Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

From $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

The Voice of Kings
The Voice of Kings
The Voice of Kings
Ebook1,189 pages20 hours

The Voice of Kings

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Isaac Brodie knows what he saw. He knows he saw magic in his father's mine, years gone by. He knows it nearly killed him. He knows too well others don't believe. And he knows he has to prove it, if it takes him to the corners of the world. He wants it more than anything in the world.


He doesn't know just how precious this knowl

LanguageEnglish
Release dateDec 2, 2024
ISBN9781739108717
The Voice of Kings

Related to The Voice of Kings

Titles in the series (1)

View More

Related ebooks

Fantasy For You

View More

Related categories

Reviews for The Voice of Kings

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    The Voice of Kings - Matthew de Lacey

    Chapter One: The Shadow Tongue

    Along a stone road, paved through a valley in the highlands, the carriage trundled on, its wooden wheels grating and scraping against the smooth cobbles. Tristan Almaric had come to rely on this, in part, almost as a form of hypnosis, keeping him at peace and on one train of thought. The rhythmic hammering of rain on the tiny window, and the condensation blocking all view to the outside world, had created a sense of safety and belonging, as if no one could interrupt him here. A single lantern swung gently in the peripheral of his vision, in time with the movement of the carriage; the moody light of its dim flickering flame and its limited warmth holding fast his feeling of pleasant isolation.

    Thoughts of home, and his woman, and the empire, such as it was, crossed his mind. Since leaving his hectic duties in the capital behind, he’d had time to think about the future of the realm and his standing, stretched out in a long, long life before him. The thoughts cycled past his mind’s eye like artwork for his perusal, analysed with growing scrutiny each time they arrived back at the forefront of his consciousness.

    The heavy rain was fast dying down. The comforting pattering of water droplets on glass was slowing and, with it, the many threads of Tristan’s thoughts drifted from his reach, and he awoke from his daydream. He blinked in reflex. Then again, this time consciously. The world, and its many sights and sounds, warped back into focus around him. He noticed the comfort of the seat beneath him, the clopping of hooves outside, and the pinging sound of the rain deflecting off the armour of the soldiers whose steeds bore them.

    Sidling over to the left edge of his seat, he wiped the tiny window with the back of his hand and peered through the distortion of the rain. The last he had seen of the outside world, they were on flatter ground, and there was not another soul around them. Now, hills rose up and rolled into the distance, and there, beside the road, were houses spread sparse and random. He also realised, now, that he was a little hot around the neck and untied his long, woollen, embroidered coat at the neck to reveal the collar of a prim linen suit. He yawned and dug the index finger from each hand into his eyes, rubbing them, and shaking the stiffness from his shoulders, stopping only as his attention was drawn by a spectacular sight through his window.

    A vale opened on the skies, sunlight streaming through cracks in the clouds and lighting up the highlands. A rainbow could be seen between two of the hills, only now as the rain was stopping. He stared for some time, and then paid attention to everything else passing by, reorienting himself.

    The carriage hit an uneven patch in the road, causing him to jolt up and fall down, just short of colliding with the ceiling. He looked to the old man sitting opposite, who had been sleeping the whole time. It appeared as if he might wake up but, with that hiccup out of the way, he continued breathing quietly, and his eyes remained shut. Tristan tapped one knee in unrest, bejewelled ring his passive plaything. Suddenly, he began to feel a little claustrophobic. The door opened at his behest and he climbed out, the carriage still moving, and shut the door behind him, holding on in a precarious manner while the tips of his shoes held his weight on the rim which ran below the door, all the way round the carriage.

    The two guards riding this side of the carriage instinctively looked at him with some concern and began searching his vicinity for signs of trouble, a job they’d been trained to do so thoroughly that they probably began the procedure before they even realised it. The guard at the back tugged at the reins and pulled in a little closer.

    Is there a problem, Sir? the soldier said.

    No problem. I just thought I’d get some fresh air.

    He gave the guard a toothy grin and clambered his way around to the front, emerging much to the surprise of the driver, and sank himself down, adjusting his position for comfort.

    Sir Tristan, the driver said with some uncertainty, nodding politely.

    I’m just getting some fresh air, Tristan replied while consciously taking a deep breath.

    The driver looked slightly to his right and in some awe at a giant stone statue of a man; proud and straight he was, with sword held firm affront him, perched atop the tallest hill in sight. Tristan followed the driver’s line of sight and recoiled when he spotted the monolith, feeling uneasy at not having spotted it before. His lips lifted into a smile on one side of his face.

    You’re not using that old thing for directions are you?

    Of course not.

    The driver observed Tristan’s uncertain smile with much interest, looking away only so not to make him feel uncomfortable, which was good of him because the knight, Tristan, was beginning to feel it.

    You’re not feeling nervous are you, Sir Tristan?

    Tristan grinned again and then chuckled, half to himself, pleasantly surprised that such a person without noble standing would speak to him with that kind of casual mannerism. He was new to his job, and had not yet gotten accustomed to being knighted either. Regardless of a blue blooded upbringing, it was humbling. Thank you for that, my friend, Tristan said in his head, amused.

    Nervous is not the word I would use, he said with a self-mocking smile. Less than two weeks ago, at the Emperor’s coronation, I fought and arrested three armed drunks and that was really not so bad, but...well, I am not quite so used to making social calls to strangers.

    It’s a good thing you’re not here for a social call then.

    Tristan sighed and shook his head from side to side in consideration at this, finally conceding playfully with a snort, and rubbing his eyes again so that it would be known he was tired and this was the reason why he had perhaps not spoken straight. He remained silent for a time, leisurely breathing in the clean highland air and composing himself for his meeting.

