Oathkeeper, p.12
Oathkeeper, page 12
“Out here, Sargus. Bring my spyglass, would you?”
“Spyglass?” Sargus called from beyond the heavy blue drapes that muted the cold and wind from blowing into the suite behind Rivvek.
“Please?” Rivvek made a loose fist. He held it up, looking through the small dot of clear space. Still flaring, the approaching object came into better focus, but not quite good enough to confirm what Rivvek knew in his heart it would be. “Oh. And watch your step. There’s glass.”
“Glass?” Sargus stepped out onto the balcony. The leather half cap and accompanying lenses that often covered the haffet of his face were nowhere to be seen. Absent as well was the satchel of supplies he often wore at his back to mimic a hunch. Rivvek considered it a special privilege that Sargus rarely feigned deformity in his presence when it could be avoided. Certainly not when they were alone. Rivvek did not have to ask why Sargus made the gesture, but noticing it brought a half smile to his lips.
“My prince?” Sargus frowned at the scattered shards of glass covering the stone floor of the balcony and the bloodied footprints amongst them.
“Don’t baby me, Sargus!” Rivvek spared a glance at his bandaged feet. “I cut my feet and destroyed a priceless antique table and chair set in a fit of . . .” He grasped for the words. “. . . fatalistic rage. Pique. Stupidity. Grief. Take your pick, O he-who-can-sleep-through-anything.”
“Did you—?” But Sargus cut himself off, his nostrils widening.
“I treated them,” Rivvek interrupted, “and then Bhaeshal insisted on doing it all over again herself. She did a far better job of than I did, though, so I can’t fault her for it. I’d have thought you’d smell the laughing salve and cleansing salts.”
“Yes, I do now.” Sargus was always so amusing when he didn’t know what to do. “Should I call a servant—”
“And have Jason or Alice clean it up for me?” Rivvek shook his head. “No. It’s my mess. I’ll clear it away. Spyglass?” he added, hand held out to receive it.
“Take mine.” Sargus held out a telescoping spyglass, its “barrels” overlaid with a richly stained wood Rivvek did not immediately recognize.
“Thank you.” Rivvek turned the unfamiliar optic to the sea, raising the eyepiece to his eye. He spied at once the brightly blazing metal construct of silver and crystal that had been his father’s crown. It soared through the clouds, a blazing relic of finality. Beautiful and elegant as it was, Rivvek hated the sight of the thing.
“Excellent work.” Lowering the spyglass, he closed his eyes and handed it back. “Your craftsmanship?”
Glass crunched under sandal-clad feet as Sargus stepped closer to the balustrade, the soft hiss of the spyglass telescoping outward. A muttered curse as Sargus found the crown in the objective lens.
“I’m sorry, my king.”
“Exactly as I forecast. What luck, eh?” Tears streaming down his face, Rivvek let his robe drop. Wind from the bay wove the scent of sea around him, the sun scintillating on the foci that framed his back in the rough outline of wings. Simple circles of brass, steel, gold, or silver at first, the foci ranged into rarer materials as they worked down his side: jade, quartz, even samples of wood and bone-steel . . . anything the Artificers could think of (and justify) to restore and strengthen his connection to the elemental magic that had been his from birth until . . . until it hadn’t.
None of it had helped.
Rivvek could still hear Hasimak reporting back to the king. The damage is quite extensive, Your Majesty, Perhaps given time . . . I’m sorry. No one has ever survived such an assault. . . .
Rivvek winced at the image of the Ghaiattri looming over him, burning away his skin, his soul, his . . . magic.
He shook away the mental pain, not only to avoid dwelling on past trauma but also because he had no time for it. His father would have been able to bargain for only a few days. Between two and five, if his own math, his version of the great destiny machine, had calculated the Aern’s reaction well.
“Closer to five,” Rivvek murmured. “Please.”
