Sourcethief (Book 3) (36 page)

Kyrus kept a sigh in check. "What solution have
you devised?" he asked dutifully.

"I shall wed them all," the emperor
proclaimed. There were gasps from some, cheers from others. When those died
down, Kyrus remained staring at Emperor Sommick, having said nothing. The
emperor looked at Kyrus with a simpering grin on his face. "Well, what say
you?"

"I think I would like a private word with the
emperor," Kyrus said. The musicians stopped. A few of the more attentive
courtiers slunk quickly toward the exit. Before long everyone had gotten the
hint and vacated the emperor's chambers. The last to go were the two guardsmen
who departed after receiving nods of acknowledgment from Kyrus.

"What?" Emperor Sommick asked. "You
disapprove?"

"This is not how things are done in the Kadrin
Empire," Kyrus replied, the only argument that came readily to mind. The
idea was incalculably stupid; he could not find an end amid the tangled problem
from which to begin unraveling it for the neophyte politician.

"Not at all. It makes some sense and there is
precedent for it—I had the blood scholars look into it for me. It seems that in
times of crisis, multiple imperial consorts have been a way to spread the
dynastic seed a bit and ensure succession." The emperor looked appallingly
pleased with himself.

"When was this? I have not ever heard of such a
thing and I do enjoy a good history book."

"It's been a while, I admit, but that's nothing
keeping us from dusting off old traditions and polishing them up a bit."

"How long ago?"

"A ... while."

"How long? They must have told you. The blood
scholars are very thorough," Kyrus pressed.

"I don't know exactly. The last to have made
such arrangements was Emperor Theselon ... seventeen, perhaps eighteen hundred
summers ago," Sommick said with a shrug.

"Emperor Theselon's first two wives were both
barren, by stroke of ill luck. Normally empresses were exiled or executed when
they failed to produce an heir. Theselon just wed again and kept the first two
by his side as a kindness. This is not the same thing."

"Astaranor the Third, then," Emperor
Sommick said, not granting Kyrus any time to sink the claws of his argument
deeper.

"Astaranor ... Astaranor ..." Kyrus said
aloud to himself. "Astaranor the Fourth must have been nearly three
thousand winters ago. Who was the Third, then?"

"His father," Sommick answered.
"Reigned for but two summers and a season, fathered eight heirs, the
eldest being his namesake."

"Ah, yes, the lecherous emperor who was killed
by one of his own consorts in a jealous fit," Kyrus added, his memory
refreshed on the subject. "Not the best of examples to follow."

"I had hoped that a more vigilant group of
guards might be available in modern times than in those bygone days. Besides,
now we know to protect me from them," Sommick said. Kyrus opened his mouth
to speak but Sommick stole his initiative. "And I
have
thought this
through. I have a tenuous position, with no support but what Rashan offers me.
This will give more than a dozen noble houses a stake in my reign. There might
be some bloody business to hold in check of course. There will certainly be
some competition for the first heir, and he will be a target for assassination.
These are problems we can work around."

Kyrus had queued up a number of arguments in his
head, each of them a different angle from which to chip away at the emperor's
strained logic.
There is just no reasoning with him
, Kyrus decided. He
let the arguments tumble through his mental fingers and shatter on the floor.

"As you command, Your Highness."

"No point drawing this whole business out. This
is bound to be contentious enough without giving the nobles time to gripe. Can
you have everything arranged by the solstice? Best time for an imperial
wedding." Kyrus stared at him in shock.

"That only leaves four days!"

"Excellent! Plenty of time."

* * * * * * *
*

"He got you good, didn't he?" Axterion
asked. The ancient sorcerer chuckled. "I wouldn't have thought that bugger
had the gumption to pull off a trick like this."

"I did not anticipate it either," Kyrus
admitted. "He seemed to have already set everything in the works with the
blood scholars, making sure everything had precedent. He was right—gut him six
ways. He has the authority to do this."

"Nobles will get in a snit, for sure,"
Axterion said. He shrugged. "What are they going to do though? I'll tell
you what they'll do: get in a snit. That's the start and finish of it. It might
be a nice long snit, don't mistake me, and it might even be an uncomfortable
snit to be around. In the end though, just a snit. Days are gone when a noble
army would get itchy thinking they might take on the emperor's troops—gone long
before my time, at that."