    The flat land either side of the road was widening out and, there, more houses were seen of hardy brick, simple but well-constructed. Tristan watched with vague interest as a hairy dog barked at him, as if it wanted something, and tried in vain to run at him, shooed away by one of the guards at its lunge. And, there, a large wooden sign was jutting out of the ground, reading Caedor. This was, indeed, the place then.

    He rolled his shoulders back and released the remaining leather ties on his coat, now fully revealing just how expensive and regal his clothes really were; as true an indication of his status as any, from a distance. He pulled back the coat around his knees also, feeling much less stuffy already.

    It’s not nearly as cold down here as I’d expected.

    Well, it’s only the mountains where it gets really cold this time of year, the driver replied confidently, as if he were an expert. The highlands filter the warm air from the sea with the cold from the mountains, I suppose. I don’t know.

    He shrugged, no longer appearing quite so confident. You are a traveller. You know. My status does not diminish truth. Good enough though, Tristan thought. That would do.

    I can see that now, obviously, but because it’s colder for a patch down south, people exaggerate it like folklore, apparently. Seriously, you’d think it was fucking magic from the way some people talk about it.

    Forgive me, Sir Tristan, if I’m too bold, but it sounds like you’ve been talking to the wrong people.

    Tristan’s eyebrows shot up and a smirk materialised, easing the driver’s newfound nervousness at having said such a thing. He patted him on the back.

    No need to apologise. No points of favour deducted for speaking the truth. Not while our Emperor rules.

    The carriage rumbled round a sharp corner to the left, the flat land now opening up. There were many buildings here, a few of them considerably bigger than others. He spotted the spire of a church, sharp on new found sunlight, the roof of what might have been a granary, tall and rounded. As the carriage was pulled along down the long, straight road, people outside their houses stopped and stared, while others came out from their houses just to see what the commotion was all about.

    It occurred to Tristan that an imperial carriage flanked by four horsemen clad in Aurailian armour entering their isolated little town must have been quite a sight. He smiled at the thought, and imagined what might have been going through their heads as he stared into their eyes. He of noble stock, of a southerly complexion, and indeed by his thin nose and smooth face identifiable as the son of a lathe-man; there was no mistaking his outlandish comport for that of even a highland lord. He was feeling good about this all of a sudden. He nodded at each and every one of them and, in return, a few of them bowed and curtseyed to him. From the opposite direction, a young child of seven or eight years ran towards them with great enthusiasm in his bound. As seemed to be a theme of this place, he wore a simple, yet smart, leather getup, and his length of dark blonde hair was swept back neatly at either side of his head, wind-whipped where it hung just below his ears.

    When the boy reached them, he paused for breath, and then walked backwards in a charming fashion, rather than simply turn around, keeping level with the carriage, and Tristan in particular.

    Afternoon, young man, Tristan said with gusto, tipping an imaginary hat.

    Are you here to see my father? the boy said excitedly.

    Who’s your father then?

    He’s called Lennord Brodie, the boy informed him.

    In that case, I most definitely am here to see your father.

    You’ll want to see his inventions then?

    "That is why I’m here."

    My name is Isaac, by the way, the young boy continued, obviously eager to please.

    Sir Tristan, at your service.

    Tristan leaned in to the driver and patted him on the shoulder, at the same time keeping an eye out for the man he was supposed to be meeting.

    Just steer this thing over here and set it steady.

    What about your sleepy friend back there?

    Leave him be for now; I’ll wake him when I need him. Besides, he’ll probably get terribly vexed if we disturb his hibernation before it’s time, Tristan snorted in jest.

    He clambered down from the carriage and brushed his jacket down, smoothing it out that he might look appropriately smart, running finger and thumb down the wavy folds either side of the buttons. He tilted his head on one side and smiled at the boy.

    Lead the way, young master Isaac.

    The boy called Isaac laughed at the tall man’s forced peculiarities, and hurried on ahead, with Tristan striding in tow, doing his best to uphold his status with his presence and posture alone.

    At the end of the straight road, before it veered into a sharp right turn, a door opened, and in the doorway stood an ordinary-looking, blonde man of few more than thirty years, seeming extremely anxious. The anxiousness turned to puzzlement the moment he got a good look at the man he was supposedly going to be doing business with. Sir Tristan’s mind worked to anticipate his thoughts: jet black hair slicked back, posture as straight as could be, and his clothes, his ring, and a ceremonial shortsword he wore on his belt were probably worth as much as his house. Most notably of all though, he was very young indeed; no older than, say, twenty, and his face showed supreme confidence. The inventor called Lennord Brodie was right to be sceptical.

    Good to meet you, Sir Tristan said pre-emptively as he crossed the border of the road and onto the man’s land.

    Young Isaac stepped out of his way and watched tentatively from the sidelines. Tristan stuck out his hand forcefully and the bewildered man in the doorway shook it.

    I am Sir Tristan Almaric.

    And I am Lennord Brodie, Sir.

    His brow furrowed, and he grasped for the right words.

    You are...much younger than I had been told to expect.

    Ah, Tristan replied energetically, if nervously. That’s because I’m not a representative of Count Andrews.

    Lennord’s gaze was drawn beyond Tristan, who smiled at the further surprise befalling the man. Above the carriage, a dark green flag of deceptively wispy cloth fluttered in the wind, bearing an image of the great red castle tower of Aurail, Harmony, rising up from a green field, flanked by two smaller towers, Heart and Blood, which bore its likeness of colour. The four guards surrounding it wore grey armour like flint, if flint could cast a shine like the sun that peeked through the clouds, just in time for a fortuitous meeting, and the same picture motif took centre stage on their breastplates.