Not much time, but enough time, if Rivvek’s other calculations of all known variables on the great destiny machine of probabilities were correct as well. He felt the gentle touch of Sargus’s hand on his back where the most important scars of Rivvek or his people’s future lay: A diamond pattern at the base of his spine with two lines parallel with and equal in length to each side of diamond. His shoulders were each marked with a right-angled wedge. Along his spine ran a long thumb-width line, essentially a tally mark: the number one.
Getting Kholster’s scars on his back had hurt the least but meant the most. Those scars meant hope. The one variable that might let him salvage his brother’s mess.
You forgave me, Kholster, Rivvek thought, even though I failed, you rewarded the effort. The thought counted with you. Why?
“You never told me how you convinced him to make you Aiannai,” Sargus said as if sensing his thoughts. “All save Zhan rejected me, because of my father. But Kholster himself accepted you. He—”
“Simple.” Rivvek stepped through the blue drapes, off of the cold balcony, and into the warmth of his modest, if spacious, suite of rooms. A fire blazed in the fireplace beneath a bare mantel. An assortment of rugs covered the stone, but no tapestries or pictures hung on the walls. An array of finely crafted weaponry awaited Rivvek’s pleasure on a large wall-mounted weapon rack, but his bedroll and pack (with newly laundered travel clothes within) neatly stored next to the gear were the only signs of sleeping accommodations. A well-worn armchair sat in one corner next to a mountainous stack of books and scrolls beneath a wall sconce. An armor stand bearing a suit of grotesque Ghaiattri hide plate, the ram-like horns of the Ghaiattri itself mounted on the helm, dominated the room. Next to it, a mystic sparring dummy stood at the ready.
“Simple?” Sargus prompted.
“I showed him my other scars, told him how I got them . . .” Rivvek walked to a large wardrobe, opened it, and began rummaging for appropriate attire. White, white, and more white to show the proper respect for the late king. He’d have to wear less traditional clothes for the Test of Four, but he could obey convention in this at least.
“Just that?” Sargus asked.
“The Aern are impressed by scars.” Rivvek looked back at him, tears still flowing but already forgotten. “I also told him why.” He smiled. “Can you send Jason up to help me with this? I don’t want any of the Royal Adjudicators accusing me of deliberately slighting my father’s memory just because I prefer to dress myself.”
“I could—” Sargus offered.
“No time, Sargus.”
“Of course.” Sargus nodded, slipping on his pack. He hunkered over preparing to assume his usual disguise. “Do you really think we can . . .” He paused, tapping the side of his leather haffet, letting it meld into an illusion to render to his skull misshapen. “Do you really think we can win?”
“As long as I can pass the Test of Four, it won’t matter whether we win or not. The Aern and the Vael will do the rest. The only thing that worries me is whether I’ve estimated the size of the Zaur force correctly.”
“And if you haven’t?” Sargus paused at the door.
“If I haven’t, there is nothing more I can do to shape the outcome.” Rivvek looked into the shadowy realm of the Ghaiattri. He gritted his teeth, forcing the sight away again. Heat filled his scars, and he laughed. “Well, maybe one thing. I wouldn’t give myself very good odds, though.”
Pain lanced in after the heat, searing the deep muscles beneath each scar as if he’d forced it down into a hot pan. I’m used to you now, he thought at the agony. You can’t conquer me. Haven’t you seen the scars on my back?
“You still haven’t explained everything you’ve planned, my prince,” Sargus said.
Rivvek frowned, putting a finger to his lips. “The gods might be listening, Sargus. I want to give them as little time to react as possible. Never tell gods your plans.”
When Sargus had gone, Rivvek allowed himself another hundred count of grief.
“You deserved more, Father.” He clenched his fists. “I would mourn for a year and a day, had we the time. . . .”
But I don’t, he thought, so we move on.
His mother’s funeral had been a grand thing. The heavens and earth shook to see her pass. Father’s elemancers had seen to it. He and Dolvek had worn the white of mourning for two years. The king had grieved for decades.
Rivvek reached out to the elements trying to touch the planes of air, water, fire, and earth—the magic that had been his birthright—and felt from only one of them even the slightest glimmer of contact. A hint of flame. From the others, he sensed nothing at all.