"What about the emperor?" Kyrus asked.
"He could wind up like Astaranor the Fourth ..."

"Boy, you're aiming to either vex me or test
me," Axterion said, waggling a warning finger in Kyrus's direction.
"It was Astaranor the Third who pulled this stunt last and got a chalice
of poisoned wine for his trouble. I've forgotten more than you've learned yet,
young dragon. All that power can't be getting to your head yet, can it?"

"I hope not. I still have a lot to learn before
I can hope to confront Rashan. Have you had any luck in your research?"
Kyrus asked, changing the subject.

"Aye, after a fashion," Axterion replied,
scratching his head. "I have had a rare and tedious sort of success: I
have established that no one in the history of the Kadrin Empire has left any
written record of what lies deep in Podawei Wood."

"Well, so much for that," Kyrus said. He
slumped back in his chair.

"Bah, you don't know a dratted thing about
humans, do you?" Axterion asked.

"How do you mean?"

"Have you looked around in libraries?"
Axterion asked. Kyrus nodded. "There's a book in there on every bedratted
subject the gods saw fit to build this world with. Anything mildly interesting
and a dozen poor scribblers wrote about it. You mean to tell me that a little
forest not far outside Kadris has sat there for six thousand winters and no one
thought to have a look? No one keeps humans away from a mystery that long with
nothing to show for the attempt. Someone doesn't
want
folks knowing
what's there."

Kyrus smiled. It was good reasoning.

"Grandfather, I know you do not get out much
but I think it might be time for you to have a talk with Fenris Destrier,"
Kyrus suggested.

"What's that chubby little jackal gotten
himself mixed in now? Never looks where he's heading ‘cause he's always got his
nose up someone's backside, looking to push them up a ladder ahead of
him."

Kyrus chuckled, remembering that Axterion knew
everyone in the Circle from a much different perspective than he ever had.

"I think he could use a bit of help filling a
list. Just ask him."

* * * * * * *
*

Kyrus lay awake atop his blankets, fully clothed but
for his boots. Far away—how far no one could tell him—Brannis lay awake as well
in the Kheshi city of Skasgrenn. Kyrus relaxed his mind until the black marble
ceiling of his bed chamber melted away and he could feel a rhythmic breathing
tickle his chest.

The plan was to set out again at dawn and scour the
city. They had ridden the day through and collapsed into bed once they had
reached an inn. Soria still had trail dust graying her hair and both of them
smelled of horse sweat.

"Soria, my love," Brannis said. He kissed
her forehead and jostled a bit to rouse her. Before even coming fully awake her
first move was to climb farther atop him. He put a hand on her side and gently
rolled her the other way. "Soria, we have a bit of time. Finish reading me
the book. Who knows when our next chance will be."

"I was thinking the same thing," she
mumbled, still not yet awake.

Brannis gave her a moment to collect her wits and
orient herself once more between worlds.

In her cabin on the
Starlit
Marauder, Juliana
opened
The Peace of Tallax
and began reading once more about Tallax’s
obsession with immortality.

Kyrus listened in from Veydrus as Brannis heard the
tale continue. Tallax had demanded of the immortals that they share the secret
with him but was rebuffed, told that it was not possible for him. Tallax knew
that the immortals sometimes traveled between worlds and so he traversed the
space between worlds to find his answers there.

Tallax found nothing on his journeys to the worlds
beyond Veydrus but caused much strife. He brought magic to worlds that had
never seen it and saw wonders that no Veydran was ever meant to. When the gods
themselves chastised him, he told them: "You who are eternal and creators
of the world must know this secret. Tell me and I need not disturb these
distant peoples any longer." The gods refused and Tallax then tried to
threaten them as he had with the immortals.

Tallax had made a grave error in thinking he could
contest with the gods themselves. To spite Tallax, the gods departed Veydrus
and shattered the links between the worlds. The mightiest sorcerer ever to have
lived was stranded on one world when he knew in his heart that what he desired
most was somewhere on another.