    I see you carry the Emperor’s banner with you.

    Tristan nodded excitedly in recognition.

    That’s right. I herald from the capital, under direct orders from my liege, Emperor Richard Llambert, fourth of that name, which is why I’m later than you probably expected. The city’s been abuzz with energy recently, very hectic, but now that the coronation is over, the Emperor is keen to get to work at once.

    Very good. Well, anyway, come in, come in.

    Lennord ushered him in and offered him a chair at the dining table. A brown-haired woman of about the same age as Lennord stood waiting with a steaming pitcher already in hand and cups lined up in a row in front of her.

    Would you like some tea? the woman hurried the words. It’s a local blend, so it might not be like the glamorous stuff you’re used to up in Aurail.

    No, I’m sure that would be fine. I quite enjoy sampling different cuisines anyway.

    The three of them were seated at the table now, and Isaac was sitting on a chair at the edge of the room, watching proceedings with barely restrained excitement. Tristan was back to twiddling his fingers on his lap now, playing with words in his mind for an appropriate icebreaker.

    So, I hear you want to do a service for the Emperor, he settled on.

    I really just want the means to conduct my research properly, Lennord replied more bluntly than he had probably intended.

    Fine by me. The Emperor wants you to do just that anyway. As someone who knows him exceptionally well, I can tell you he is quite a relaxed, modern man. He wouldn’t be offended by your bluntness and, truth be told, is very uncomfortable with this accepted notion that the gods will one day bestow him or his ancestors with...magical powers, and many of the other questionable beliefs.

    He waved a hand as if his mocking tone weren’t emphasis enough, very conscious that both husband and wife took stock of this, for better or worse. Tact was required. Lennord and his wife sat awkwardly in silence, seemingly hoping Tristan would have more to say.

    So, Lennord, tell me about yourself, Tristan continued. The Emperor is keen on the idea that the people at the forefront of his renaissance should be more than just names churning out work for him. All men have stories.

    Well, I’m not sure what of interest there is to tell but, okay, I’ll try, Lennord said, already frantically searching his memories for some nuggets that might intrigue his guest. I grew up in County Flatlands, actually. I always wanted to be an inventor I suppose, always playing around with any mechanical devices I could get my hands on, looking for faults in them, and in everything around me, really. I came to County Highlands because I’d heard about some strange metals being dug up around here. Didn’t know exactly how significant it was at the time, of course.

    No one did, Tristan interjected helpfully.

    No, I suppose not. But it was here that I met my lovely wife, Gèyll.

    Lennord put an arm around her and squeezed her arm. She grinned at Lennord, then at Tristan, with such sweetness that he couldn’t help but smile back. Lennord pointed outside to two children playing with a leather ball which was well made considering it was, essentially, a sack.

    That brown-haired boy is our eldest son, Lucian. He turned eleven just a couple of months ago.

    And the blonde boy? Tristan said of the other child, who looked to be a tad younger than Lucian.

    Oh, that’s Lucian’s friend.

    And my friend, Isaac said, from his spot in the corner.

    And your friend, yes, Gèyll replied softly. Why don’t you go outside and play with him then?

    In a minute I will.

    Isaac fell silent again, still watching the three of them, interest fast waning.

    That’s Isaac. He’s our second eldest; he’s seven.

    Yes, we’ve been introduced already. A fine young man, by my reckoning, Tristan said, raising his eyebrows at Isaac, who did the same back at him.

    Lennord leaned round in his chair and pointed through to one of the bedchambers, to an even younger boy with dark blonde hair, like Isaac’s, hunched over a book, meticulously following the words with a finger and silently mouthing each one.

    I don’t know if you can see from where you’re sitting, but that boy there is our youngest son, Marcel. He’ll be five soon. And that’s it. For now, anyway.

    Good man, Tristan said with a smirk. No, honestly, your passion for your family is quite touching. And then there are your supposed talents to consider. The perfect renaissance man, as I think the Emperor would say. Speaking of which...

    Ah, I have a number of showcases prepared already.

    As Lennord carefully lifted a large wooden crate onto the table, Tristan finally took the opportunity to have a long swig of his tea. He had done it out of courtesy, but realised as the steaming drink touched his lips and swept over his tongue that he had been quite parched and continued to drink until it was nearly all gone, conscious to maintain noble composure as he did so. He gasped for air, with his belly now ablaze with warmth he had not expected to find in this place. He lifted the mug to Gèyll and nodded in satisfaction.

    Where would you like me to start? Lennord asked.

    Just do as you wish. It’s your work; I can’t tell you how best to pitch it.

    Lennord reached into the crate and began dumping lumps of metal on the table, some small, some quite large, and of varying shapes, with colours ranging from a dull grey to a shimmering white. Tristan tapped his fingers in time with a silent rhythm in his head, watching with simultaneous interest and amusement in equal measure as the man opposite him started arranging the metals into rows, but kept his mouth firmly shut. Sitting back in his chair, the inventor cocked his head back. His eyes scanned the metals to make sure they were arranged correctly. At Lennord’s side, Gèyll sat calmly, unfazed by her husband’s behaviour. Tristan wrote another mental note; Gèyll appeared to have some involvement, or at least understanding, in his work, and was not a clueless bystander as he had thought.

