Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (2 page)

Taran reveled in its glory. This was as much a part of him as his arms or legs, yet he could never have used the wondrous gift without his father’s years of instruction. Metaforce was present in everyone, though only Artesans could learn its control. Taran’s lessons with his Adept-elite father might not have been pleasant—Amanus was neither a natural nor a sympathetic teacher—but his yearning to expand his knowledge was overwhelming. The same need was driving him to attempt this risky trip.

Once his entire body was attuned to the power, Taran turned his attention to Cal. The young man was inexperienced; he was only just starting to learn about metaforce and could only influence Earth. He was strong, though; Taran could sense his fledgling power rushing through his veins.

Reaching out with his psyche, Taran melded it to Cal’s, feeling his Apprentice surrender control. He raised his arms, palms downward, and sent his metasenses deep into the rock, searching for the Earth’s elemental signature.

Within minutes, a familiar, thrilling tingle shot through Taran as the primal element responded. Slow, majestic, immeasurably powerful, the energy of Earth rose at his call, filling the bowl at his feet.

He glanced at Cal but the Apprentice’s eyes were fixed on the ground. Cal was mesmerized and Taran understood why. Like a creeping mist, the Earth force lapped about their feet, rising at Taran’s command.

Beads of sweat rose on his forehead and his breathing deepened. Journeyman he might be, but this still wasn’t easy. He had to maintain a steady pull or his efforts would be wasted.

When he sensed he’d reached his limit, Taran turned his attention to shaping. With Cal’s energy boosting his own, he molded the Earth force until the characteristic spherical shape of a portway began to form. It rose until it was floating, a ball of Earth force just larger than a man, shimmering with opalescent beauty. When it was complete, Taran anchored it, fixing it within the Veils, the substance that separated each of the five Realms.

All it needed to become a gateway through the Veils was the force of an Artesan’s will. One simple command and it would open, allowing Taran access to the Fifth Realm.

A small sigh of relief escaped him. This time, after months of frustrating failures, his Artesan powers hadn’t let him down. He released his hold on the element of Earth and let the power drain from his psyche back into the rock beneath his feet.

Glancing at Cal, he grinned. “This is it.”

Cal didn’t return the grin. Instead, he once more eyed the sword at Taran’s waist. “Even with me guarding the portway, this is going to be dangerous. What if you don’t win the challenge? What if you’re wounded?”

Irritation rose, yet Taran knew Cal’s concerns were real. Ever since he’d found the passage in his father’s notes that had spawned this plan, Cal had been against it. Artesans might be mistrusted in Albia—to the point that the craft was dying—but they were revered in Andaryon, the Fifth Realm. Andaryans were known for their love of dueling, yet, despite their warlike nature and distressing habit of raiding vulnerable Albian villages, they had strict codes governing such duels. The notes had suggested that if Taran challenged an Andaryan Artesan and won, or even forced a draw, he could name any prize he chose. Knowledge would be Taran’s choice and once the possibility of achieving his dream had arisen, he simply couldn’t ignore it.

Still, the risks were real.

“It’s a chance I’ll have to take. Stop worrying. I have faith in my skills, even if you don’t.”

Cal’s face fell and Taran immediately regretted his words.

“Besides, Rienne will patch me up if I’m careless enough to get wounded.”

He’d intended to reassure, but mentioning Cal’s lover only seemed to make things worse. The Apprentice frowned and glanced up at the ceiling.

“Do you think she’ll be alright on her own?”

Taran smiled. “Of course she will. Why shouldn’t she be?”

“But what if one of the villagers calls? What if someone wants you?”

“I think that’s highly unlikely, Cal. They try to keep out of my way as much as I try to keep out of theirs. I’ve no desire to be thrown out of the village for practicing ‘unnatural acts’. And since you brought it up, make sure you don’t make any noise down here. You know how suspicious they are … ”

“What if one of them falls sick? They might come looking for medicine...”

That was a real possibility, thought Taran. He blessed the day a year ago when Rienne came to the village, a traveling healer dispensing cures. Her extraordinary skills had made her instantly popular and when she’d fallen for Cal’s dark good looks and decided to stay, she’d brought the respectability that Taran had never enjoyed. He and his father had only ever been tolerated in Hyecombe, but with Rienne in the house, his neighbors were forced to be at least civil. They might avoid speaking to him and Cal, but they braved his door for Rienne.

“She knows what to do,” he said. “And if any of them get curious, she can tell them we’ve got the flux. That’ll silence their questions.”

He gave his Apprentice another smile. “I won’t be gone long. This is only the bargaining stage, so I’ll be back before you’ve had time to miss me. Just stay alert. The portway’s my lifeline and I’m relying on you to keep it safe.”

Turning away from Cal’s doubts, Taran faced the portway. It was the smallest, tightest structure he could form and it was firmly anchored. There was nothing else to wait for.