In the end, Tallax sent word to all the great kings
and dragons, to the stone folk and the forest spirits, to the immortals and the
greatest among mortal sorcerers. He gathered them and they heeded his call, for
defying Tallax was woe to any who held their life dear. He stood amid the
gathering and the sun dimmed in the sky above, shrinking to a pinpoint of
blinding light.

Those who had gathered there gazed up in wonder and
fear as the light and heat of the sun fell from the heavens in a great column
of destruction that only a few, quicker to flee than the rest, managed to
survive. Those survivors bore witness to the wars of pent up rage that seven
hundred winters beneath the boot of one sorcerer had held in check.

Kyrus blinked away the sights and sounds of Tellurak
to think on what he had heard. That was the part that made Soria and Juliana
fear for him: that the path he was treading had led Tallax to madness and
self-destruction.

It was a long time before exhaustion claimed Kyrus.

The ship listed in air as the mountain winds played
havoc with the rigging. Jinzan knew the seas and knew them well. He knew where
to find a tailwind in any season, and where the currents could be used to best
advantage. The skies were a mystery. It was as if they possessed a different
type of air entirely from what blew nearest the ground and waves.

The
Black Gull
had been rededicated
Dhakoun
after the god of death, though the allusion was lost on anyone unfamiliar with
Telluraki mythology. Jinzan and his crew of enslaved Kadrin sky-sailors had
taken as many of the Ghelkan apprentices aboard as fit, and skirted the
Ogrelands on their way into eastern Kadrin. The conquest of Glan's Reach had
been a lark, a mere test on the way to a real city. A small contingent of
apprentice necromancers were left behind to tend and herd the newly risen dead
while the rest continued onward.

Jinzan clutched the Staff of Gehlen and wondered at
the power it possessed. Sources would be rent asunder, sucked free of aether as
easily as slurping soup from a bowl. It seemed a quick, painless death. It was
a kindness to the Kadrins who were being converted to the Megrenn cause, to
pass beyond pain into a post-life of useful servitude in a better cause than
they had known in life.

When the gentle plains around Glan's Reach had given
way to the mountains further inland was when Jinzan realized how little he knew
of airship flight. The dead crew was obedient but seemed sluggish in its
actions and reactions. If any of his own sorcerers had known how to work the
ship's controls, he would have at least appointed one of them to altitude
control. They brushed the tops of alpine trees and yawed dangerously close to
crags that they would have done well to fly above.

"How close are we to Reaver's Crossing?"
Jinzan shouted over the wind. He could have thought the question but he was
still unaccustomed to doing so and always thought of it too late.

"We ... are ... close. Just ... two ... peaks
... left. Should ... be ... two ... marks ... off ... starboard," the
captain replied. The thing was already decomposing a bit and he was only days
old. Jinzan might have been adept at creating the dead vessels but had much to
learn on the reanimation process; Loramar's creations lasted seasons by his own
writings.

"Fine, just get us there in one piece. Stop
flying so low," he ordered. He amended his verbal command with a series of
telepathic ones to the crew at large, especially the sorcerer whose Source, he
suspected, might need replenishing before they arrived at Reaver's Crossing.

None of his own living sorcerers spoke to him unless
spoken to. There was no idle conversation, none of the gentle teasing he had
received as he learned the rudiments of necromancy. He saw awe in their eyes
when he looked at them.
I am not Loramar yet. I will earn that respect, I
swear it
.

* * * * * * *
*

Reaver's Crossing was an old trade route built up
over hundreds of summers. The pendulous rope bridge that had spanned the
crossing in lost seasons had been replaced first by a wooden bridge, then a
stone one, then another stone version worked by magic into a span no architect
in Veydrus could have gotten to stand on its own. It straddled Reaver's Gorge
with an unsupported length of over two hundred paces.

The city had grown along with the bridge, from a
cabin at either end with travelers' supplies, to an outpost, to a trading city,
to a strategic fortress, and finally to the keystone of the defense of the
empire's heartland against Ghelk. It had fallen twice to Loramar and twice been
taken back. Nestled into the mountainsides on the north and south sides of the
gorge, the citizens had taken a lesson from ancient Raynesdark and tunneled
their city into the mountains. Though split by the great bridge, each side was
nigh impregnable.