    This is probably not news to you, Lennord said, but we had better be clear now, to avoid any misunderstandings later. These pieces of metal look different but, as far as I can tell, are all Sèhvorian steel. The pure white one on the end there is the purest of the lot, and somehow stronger for it. All the others seem to have been diluted into alloys of some kind, naturally, mind. Some of them might even be a different kind altogether. Are we on the same level so far, Sir?

    Of course, Tristan said, remembering to straighten his back and place his hands over his knees for a more lordly impression.

    I only ask because I’ve heard reports from as far as northern Alassii of other differences still, in Sèhvorian steel.

    Tristan sniffed, and scratched his nose. He noticed, once again, that he was quite thirsty. The last of his drink seared down his throat and that warm feeling ran through his body again so that, now, the knight was fully content in the welcome he’d been given. Nodding all the while, he placed the mug on the table with deliberate care. In his current state of empathy, he also noticed that the house was quite bare of life, and wished for Lennord to impress him so that he could be granted the money he deserved. This, he chose not to mention, and thought back to the task at hand.

    Yes, I’ve heard that too. And, thus, it bears even less relevance to the Isle of Sèhvor if it’s true.

    I’m sure I could look into it if I had the resources. And even these, maybe.

    Lennord reached into the crate. There was a rustling of a paper and objects clanging together and, when he removed his hand, he was holding a crystal, fairly spherical, if notched, and about the size of a large apple. For the most part, it was a pure white, like the one piece of Sèhvorian steel on the table, though with a flat effect, not shiny, and smudges of red and blue visible below the surface. Tristan’s regal mannerisms slacked and he leaned in, his chair creaking as he peered at the stone, now sitting in the middle of the table, with fascination.

    That’s a fine specimen. Not that I’m as qualified as I hope you are, you understand, but it certainly looks quite special. I travelled here with one of the Emperor’s inventors. I’m sure he’ll have something to say about this.

    "I have some notes written down which I hope he’d find interesting as well. I’ve been experimenting a lot with these things, and the chemical reactions you can make or prolong with them, so I’ve had to write things down. Most of it’s drivel, of course. Most people would find it very tiresome.

    The crystals and steel are at the heart of Lennord’s fascinations, really.

    Gèyll spoke with some excitement, but the simple fact she had decided to speak had piqued Isaac’s interest, who now was looking very bored and whose attention had been shifting to various points around the room for some inspiration.

    There’s a lot going on at the mine, Gèyll continued. It looks like there could be something really intriguing down there.

    Ah, we do have strict safety measures in place, of course, Lennord defended.

    There was silence. Isaac was looking away from everything else in the room, and now back at the group again. Tristan grinned and shrugged to ease the tension.

    You know, you really don’t need to feel so nervous around me. If you can do what you say you can do, you have nothing to worry about. Why don’t you show me what else you’ve got in there?

    Oh, of course.

    This time, Lennord took from the box a handful of parchment rolls and unravelled them on the table, overlapping them and pinning down the edges with the lumps of metal. Tristan dragged one at random to his side of the table and studied it while Lennord was finishing his arrangements.

    In the centre was a cross-section of a cannon, with various annotations linked to it with arrows. He squinted and scanned the paper with scrutiny, not understanding much of the technical explanations. There were two major components, from what he could tell, to these schematics, one being a cut on the weight, and the other, being the most highlighted factor, was a series of mechanical workings linked to a pump which, supposedly of ease, could be used to adjust the height and trajectory of the cannon while its base remained firmly on the ground. It also appeared to have a wider base than most cannons, and stronger wheels to compensate for the added downward force when using the pump.

    A curiosity struck Tristan’s mind. Out of nervousness, he’d read his brief more thoroughly than most would. Pushing the paper away, he leaned back in and placed his elbows on the table, interlinking his fingers in a manner he assumed looked very professional.

    When I read your application, there was no mention of designs such as this one. Why are you branching out? Tristan enquired.

    The application instructions said the Emperor would be looking out for military applications, so I spent a few weeks working on that. It could probably use some tweaking, but...I don’t know yet.

    You should really just take those official statements with a pinch of salt. As far as I can tell, they’re almost always run through the Emperor’s council first, so the wording is not precisely his own. Still, it would be a waste not to use this.

    Twice he slapped his hand on the cannon schematics and grinned in appreciation. In the corner, Isaac sighed and was now impatiently waiting for something interesting to happen.

    I told you that you’d get bored, his mother said. You don’t have to stay here. Why don’t you go outside and play for a while?

    Isaac jumped from his chair and ran to the door. Outside, Lucian and his friend were still playing with the ball, having set up rocks against, presumably, the house of the friend as a means of scoring their little game. Isaac hesitated. He turned back to Tristan and bowed earnestly, if briefly. He cleared his throat.

    Good day, Sir.

    ~

    He darted out the door like a shot and didn’t look back. First of all, the royal carriage was too fascinating not to be drawn to. Aware that he was gawping at the gold and silver swirling patterns, crawling all over it like vines, he, nevertheless, kept running at his own risk. And the guards, too, were high and mighty on their horses that contentedly kicked at the dirt. Lucian was guarding between the rocks, and held the misshapen ball under his foot as Isaac rushed over to them. Isaac skidded to a halt and looked between the two of them expectantly.

    Why were you in there so long? Lucian asked. It can’t have been that interesting.

    I got bored, so I came out here.

    So nothing at all then? Kester said hopefully.

    They’re just talking about royal stuff. But they don’t get bored by it. Oh, but there’s something going on at the mine. That’s what I heard anyway.

    Lucian frowned at him disapprovingly and shook his head as if he had done something wrong. He kicked the ball up and caught it.

    That’s not news.

    Isaac fired the same look back at his brother.

