Sourcethief (Book 3) (15 page)

"I ... I think," Kyrus could not shake the
feeling that Dolvaen might have been right. "Just speak with Caladris. He
already knows your stance, even if you are unsure of his. What risk is there to
you?"

"An afternoon spent with that drunkard,"
Dolvaen muttered.

"If he doubts or troubles you, tell him:
I
know nothing
," Kyrus said, the latter in Acardian. He watched for a
glimmer of understanding, but found none.

"A password of some sort?" Dolvaen asked.

"Something like that," Kyrus replied, his
hopes of finding an alternate twinborn ally fading away.

* * * * * * *
*

The vaulted ceilings of the Solaran dining hall
echoed with the comings and goings of servants, the clatter of silverware, and
the approach of a guest for the lone diner. Three hours past noon was an
unpopular time for a night's meal, but Axterion was wont to being in bed before
the rest of the household took their evening repast. With the whole kitchen
staff at his snap-to, he had his choice of meal and a bit of peace to accompany
it—except for days when he found himself beset by companionship.

"Good afternoon, grandfather," Kyrus
greeted him. The ancient sorcerer turned to regard him as he approached. It was
a reaction Brannis had seldom gotten. Between Axterion's failing eyes and
Brannis's Source being bright as a freshly blown-out candle, the old man had
hardly laid eyes on his grandson. Kyrus shone in the aether well enough that
Axterion could see him approach from out of doors to inside.

"It was. Whether it stays that way remains to
be seen," the old man said, eyeing Kyrus warily as he spooned a mushy
vegetable stew into his mouth.

"I have a matter that Uncle Caladris was unable
to help me with. Have you a few moments?"

"Bah, you have me trapped betwixt an empty
stomach and a full bowl, and you well know it," Axterion observed. He gave
a little grunt for emphasis as he took another bite of stew.

"I have an odd matter to discuss."

"Good. Gets boring about the place. Draw and
cast, my boy."

"I am trying to trace back Warlock Rashan's
whereabouts to before he left the empire. I believe he went away for a while,
shortly before the Battle of the Dead Earth," Kyrus explained.

"Well, makes sense Caladris’s not knowing. At
that time I hadn't put the lad into your grandmother yet," Axterion said,
drawing a shudder from Kyrus at the thought.

"Can you recall the 6177th springtime since the
Founding? That was just prior to the Battle of the Dead Earth, which was on the
37th of that springtime. I am interested in, say, the 10th through the
30th," Kyrus explained. He had no idea how long Rashan might have taken to
get to Acardia, or what other tasks he might have attended to while there.

"I think so. Had a mighty fine time that
springtime, what with the world coming to an end and all. Got a lot of living
done in just a season. Focuses the mind, realizing you're bound for a shambling
eternity of taking orders from Loramar once he gets finished killing you."

"What about Rashan? Do you remember what he was
up to?"

"Looking under the stable-hay for anything to
throw in front of that necromancer's army, best as I can remember. That's about
when he made that sword of his. It worked like a charm, too, if you fancy
killing half the empire's young sorcerers along with everything halfway to the
horizon in every direction that was either living or pretending to."

"Did he go anywhere? Did he take leave? You
were in the Inner Circle back then, were you not? You must have heard if he did."

"Ahh, of course I was," Axterion replied,
latching on to his pick of the questions. "Young for it, too. They knew
what they had on their hands: bold, strong, good head on my shoulders ..."

"But what about Rashan?"

"Seem to remember him going on his knees to
find an ally or two. Not his strongest skill I might add. The stone folk told
him to go bake in the sunlight—fairly certain they find that insulting. Went
looking for the spirits of Podawei Wood too, but if those rumors of forest
spirits ever were true, they weren't anymore."

"Podawei Wood?" Kyrus echoed. Kyrus's mind
went back to the book of prophecies:
Seek a way among the spirits
.