Of course, a significant exception to that
invulnerability was via the air, where the long, narrow pass made it
treacherous for armies to march up precarious ground while under fire from the
city's defenders. If one possessed an airship—or perhaps a dragon—the city was
an egg: hard around the outer edge, but soft inside.

The first they saw of it was the bridge—its long,
shallow arch of seamless, charcoal-colored granite. They were looking up at it,
for though his crew had obeyed Jinzan’s command to pull them higher, the
mountains still rose all around them and Reaver's Crossing was higher up than
anyone had realized.

"You fools, higher!" Jinzan shouted. He
did not wait for them to obey, but rather thrust out a hand and conjured a gale
force updraft to speed their ascent. "Ready shielding spells for the hull
and yourselves," he added, switching to Ghelkan, since the dead needed no
words and his followers spoke only their own tongue.
This would all be so
much simpler if everyone spoke Megrenn. I should see to that once we conquer
Kadrin. It is always nice to have long-term goals.

When first the
Dhakoun
appeared over the
walls, it seemed the Kadrins had no idea that they were under attack. Jinzan
surmised that the Kadrins assumed they were a Kadrin ship filled with their own
troops. He laughed, or tried to. His voice went hoarse and he turned his mirth
internally to save face in front of his apprentices.

He ordered the crew to find a landing spot. They
circled the city a bit, awkwardly by his judgment, looking for a flat enough
spot to land. The city was built like a set of stairs into the mountainside.
The dead captain eventually found a small plaza that was large enough to fit
the ship and set it down. It ignited panic among the Kadrin merchants and
shoppers, furious and scared by the unplanned interruption of their trade.

Jinzan strode to the railing and unleashed the
staff's power, drawing in aether from any Kadrin who could be reached.
Sorcerers crumpled dead like discarded dolls wherever he drew. The smooth wood
of the staff warmed in Jinzan's hands. He had developed a knack for buffering
aether within it, rather than taking it all within himself.

"Get down there. Spread out, begin subduing the
populace. Those of you who can animate, you are given leave to do so. Focus on
armed resistance first. I do not need an army of cloth-peddlers and
washer-women. We will get to them later," Jinzan instructed. Rope ladders
were thrown over the sides of the
Dhakoun
and Ghelkan sorcerers
clambered down. It was an awkward operation as none of the crew he had brought
along had any combat experience—or much exposure to the out of doors, physical
activity, or military command. All the experienced sorcerers had already been
sent to war or were being held back in defense of Princess Shiann. Still, they
were versed in Loramar's techniques under Jinzan's guidance; they were death's
apprentices.

Jinzan was the last down. He felt ancient, his
creaking joints protesting the relatively acrobatic task of putting a leg over
the rail. Nothing hurt, or at least his recent mental training had inured him
to the pains of his mortal body.
Remarkable man, that Loramar. I really
should be up and about more though. The war should limber me up once I accustom
myself to its rigors. My body may only be a vessel for my Source but it still
needs to be a working vessel.

* * * * * * *
*

"Report," Jinzan ordered. He stood in the
hub of the undercity in the southern half of Reaver's Crossing. He had never
gotten much of a chance to see the version in Raynesdark but suspected this one
was more hospitable. There was an underground waterfall that poured into a
public fountain and down into the sewers, and more ventilation shafts up to the
surface than he knew Raynesdark to possess. A series of panels spread across
the cavern ceiling, the westernmost of them illuminated, creating an artificial
sunset for the subterranean residents.

"We have no census to judge by, Grand
Necromancer, but we believe there is no organized resistance remaining on this
side. Any left alive are in hiding or found a way to flee," Aolyn informed
him. She was first among his apprentices and the only one whose name he
routinely bothered with. The rest had been introduced to him in a whirlwind of
recruiting that followed his emergence as Loramar's heir.

"What of the north side?"

"They have dropped the portcullis gate and
manned the walls. They are prepared for an attack," she replied.

"Not like the one we have planned," said
Jinzan. The corners of his mouth twitched upward. "Losses on our
side?"