    There’s a wall of Sèhvorian steel stuck in the rock, somewhere down there, Lucian continued, now juggling the round piece of sack. Father told me a couple of days ago.

    Is it the proper stuff? I mean, proper white steel?

    Kester’s curiosity had peaked now, and there was a twinkle in the eye of Isaac. Lucian had seen this and his shoulders drooped at what he knew was about to happen. He sighed deeply in disappointment that he was going to have to tag along. The ball fell, and this time he tucked his hands in so that it would hit the ground. He stamped his foot on it but didn’t look at it, being too busy weighing up the intentions of the two boys standing opposite him. Noticing his brother’s fussiness awakening, Isaac thought simply to run right now.

    I don’t know what it looks like, Lucian said at last.

    We could always look into it ourselves, Kester, inevitably, replied.

    Why would we want to? Lucian insisted half-heartedly, already giving up. We’ll probably stop caring the second we get there.

    You’re being uptight again, Kester said with a daring smirk.

    "I’m not uptight."

    You are, Isaac chimed in.

    Lucian took another deep breath and looked down at his feet, which were now lightly kicking the ball back and forth between them. This is a lost cause for him, Isaac shouted very loudly in his own head, as if drowning out his own thoughts might be enough to make Lucian listen. You may as well make the most of it Lucian, his silent words pleaded to dead air.

    I’ll show you why you shouldn’t care. A few seconds down there, and that’s it.

    Lucian was careful to direct his scorn only at Isaac, not Kester Irvyng, by keeping his sight locked on him.

    You’ve been down there longer than that, Isaac grumbled, now in tow behind the agitated Lucian, who was swiftly leading at the fore.

    Yes. Because I’m older than you.

    They veered off the stone road and cut between two houses to where the next stretch of road intersected. Most of the houses in this section of the village had vaguely been built to line up with one another and save space, by his father’s designs, with enough room for gardens and for the road to cycle round the rows. One could see where his father’s influence ended, and where the older part of the village began, because the houses were scattered haphazardly across the field.

    The group of children made their way through the last row of houses and, as they stepped into the wide open space behind the village where the farms spread out, a strong gust of wind funnelled through the gap between two tall hills ahead, at Caedor’s rear, and raised the dirt around their legs in miniature whirlwinds. A further gust raised it to Isaac’s eye level, and he squinted as he waited for it to settle once more.

    Before the heavy rainfall earlier in the day, it had been surprisingly dry here and, with the amount of miners coming and going, the ground had cracked under their boots. Isaac knew that his father had been helping make a more stable water pump system from the streams in the caves but, apparently, it hadn’t paid off yet. Lucian swerved left and headed for the wooden door set into the hill, now wearing regret plainly for setting a precedent by leading at such a fast pace and for lots of other things, Isaac hoped, but he was determined to see it through.

    He arrived at the door and swivelled round, now also surprised that he was somewhat interested to go inside but, being his older brother who tried too hard to be their father, took comfort in the fact that his interest was reasonable, unlike Isaac’s.

    Having fun yet, Isaac? he said plainly.

    Let’s just go in, Kester suggested, stroking his blonde hair back absentmindedly.

    The door opened fairly quietly as Lucian proceeded into the mine, much to Isaac’s disappointment. He had expected it to creak ominously but, apparently, his father had meant it when he said he looked after everything. Whatever that had meant. Now he thought he knew. The inside, too, was not nearly as dark as he had expected. There were many lanterns hanging from hooks embedded into the wooden beams in the ceiling, which cast a warm light on the dark brown rock throughout the entire tunnel, or at least that of which he could see.

    It was almost completely straight, for far beyond the counting of his thoughts which jumped back and forth to this and that, it caught his attention when, gradually, it curved out of sight. The three of them could see clearly all the way down, with only the immense amount of dust in the air to provide any obscurity in their vision. A short distance ahead, there was a hole in the ground, a makeshift wooden barrier, and a ladder leading deeper into the complex. Isaac fidgeted. Time to see what the fuss was about. Kester and Isaac ran to gather around the hole, while Lucian casually wandered over, not wishing to appear too childish or excitable.

    I wager there’s something down here, Kester said.

    Lucian forced a sigh, but argued no further and followed Kester and Isaac down the shaft, allowing them to take the lead for now. The lower level was even dustier than above, if equally well lit, and they three, not used to this environment, covered their mouths with their hands as they walked blindly through corridors, rocky and thin.

    The others seemed to have the same idea as Isaac. The passageways sloped down at certain points, and they assumed this would lead them to their destination. It was paying off as well, for as the passages widened out, there were varying qualities of white steel ore embedded in the walls in fragments. There weren’t many people down here today either, because his father wanted it cleared to give the Emperor’s funny knight an unhindered tour, at a guess. They only spotted a few men, one alone further down one of the shafts, but they turned off into a different area, immediately short of him noticing them.

    Finally, the white metal fragments got bigger and bigger until, eventually, they came to a dead end and, there before them, was a giant wall with less than half the obscuring rock chipped away, but what had been removed showed what appeared to be one giant, connected sheet of pure Sèhvorian steel, the light of the flames nearby gleaning off its perfectly smooth surface. As the three of them drew closer, the light, from their perspectives, continued to creep all across it, amplified back at them. Kester, who was now stroking his dirt ridden hair once more, flicked one of the lanterns nearest to the wall, and the light ricocheted with stunning majesty all around the cave, shooting through the pile of dust riled from the lantern’s top in what looked like a thick, white beam.