He picked up his pack, checking he had everything. He wasn’t taking much. The blade his father had given him, some food, and his bedroll. They should be enough to see him through this enterprise, along with the skills of his arm. And they should be more than adequate, for every Albian male learned how to use a sword. Taran was no exception and he was more than competent. It was time to put his training to use.

He nodded to Cal and drew a deep breath.

Stepping into the portway, he left the cellar behind.

The deep bass drone of Earth power clung to Taran like a cloak as he pushed his way through the portway. His ears were ringing by the time he emerged, stepping abruptly into the blinding light of a small white sun.

He squinted against the glare and gasped. The air was uncomfortably hot. The five realms might exist within the bounds of the same world but each was completely separate. While it was midday in the Fourth Realm, Albia, and early autumn, here it was nearer to evening and clearly still summer hot.

Taran turned, checking the portway was still stable. It looked vague, faded by the sun’s glare. He could feel Cal’s power within the structure, though, and was reassured. His Apprentice was in control.

Taran turned his back on it and gazed around.

A wide landscape shrouded in heat haze confronted him and he swore. The Andaryan end of the portway had opened into a range of hills rather than cultivated lands, and he cursed his bad luck. If only he had the ability to control the portway’s opening. Although, if he had possessed such skill, he reflected, he wouldn’t have needed to risk this venture. And anyway, he had no detailed knowledge of the Fifth Realm, no idea where its people might be found.

The harsh, low scrub covering the hills was baked brittle and there was little shade. Taran gathered his thoughts, wondering which direction to take.

Everything he knew of the Fifth Realm had come from his father’s notes. Amanus hadn’t thought much of his son’s talents and had never brought him to this warlike realm. Any direction was a gamble and Taran supposed that was appropriate. After all, this whole plan was a gamble.

Choosing a westerly direction, he moved away from the portway. As he walked, he carefully committed his route to memory. His metasenses would guide him back but it always helped to have landmarks. This was his final chance, the last thing he could think of. Either he made the best of it or resigned himself to never increasing his knowledge.

He shuddered; the thought was too dreadful.

As he trudged through the hills, both the heat and his frustration made him sweat. There wasn’t a single sign of habitation. Not a footprint, nor a wreath of smoke, nor a sound to lead him to people. He began to pant as he struggled up yet another low hill, shading his eyes against the rapidly setting sun. Again he cursed—all he could see was heat haze.

He closed his eyes, feeling a stray wisp of evening breeze touch the damp hair on his neck. Turning to face it, he welcomed its coolness. When he opened his eyes again he stared at a dark line stretching to his left that could only be trees. He considered it before making up his mind. Even if the forest was as empty as the hills, at least it promised shelter from tomorrow’s heat.

Hitching his pack higher and gritting his teeth, Taran made for the trees.

By the time he emerged from the hills, it was nearly dark. The forest had lured him and he had hoped to reach it before nightfall. Now he saw that although the hills ended sooner than he had thought, the distance had been deceptive, for the trees were actually farther away than they seemed. It would be folly to go on in darkness. Much safer to camp in this shrubby little copse, he thought, and make for the forest in daylight.

Weary, he dropped his pack to the ground. He lit a fire but the surrounding scrub was tinder-dry, so he shielded the meager flame well. Once he had eaten, he stamped it out; he had his blanket and wouldn’t risk a brush fire. Warmly wrapped against the night chill he could already feel, he stretched out on the ground. As he closed his eyes, he accessed his psyche, surrounding himself with power. Bringing Cal’s pattern to mind, he sent his Apprentice a call.

Cal answered immediately, reassuring Taran with his watchfulness. Not that Taran distrusted him, but the younger man was far less experienced than even Taran, and his strength was being drained by the effort of maintaining the portway.

Once Taran was satisfied that Cal was in control, he broke the link. Before settling to sleep, he drew power through his psyche once more. Attuning it to the element of Earth, he cast tendrils of power into the ground, trusting them to wake him should he be approached in the night.

As weariness claimed him, despondency rose. He had the most depressing feeling that this venture was doomed to failure, just like all the rest.

The cell door crashed against the wall as Sonten flung it open. His nephew jumped and let out a curse. Sonten grinned. The boy should have been expecting him; he’d have to control his reactions better than this. After all, Jaskin would have far worse than his uncle’s wrath to face if their plan failed.

Impatiently, he waited while Jaskin calmed. The boy’s hands were resting on a strange metal object lying on the table before him. The sight of it made Sonten’s obese frame quiver with tension. His fat fingers gripped the door jamb and his voice rasped in the chilly gloom.

“Well, boy, have you finally done it? Can you use the damned thing?”

It galled Sonten that his Artesan powers were so feeble. He hated needing Jaskin’s greater skills to make his plan work. Even this step had taken many secret days to achieve. Thank the gods the boy was still young enough to be manipulated.