“Oh, how the mighty Flamewing has dimmed,” he mocked himself. Rivvek resisted the urge to draw on the flame, forced himself to let sensation of connection be enough. “Barely a wisp of fire now, but even the tiniest spark . . .” He caught himself speaking aloud and stopped his words. One never knew who might be listening. First he must attend his father’s cremation and then the Test of Four.
No, blast me, I’ve left something out. Cursing to himself, he strode to the door and opened it to find Bhaeshal exactly where he’d instructed her not to be.
“Good, you disobeyed and kept watch anyway.” He smiled, knocking on her pauldron. It was amazing how you could tell the intelligent guards from the morons. No one had had to tell Bash to start wearing metal armor. She’d started showing up in the demi-cuirass and brigandine she’d worn back when she was a Lancer the hour they’d received news about the Zaur at Oot. “I need to send someone intelligent and deadly down to the docks to make blasted sure they are prepared for the Aern to arrive today. The roof is unlikely to collapse on me even without you here to hold the wall up, so perhaps you’d like to go . . . and if not then please send someone.”
Bhaeshal blinked at that, the slight click as her steel eyelids tapped against each other, proof, if any need it, that the silver domino mask she wore was an elemental foci and not a mask at all. In the light, the Vael-like uniformity of her white crystalline eyes was even more striking.
“You think they’ll be early?” she asked, pinning him with those blank orbs.
“I think they will be early and I think they will try to provoke anyone they can.” He leaned against the doorframe and lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “They would love an excuse to kill us all, so make certain you assign someone unflappable . . . if you decide not to go yourself.”
“They won’t get a rise out of me, Your Highness.” She smiled. “I will send Olivan around to hold the wall up, though, just to be on the safe side.”
“Thank you.” Rivvek watched her go. What was it about female Eldrennai that made them so reliable? Muttering to himself, he let the door close and ran over the plan for the Test of Four again, thankful he’d been able to delegate one more item. He smirked, surprised at the flash of good humor. Bash could handle the Aern and the dockworkers. If only I had more like her.
CHAPTER 13
DOCKING MANEUVERS
Vander laughed, the sea breeze nearly stealing the hat from his bald head, and his soldiers laughed with him. Oathbreaker vessels moved across the waves in frantic panic, butting against one another, cutting to and fro, blocking each others’ passage in a unanimous, yet useless, attempt to flee from the mighty Aernese warships the Overwatch kholstered. Two three-masted merchant ships moved past each other with only scant feet separating the two hulls, the crews shouting at each other and the serving Aeromancers and Hydromancers working desperate magicks to avert a collision.
“If you don’t start following orders, I will sink your ships myself!” shouted an Oathbreaker female whose elemental foci looked like a silver mask. “I am sending squads to man your vessels. You will cooperate with these soldiers. There is no other option!”
“Squad one,” she boomed, giving out assignments and marking ships with coruscating blasts of electricity that arced harmlessly around ship and crew alike.
Are you watching this, Khol . . . Rae’en?
Did they think they were under attack? Rae’en thought.
They didn’t know what to think, Vander sent back, until she showed up.
Do you know her?
She looks different with the elemental focus, but I’m pretty sure that if it isn’t Bhaeshal, it’s her daughter.
Arriving as if the act of thinking her name had summoned her, the Aeromancer flew directly toward him, arms folding across her breastplate, pale white eyes crackling with lightning.
“Could you please stop firing those cannons, Overwatch Vander?” Her eyes narrowed. “We know you are here and you will be clear to dock shortly.”
“What if I refuse?” He glared up at her from beneath the hat he wore to keep the suns from burning his bald pate.
“Then we’ll have your path clear a little more slowly,” Bhaeshal answered in an even tone, cordial but unamused.
“No threats?” Vander stifled a laugh as two more cannons boomed. “You aren’t afraid of our artillery?”
A look of mild bemusement touched the Oathbreaker’s lips, if only for a heartbeat.