    The lantern’s joyous swaying was slowing and, with it, the light on the shimmering wall seemed still once more. They were all impressed by this discovery, including Lucian, who stared at it with his mouth slightly ajar in awe before he realised this was not how he should be acting. Luckily for him, Isaac was transfixed to the white steel and, though his brother’s amazement was plain to him, it was at his vision’s edge where nothing mattered, for nothing there was white of magic sheen.

    Are we done here then? Lucian managed to spurt out with a certain forced degree of impatience.

    Why would I? is how Isaac replied, blankly.

    Kester saw a pickaxe on the ground and smiled to himself. He stopped stroking his hair and held it down at the back with both hands, relaxing himself for the ensuing hilarity.

    Ho, Isaac, I bet you could smash through that rock if you tried, Kester suggested.

    Even Isaac was sceptical of this, but picked up the pickaxe, with some difficulty, and put his whole weight into swinging it forward, nearly tripping in the process. The axe chipped a few pieces of rock away, mostly just by the fact that it hit, with little to do with anything Isaac did, having stumbled back and dropped the axe. Kester raised his eyebrows and grinned in amusement, and Lucian barely restrained a laugh before remembering none of this was appropriate and cleared his throat, ready to make a point, and make it well. Except, he wouldn’t, because Isaac’s brother didn’t know what he was talking about.

    Isaac, you could hurt yourself doing that. I’m going to tell father, unless you leave with me now.

    But... he started to plead.

    Don’t worry, I’m going to walk, so you’ll have plenty of time to catch me up and stop me.

    Lucian was already striding away and, before long, he was out of sight and his muffled footsteps were just a dull echo. Kester smiled and shrugged, hurrying after his friend, and soon he was out sight, out of earshot, and out of mind.

    Isaac considered going with them at first, but was enthralled by this sheet of shimmering metal. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do even if he uncovered the entire sheet, but there were a few details in particular which grabbed his attention. Lines were carved in patterns in the steel, gravitating towards the centre, which was, as of now, completely covered by rock, and where he had chipped away at it, there appeared to him to be the edge of a picture carving. Such was Isaac’s way that, when he found intrigue in something, he would see it through to a conclusion, be it a proper conclusion, or if the intrigue value was lost for some reason, or otherwise was forced to stop by his parents.

    Though he had not taken in much of what had been said in the house today, the promise of a discovery, the meaning of which was not yet understood by anybody else, had caught his ear. It was that which led him here, even with his brother at the lead, and it was these markings on the metal sheet which towered above him, waiting to be uncovered, which kept his attention now. Such was his temperament that he wasn’t going to allow it to elude him until it more visibly became a bad idea.

    He hauled the pickaxe from the ground and swung as he had before; not learning from his previous mistake, but attacking with determination. The same happened again, with Isaac tripping and falling to his knees, but he had landed the axe well enough, though again not to his credit, and the picture was now ever so slightly more complete. Then more rock crumbled away.

    He continued this process, to hack away haphazardly, sometimes even managing to keep a grip on the handle which, to him, was a sign that he was learning quickly. It made him feel stronger, gave him motivation, as did the image that he was slowly unveiling. The energy he was throwing into this endeavour tired him quickly and, in draining so much energy, he lost track of time before too long. He was absorbed by it, literally in part, for dust and soot settled on his face, like snow unperturbed, piling up on the hills in midwinter, the means by which he understood his extended term down here and, within Isaac’s mind, he was making progress.

    He flung himself at the obstacle and embedded the end of the axe into the softened rock, before rending it free with an almighty tug. Isaac was impressed that his blow had caused such an effect. He touched the lines on the steel. They were incredibly smooth, not remotely hoarse or sharp as he’d expected. He now saw that the part of the drawing visible was that of a head, possibly of a griffin from lands afar, and, as he ran a finger on the lines, a white light began to shine from the cracks. It blended with the reflections so well that he didn’t notice it at first, but soon its colour changed, dark of brown it was, a leaf green flourishing as it brightened, and finally darkening into crimson.

    The light seeped from all crevices. The wall began to rumble. Isaac took large, cautious steps back, fleeing halfway down the tunnel, as his mind already labelled his action. Rock began to fall from the wall, at first around the edge, the trail of destruction spiralling towards the centre. The picture was clearer now, its brightness defying the dust cloud, as was the context. The head had been that of a griffin. There were other large animal carvings, all arranged in an arc around something that was not yet clear. Isaac spotted a sea serpent, a drakeel, a horse of horned head, and many others which he did not recognise or that his excited eyes refused to focus on.

    Now, as the rock around the bottom crumbled away to join the pile on the ground, there was visible what looked like water, connected to the arc of animals in some unseen way. It stood upright with the wall of white steel, shimmering eerily, and swaying at its fancy with more weight and density to it than water did. Finally, the last of the rock crumbled away, revealing in full the semi-circle anomaly. It rippled, the steel rippling smoothly with it, cracking as it undulated like a wave, and something tumbled out that made Isaac flinch, gawp, gasp. A skeleton it was, cloaked in a grey robe, old and worn. It fell onto its back and was still.

    Isaac, again against his better judgement, could have sworn there was something strange about it that he couldn’t quite place and, with his eyes open as wide as they could be, unblinking, he tiptoed through the mass of rock, grey rain stinging him, and took a closer look at the skeleton, as close as he dared. It was much taller than any human he’d ever seen. Seven feet? More than eight feet? Definitely, he decided, his stomach knotting, definitely. And he thought he saw extra bones and layers to the ribcage, though, of course, he was no expert. The skull was not quite the same shape; that he could see clearly, for it had been dented and cracked. A giant, Isaac assumed, half in wonder, half disgusted. Disgust won out. He was going to be sick.

