tomas Harwick," King Gorden spoke.
"Son of my friend, Dunston Harwick, and scion of House Harwick, your
family has served the Acardian people for over thirty generations. I see before
me that you would begin a new generation of the Harwick family, and seek my
blessing."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Tomas replied, bowing
his head.

"This maiden I see before me, Abbiley Tillman,
is this the woman you would take for a wife?" King Gorden asked.

"She is, Your Majesty."

"Do you swear, upon your honor, to love and
protect her, to think of her before yourself, to stand by her until the end of
your years?"

"I do, Your Majesty," Tomas replied.

Kyrus had only been to two weddings before, but to
keep hearing "Your Majesty" after each response sounded odd.

"Abbiley Tillman," King Gorden spoke.
"Daughter of the Acardian people and fairest blossom I see before me, you
have heard this man, Tomas Harwick, declare his intent to marry. I see you
standing before me, prepared to bear a new generation of the Harwick family,
and seeking my blessing."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Abbiley replied.
Kyrus wished that he had rigged up a runed speaking circle so that the guests
might hear. Her voice had disappeared down within her; he doubted that few
besides himself, Juliana, and Tomas had overheard.

"Do you swear, upon your honor, to love and
care for him, to think of him before yourself, and to stand by him until the
end of your years?"

"I do, Your Majesty," Abbiley replied,
this time loud enough for all to hear, as if she had realized—no, as if someone
had
pointed out
her prior shyness. Looking closely, he spotted the
tendril of aether between Abbiley and Juliana.

Kyrus shot a covert glare across at Juliana, and was
met with rolled eyes.

"The rings?" King Gorden asked in lowered
tones. Kyrus realized the king meant him. He fumbled quickly in his pocket and
found cold metal. He fished it out and slipped it into Tomas's waiting hand.
They were a pair of gold rings, held fast to one another by a tacky substance.

It took a moment, but Abbiley and Tomas managed to
slide the rings over a finger each, binding their hands lightly together.

"Two hearts join today," King Gorden
pronounced. An attendant pressed a pitcher into his waiting hand. "Though
they may part in body, ever shall the bond remain." King Gorden poured the
pitcher over their joined hands, and a trickle of wine dissolved the tacky gum
that had kept their rings conjoined.

The newlyweds kissed, and the gathered guests
erupted in applause.

* * * * * * *
*

The feasting and drinking lasted the rest of the
day. Kyrus's pardon and newly granted knighthood might have made him acceptable
in social circles, but it did not make him feel any more a part of the
merriment.

Davin and Grueder were both among the guests, and
Kyrus spent most of the afternoon and evening conversing with them. There had
been so much he wished to tell them, and so little that he felt he could. They
were friends still, but more as memories of a former life, and even they seemed
more real than the throngs of nameless familiar faces from Scar Harbor and
total strangers from the far flung noble holdings about Acardia.

King Gorden knew of the twinborn, and of magic in
the general sense. Tomas and Abbiley had learned some of their secret by a
mixture of accident and polite necessity. Lord Harwick was the only one who
understood completely what had befallen when Kyrus and Juliana had returned,
but he was scant company. Caladris's twin was into his cups as soon as the
ceremony ended, and only sank deeper as the night wore on.

Kyrus had at first imagined that they would fly the
Starlit
Marauder
over Scar Harbor and set it down in the middle of Darrow Park.
Folk would have seen them arrive in all their newfound glory, and magic would
be known openly throughout Tellurak as word spread. Juliana had laughed at the
notion, thinking it would be great fun. After all, who could stop them?

The flight back had been quick, but not so quick as
to not allow time for reflection. Kyrus realized he could not bring himself to
shatter the world so many people believed they lived in. He had convinced
Juliana, and the two of them had sworn Tomas and Abbiley to secrecy.

Kyrus shook his head. He sat perched on a banister
overlooking the main foyer of the Harwick Estate. Ash lay in his lap, purring.
His drinking companions had passed out some time ago. Despite mug after mug, he
could not find alcohol enough to intoxicate him. He petted Ash with one hand,
while the other held his mug.

"Had enough?" a voice asked from near his
ear. Juliana was the only one who could still sneak up on him.

Kyrus nodded, slowly at first, but then with growing
conviction.

"I think so." He set his mug down, still
half full, and picked up Ash in his arms. He followed Juliana out through the
remainder of the partygoers in various states of drunkenness. Neither of them
spoke a word as they snuck out through the gardens.

* * * * * * *
*

Scraping and thumps from the spare cabin told Kyrus
that he was not the one delaying their departure. As he studied the interior
hull of the
Starlit Marauder
, new runes appeared, burned in by careful
application of aether. When the last few had been carved, the new system of
wards was complete. It had taken weeks, but he had almost completely
refurbished the ship along a new design. The hull remained the same, but the
runes that controlled it were decentralized, broken into multiple subsystems, each
of which could be empowered separately. With her combined Source, Juliana was
certainly strong enough to refill the aether in any of them.