"Renvik. He has already been reborn. The damage
to his body was only mortal, not structural. His Source and mind seem fairly
sound, and we stopped most of the bodily leakages," Aolyn replied. She
stood there, arms at her sides, chin raised in an attempt at military
formality. Jinzan's eyes wandered down her, remembering that when he had first
met her he had found her attractive. He saw her differently now: her smooth
skin just a protective hide that kept her muscles free from particulate and
seepage, her breasts mere glands and ductwork, her legs a collection of sinews
like the rigging of a ship. He could take her to pieces, tie a string around
each part, label and catalog it.

A regiment of dead Kadrin soldiers arrived with a
wagonload of fresh corpses. They pulled it by hand, since living horses were
spooked by the walking corpses, and he had not gotten around to reanimating any
dead ones. "Lay them out in rows," Jinzan ordered. He noticed a few
stragglers dragging additional corpses by the ankles and winced at the damage
being done to the bodies—especially the brains. Loramar had methods to control
the dead by Source alone but Jinzan only knew how to master them by whatever
was left of their minds.

"They only need to last a little while,"
Aolyn commented, seeing as well as he had that the rough-handled corpses would
not be good for much or for long.

"Thus far I am not finding myself impressed
with the brains of the dead," Jinzan muttered. Aolyn overheard him and
laughed, though he had not meant it as a joke.

* * * * * * *
*

"Sir, riders have been sent but it could be
days before any help arrives," the soldier reported. He wore Lord Serun's
orange and grey livery over his chainmail and could not have been more than
twenty winters.

"I am aware of the predicament we face,
soldier," Colonel Aphys snapped. "Dismissed." He stood atop the
battlements on the north tower of Reaver's Crossing. He could have held the
small keep against an army of ogres, even a monohorn charge ... but not against
an airship of sorcerers.

When the fighting had broken out, they had sent a
hundred infantry across as reinforcements, but none had reported back. The far
side had gone silent, a bad sort of silent. A victorious force would have
reported back; a continued struggle would have been heard across the gorge.
Whatever had befallen was over, at least for now.

"Blast them to pieces for not stationing an
airship here for our defense," Lord Serun said. His Circle advisor, a
Third Circle named Jannan Redwind, stood by his side, looking at the southern
half of the city. Colonel Aphys rather suspected his lord wanted the airship
for escape, and not tactical advantage.

"If an imperial airship has gone missing, I am
sure there will already be a search underway," said Sorcerer Jannan. He
was a slight man with a placid look pasted across his face and his hands tucked
into opposite sleeves. Aphys knew he chewed some sedative herb that he kept
quiet about, but Aphys had spies all through the Crossing.

"They're coming!" came a shout from
somewhere along the wall.

Colonel Aphys turned to look down the length of the
bridge and saw a ragged line advancing at a run. There were scores, perhaps
over a hundred.  It seemed impossible that the enemy airship could have held so
many. "Bows to the ready," he shouted. Something kept him from
ordering the volley.

Shouts from the advancing force began to reach them,
a cacophony of voices with no clear message discernible. Aphys watched as they
approached. By the halfway point across the bridge he knew what was wrong: they
were not soldiers.

"Stand down!" he called out.

"What are you—" Lord Serun began.

"Open the portcullis!" Aphys said, cutting
him off.

"I said what are—"

"They're ours, my lord," Colonel Aphys
explained. "Kadrins. Unarmed and fleeing the south side."

There was a clanking of chains and winches as the
gate was opened.

* * * * * * *
*

"Stupid," Jinzan said and shook his head.
He watched as the Kadrin forces invited their own doom to enter their walls.

"How could they expect it?" Aolyn asked.
"You planned for them not to understand, and it worked."

"Can you hear the screams now?" Jinzan
asked. "The fires are from their own sorcerer, but they are frightened
nonetheless. If that sorcerer had paid attention to the aether, he would have
known."

Aolyn smiled at him. She raised her eyebrows.
Ah,
yes ... they wait for my command ...

"Advance and leave no Kadrin alive,"
Jinzan ordered. Three hundred or so risen Kadrin soldiers marched at the fore
of a host of nearly three thousand risen peasants—all they had time to animate
before deciding it was time to attack.