    In addition to all of this, Isaac could have sworn he smelt some sort of gas, pungent like a flower, itchy on his skin, and, suddenly, an immense wave of heat whirled through the portal at him, like a campfire being directed toward him by mountain winds, startling his black-coated hair. It clawed through smoke and, for but a second, through that grey sheet, his eyes perceived the steel itself seem to shiver. This was as much as he could handle. He jumped to his feet, nearly tripping in his desperation several times, and sprinted from the otherworldly device, muttering, in part, every prayer he knew. At the connection between the next two tunnels, he ran straight into a large man who, as he looked upon, he realised was the man they had evaded earlier, and he was in quite a rush also.

    What the bloody hell is going on down here? Why are you here?

    Isaac realised now just how terrified he was, his voice failing to obey him, his mouth thick with phlegm. But he didn’t need to speak. The miner was already gawping at the bizarre event occurring, whose light was mirrored on his rough face, and Isaac was on the run again. The miner’s gait was heavy behind him. Even he was scared, big and tough as he was.

    By the time he made it up the ladder, he felt as if he might make it and, yet, at that same time, there was another rumble from below which almost cost him his footing. And then the tunnel heated up to almost unbearable temperatures. His legs whirred, such that he felt them eating themselves from the inside out, an ache, like acid. They took him for the door and he barged his way through, well aware of the roaring of fire behind him, sweeping through the tunnel far faster than he could ever run. He leapt to one side, throwing his hands out, and he unexpectedly rolled, with a jet of flame ejecting from the cave at a terrifying speed, blowing the door from its hinges and vaporising it to smouldering ash before it could so much as touch the ground. The ground was on fire, fast spreading over the dry earth. Isaac rolled onto his back and crawled away, staring into the abyss of fire from which he knew the miner must not have escaped. Miners, he despaired, and he might join them. Despair laughed, for at the tip of the wave there were flames of utter blackness, just little shoots, ever leading the destruction, licking the cool air like the tongue of a demon’s mouth, intent to cause only pain. Isaac saw despair in the blackness.

    Even from this distance, his hair was singed, and the air all around him rippled with such immense heat that pushed him to impart a shrill scream and, in unison, his lungs screamed for the torment it inflicted. So frightened was he- but a boy that the entire world seemed to melt around. There was just him and the catastrophe before his eyes that could not shut, already playing out in his mind one hundred times the speed, and at the same time a hundred times slow. In that moment, he felt he had been transported to the nameless realm itself, a shadow demon’s toy, and how it loved his terror.

    Chapter Two: Of the Brodies’ Quests

    Atop the tallest hill in the vicinity of the town of Caedor, the orange light of the midday sun that had bathed Isaac in its rays was now cloaked in the shadows of an overcast sky. The grey mass had moved in quickly over the land and was taking with it the shadow of the figure that loomed above him, ever holding its sword out to the north. Isaac looked up from his papers and out across the hills to the town as he waited for the light of the sun to return. He’d sat on the plinth at the foot of the great statue many times in the past and stared out across the wilderness but, this time, it seemed not such an ordinary experience. This time it brought back many memories of his childhood; of playing with his friends when he was younger, of being schooled by his father and following him up to this statue, where he would watch him contemplating the town as a queer, funny little thing that was always one step from perfection, hoping to devise new improvements and inventions.

    And then, of course, at the back of the town there was the entrance to the exhausted and abandoned mine set dead in the hillside, his bane of youth eighteen years past, but not eighteen years dead, not to him. Isaac sat, unflinching, with one leg bunched up as he contemplated this place in his memories. Strange, it was, looking back now, almost quaint; like a dream he could still, somehow, remember from years long past. He had devoted so much time to understanding the phenomenon that had taken a hold of his mind that day and, even now, continued to make efforts to attain further enlightenment, conducting the final pieces of research before he made his move. His father would be leaving sometime soon, for the capital on business for the Emperor, and Lucian would be heading even farther north, to Mürathneè, for ambassadorial research. He intended to go with them.

    So it was that such nostalgia was forced upon him. The town had truly evolved under his father’s guidance, more than he had ever considered. It was such a gradual process but, now that he was on the cusp of leaving it for gods knew how long, he realised just how much better built the houses were, and how much more convenient the amenities were, how piping a fixed chamber pot from a dozen houses into an iron-lined underground reservoir must have been a nightmare to bring his sanity into question, that poor, stubborn, ingenious fool of a father.

    He cracked a smile as he spotted two figures of roughly the same height outside his house that appeared to be gardening; matchsticks to him. He stood up, dumping the papers that were in his hand into the satchel by his feet, and squinted. One had vaguely fair hair, the other dark, being the only major distinction between his sister and mother at this range. His mother was wearing one of her quite plain, green dresses, and Kate was wearing one which she had insisted on making on the basis of expressing creativity but, really, she was an unimaginative young woman and had just copied the design of her mother’s dress, with a few added frills and flower patterns.

    Isaac stretched his arms and took in a long breath of the cool summer air, staring up at the sky where the clouds were condensing to the point where, soon, it would be black as night and, with it, there would be a downpour. To his right, an animal growled. Isaac turned and jumped at the sight of a wildcat staring straight at him, baring its teeth, still scowling and keeping its body to the ground, as if ready to spring at him. Isaac cocked his head to one side and stared directly into the cat’s eyes in a vague attempt to understand it. It was unusual, he thought, for a wildcat to deliberately approach and provoke a human. It looked lost and confused at that, and was probably threatening him in fear.