"Aye, but just old spinsters' tales,"
Axterion said. His face twisted into a queer smile and chuckled at something that
had apparently popped into his head. "Look at me calling anything 'old.'
Besides, those forest spirits are all holed up in the deep jungles of Elok, way
off across the sea. No reason for a handful to stay behind, right beneath the
empire's breeches."

"Are you sure he did not find them? It is
Rashan, after all," Kyrus persisted.

"You can talk yourself in circles about that
crusty old sack of lies—and yeah, I can call
him
old—but you have to
trust your judgment. Discount him entirely and you waste knowledge, listen with
open ears and he'll fill your head with deceit."

"Maybe I can go have a look for myself
..."

"Careful lad. They don't use aether like we do.
No draw. They just use it where it drifts. Not sure how they do it. Might be
they take hold of that shiny Source of yours and use it to twist you up like a
bread knot."

"What would you suggest then?" Kyrus
asked. Few in the family ever asked Axterion's opinion. He had spent most of
Brannis's lifetime convincing them he was senile. It seemed only Brannis and
Danil had caught on.

"Might be that you can find that lass,
Illiardra. Nice voice on her, but couldn't see her worth a two-copper horse.
Old as a dragon's tomb though, by her word," Axterion suggested.

Kyrus thought a moment. Axterion was in a helpful mood
by his standards.
Can I trust him? Who else has he talked to?

"I have no way to find Illiardra again, but I
have heard of another who might know. Have you considered that the rumors of a
demon ruling in Azzat might be true?" Kyrus asked.

"Rumor? Rumors are for the piddling folk. High
Sorcerers call them 'reports' and we get them sorted out to truth and lie. Of
course there's a demon. Keeps Azzat set off from everyone else's affairs,"
Axterion said. He scratched his head and squinted one eye shut. "Name was
... Zizzle-pick ... Zipicks ..."

"Xizix?" Kyurs offered.

"Sure, if you say so," Axterion agreed.
"I've got a mind like an iron strongbox: rusty on the outside, but still
sturdy where it matters."

"Do you think I could trust him for
advice?" Kyrus asked.

"Why ask me, boy? I never met the thing.
Haven't set foot in Azzat either, though your grandmother insisted it would be
pretty there," Axterion said.

"She had been to Azzat?" Kyrus asked.
Brannis had never met his grandmother. She had died when Caladris was young and
even he had little memory of her.

"Naw. Nothing that exotic. She just figured it
would look like Acardia," Axterion said.

Kyrus's mouth hung open. He meant to say something;
truly, he did. The little workshop in his brain that assembled words into
sounds was busy gawking out from his eyes as well.

"What? You act like it was supposed to be some
big secret. Anyone with half a brain was fooled by your impersonation. Those of
us with full brains worked it out right off," Axterion said. Kyrus could
see beyond the crotchety little frown to the bit of smugness tucked in behind
it.

"You are twinborn?" Kyrus managed to put
words to the obvious question.

"Naw, but your grandmother was a nobleman's
lass in Acardia and told me all about that whole mess. She never got pulled
into Rashan's pit of spies and informants. I protected her from that much by my
position."

"How much do you know?" Kyrus asked,
incredulous.

"Assume 'everything' and you'll be half right.
I was High Sorcerer for over seventy summers, boy."

Kyrus looked about. There were no servants visible
in either light or aether, but he leaned forward to whisper anyway.

"Am I doing the right thing, undoing
Rashan?" Kyrus asked.
He is the one I can turn to. Not Caladris. Not
Dolvaen.

"One or the other of you won't outlive me. He
never was right in the head, but he's worse than I remember him. I heard about
the Founding Day pageant. It could be you one day that spooks him, you
realize."

Kyrus gave his grandfather a hug and left the wisest
man in the Empire to finish his mushy stew.

* * * * * * *
*

The solitude of his office in army headquarters was
a welcome respite. Kyrus needed time to digest a great many words, many of them
likely lies, and everything was quiet here except for the noises he created himself.
The wards all about the room dampened every other sound, from the noise of the
street to the adjacent offices and floors below.