That’s enough, he thought to his Aern.
“I’ve given the order,” Vander said. “Anything else, Oathbreaker?”
“If you could keep brawls to a minimum, it would be most appreciated.”
“You’re Bhaeshal, aren’t you,” he asked, “Wylant’s grandniece?”
“That’s my name, but I’m not related to Wylant. That’s just an assumption made by people who think the only way a woman can be worth anything in the military is if she has Wylant’s blood.” She dropped low, still not boarding the ship but hovering a hand’s breadth from the rail.
“That’s what I get for overhearing conversations on the training grounds.” Vander doffed his canvas hat. “They called you Lieutenant Bash back then.”
“And I’ve risen as high as lieutenant general,” she answered, “but it’s Brigadier Bash now.”
Vander watched the map in the corner of his field of vision, where other Overwatches fed him data. He admired the way Bash’s squads took their positions and began clearing up the mess without the need for further instructions. Well trained.
“Why the demotion?”
“Once for losing my temper. A second time because it was the only way they would let me stay in direct command of Prince Rivvek’s security.”
“He means that much to you?” Vander breathed deeply, trying to pick up her scent. Wylant often smelled of jallek root, leather, and sweat. Bash smelled of royal hedge roses, sweat, and sea air. That’s a scent I could get used to, he thought, hoping none of the others overheard. From the way rose-covered vines began to flow up the edges of his map, it was clear at least one of them had.
“And to you, I imagine,” Bhaeshal retorted, “given the scars on his back.”
“I don’t see the hate in your eyes that I see when I look at other . . . Eldrennai.” Vander stepped closer, leaning on the rail. He’d expected her to fly back and give him space. Instead, she floated lower, until they were eye to eye. “You didn’t give any orders at As You Please, and I can’t recall you abusing your authority over us. Why haven’t you asked to be Aiannai yet?”
“Do you want to put your scars on my back,” Bash dropped a fraction of a hand closer, “or did you hope to get me out of my armor for some other reason?”
Vander’s mouth dropped open. The lack of proper ocular anatomy made her hard to read. No veins to watch. No pupils to dilate or contract, but that sounded like flirting to him.
“Because my prince asked me to wait,” she continued, mercifully ending the awkward pause in conversation.
“And why is that?” Vander frowned.
Are you going to propose? Rae’en taunted.
She’s intriguing, Vander thought back. I can’t remember her ever holding the leash. Wasn’t she married to an Aern at one point?
To Abrax. So because she never gave orders to an Aern and has a certain fondness for them, you want to rescue her?
Abrax? Vander could think of more than one Abrax.
By Zabrax, out of some Flower Girl or other, Rae’en answered. Why does it matter?
It doesn’t, Vander thought back. But it did. Abrax hadn’t been one of the Armored, so the Sundering had probably slain him and sent his soul to become one with the group. He wondered how that made Bash feel, both about Aern and about Wylant.
“I didn’t ask.” Bhaeshal drifted farther away from the ship and Vander. Her scent was muddied by the wind.
“I’m sorry about Abrax,” Vander blurted.
“As am I.” Bash’s voice went quiet. “But there was nothing else I could do. He was after then-Prince Grivek.” She shook it off, her voice more normal in the next sentence. “And, for the next time it happens, Overwatch Vander: When you meet a female you fancy? The husband she had to kill is not a good choice for conversational gambits. Even asking me what my focus was made of would have been more delicate.”
Yep, Rae’en thought, you kicked that irkanth right in the nose.
I can’t be perfect all the time, Vander sent back. Still . . .
“I’m sorry, Brigadier Bhaeshal.” Vander pursed his lips. “Steel, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be sorry,” Bash told him, a hint of humor creeping back into her tone. “You’re an Aern. That means to be fair I have to give you another chance or two to do it right. Try and keep it down with the cannons, though, yes? You’re scaring the mice, and they won’t be any fun to play with later if they’ve already drowned. Can you do that for me, Overwatch Vander?”