Kyrus ran his hands over the speaking stone,
finished in every way except for the activation. It was the last thing he wanted
to take care of before setting off to find the reclusive ruler of Azzat. He
peered through the glassy surface. Layer upon layer of runes were built up
within, each aligned to interact with those on the layers above and below. The
surface layer was laid bare before his seeing eyes, the one just below obscured
but discernible. Past that, he had to send little jolts of aether into the
device to illuminate the runes. It was far too little to activate the speaking
stone, but still got the runes within to shine and reveal themselves.

Kyrus sighed and rubbed his eyes. He had been
staring for too long. The sun was growing dim in the sky outside his office
windows. A silent effort lit the room, magically replacing the waning light.
Kyrus reached for the teacup at his tableside and found it empty. The teapot
was likewise.

"Hours, and no flaws found," he murmured
to himself. "I can either send someone to fetch another pot and spend
hours more, or just get it over with."

Kyrus hesitated a moment, realizing that his conversation
had taken place entirely one-sidedly. He shook his head, stuffing his thoughts
back inside his mind where they belonged.
I need a cat, I think
. At
least if he had a cat, he would have a creature close at hand to aim
singly-held conversations toward. It would dull the appearance of madness, if
not protect against it.

A few deep breaths steadied Kyrus's nerves. He
positioned the crystal speaking stone on his desk at a comfortable distance. He
would need to rest his hands upon it for however long the empowering took.
Slowly at first, he began to draw.

The aether harkened like hunting dogs to his call,
alert to spring forth and obey upon a chance whim. He eased the aether into the
outermost runes, watching it snake along the surface and flow inward like
rainwater across cracked stone. The runes drank in the aether, sucking it down
each layer with scant effort on Kyrus's part.
Good. A promising start
.

The next layer was harder to watch, the glow of the
outermost shining in his aether-vision. Directing the flow took more
concentration and required deflecting a few missteps. It was like watching the
same cracked stone, but through a rain-speckled window. It took more force of
aether as well, but Kyrus's experience in shipbuilding had prepared him for the
empowering to grow more difficult the farther down he pushed.

The third layer proved bothersome. Kyrus was
operating almost entirely by memory.  He had carved the deeper runes a tenday
ago and not seen them clearly since. The blue-white radiance of the two
outermost layers shone too brightly to make any sense of what lay below. Try,
fail, and try once more. Eventually Kyrus's efforts drove the aether through.

At the fourth layer the runes began pushing back in
earnest. The errant flows sought misremembered pathways and cost more effort
with each failure. Kyrus increased his draw. By the fifth layer, he labored. He
knew he had the strength and patience within him but light swam before his
eyes. The stone grew warm and his hands sweated against the faceted surface,
making it slick. Kyrus shut out his aether-vision, guiding the flow by feel as
he could no longer see enough detail to aid him. He felt the aether sink
deeper: into the sixth layer. He was nearing the end. He gave a great heave
upon the aether and the light spell in the room went dark. All that remained
was an angry orange luminosity growing within the speaking stone. The runes
continued to push back against him. All progress halted and no matter the
aether Kyrus added, it did not advance any further. The glow merely increased.

* * * * * * *
*

Once Celia had gotten over her shock and anger at
being suddenly whisked off via Brannis's transference spell, she found herself
missing the convenience of it as she traipsed across Kadris, a city whose
sprawling vastness once seemed so grand. Now it was a well-worn maze of hovels,
shops, markets, gardens, and plazas. There were a thousand ways through the
maze, but obstacles moved about with irregularity, piling petty frustrations
upon her with each trip.

The army headquarters was a stark, ugly pile of
stacked stone monoliths with nary the touch of a female hand to be found. It
was not so much that women were unwelcome there; the leering gazes and the
gentlemanly words that greeted her each visit attested to that. It was just
that they were given no consideration in the construction or design of the
place.