    He knelt in both respect and caution, and reached for his sword, which was lying on the stone plinth. At first, he held it out, still, and then, in a flash, half unsheathed it, and the cat shot him one last scowl and scurried away. Isaac’s eyes followed it as it disappeared over a sharp dip in the landscape and snorted in amusement at nothing in particular but the randomness of the encounter. He looked east, back to the town again, standing perfectly still on the hill as if tempting the swirling clouds to drench him.

    From the left, something distant entered his peripheral vision, distracting him once more from his nostalgia. A horse was being ridden into town with the great haste that, generally speaking, only a courier, a race, or a soldier’s horse could attain. So, presumably a courier’s horse then. As well as this, the horse was caparisoned, unless his eyes deceived him with imagined refineries; perhaps the banner of the Count, then. He wracked his brain for any more information he had ordered, but could think of nothing. Puzzled, he scratched his head. There was the chance, of course, that the rider was here for another person, despite how little most people around these parts used the Count’s courier service.

    Without real need, he straightened his clothes in an attempt to look more presentable; even at times such as these, where he wore but a simple, brown, leather doublet and a woollen overcoat, he would often unconsciously smarten his appearance. When he’d finished tightening the ties on his studded boots, he leapt to his feet, swung the satchel over his shoulder, and ran for town.

    No more than two or three minutes later, Isaac arrived at the last small hill and slid down the, now damp, slope dexterously, holding his arms out either side to balance himself, before arriving at a slightly clumsy landing where the town proper began. At the end of the road, opposite to where Isaac now stood hunched over, panting for air, the rider was adjusting the saddle on his horse, just outside his house where his sister and mother were now contemplating going inside, as the density and speed of the rain increased at an alarming rate.

    Isaac made slow steps down the middle of the road, trying to work out if he might have seen the rider before. The cloth on display was clear now; a clean cut silk, by the look of it, depicting Count Andrews’ crude, abstract standard of a black falcon on a grey-green background. Next to it, smaller than the primary picture, was printed a picture of an opened envelope, signifying his status as a courier.

    The man mounted his horse, a great black stallion, and, without further ado, tugged at the reins, and he came roaring down the road at Isaac at such speed that he wondered if he was being expected to take the initiative and move.

    Woah, woah! Isaac shouted, standing firmly in place and throwing his arms out.

    The horse skidded to a halt and reared with a distressed whinny, slamming its hooves down hard on the cobbles. The rider, Isaac now noticed, was a burly hulk of a man who looked like he would come across stern and intimidating even when relaxed at an informal function and, now, he was just one step from dismounting and correcting the young fool who’d interrupted his busy schedule.

    What? the man snapped, surprisingly reserved.

    Isaac was very conscious, now, that the rain was sullying his image, though remained eerily calm in the presence of this man who grew ever more restless by the second. Something sprung to life inside him. He shifted his weight into a relaxed, yet authoritative, stance, and arranged his parted, medium-length hair in a way he thought made him smarter, without appearing overly obsessive to the irritated courier.

    I understand you must have a busy schedule; I’ve played the part myself in the past, but I’m wondering, what is your business here, if you don’t mind me asking?

    The courier pulled his reins tight and dug the stirrups into the horse’s sides, such that it jerked round and the horse’s head nearly smacked into Isaac. Isaac, who saw in his stiff facial response how difficult a person he was, nonchalantly avoided the horse and stroked it, ignoring its somewhat rancid breath, and smiled to deliberately provoke the courier further. Might as well, he wasn’t likely to remove the stick from his arse any time soon. The courier raised a hint of a passive-aggressive grin back at him.

    I have no further business here, he replied.

    He reared the horse, very nearly kicking Isaac in the process, and galloped away without another word. Isaac didn’t turn to see him off, or even to see what havoc he might cause on the way out. He just smiled softly, striking a balance between amusement and bemusement, and continued down the road to his house while brushing his coat clean of the wet mud that had caked it during the courier’s smug theatricality.

    Kate, who was still gathering vegetables, expressed an over-exaggerated frown at Isaac’s muddy aesthetic.

    Never you mind, Isaac said offhandedly, and hurried inside while emulating the very same expression to the young woman.

    In his room, an expansion at the far front left of the original building built half a decade ago, he slung his coat over a hook on the door and slumped into a chair by a small desk on the other side of the bed. From his bag he took several sheets of parchment, protected by a waterproof inner lining, and dumped them on the desk in a pile. He would ask around about the courier later. For now, he would continue with what might prove to be last minute research on the capital of Mürathneè.

    He was interrupted almost immediately by the high pitched screeching of a bird of prey from outside. Though his window was right beside him to his left, the rain was now falling so strongly that he could see but halfway down the road, and his window was beginning to mist up anyway. Again, he blocked it out of his mind for now with the intention of revisiting that oddity later, but even as he turned his attention to his work, the front door shut and the same bird screeched its loud declaration, from inside the dining room this time.

    Isaac dropped the piece of parchment and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms and staring up at the ceiling with an inkling of a smile in humorous defeat, as if the world was trying its very hardest to interrupt him. There was a knock at his door. Isaac shifted his eyes as far right as they could go to accommodate the door in his vision without having to break from his relaxed stance. He paused for thought to humour himself with the possibilities before finally sighing and answering.

    Yes? he said.

    The door opened and Isaac sat bolt upright. In the doorway stood Marcel, his entirely black clothes drenched, his blonde hair sagging over his face, and clutching a bag in one hand. Most notably though, a great eagle, bigger than any falcon he had ever seen, sat comfortably on his shoulder. It stretched out its wings, revealing murky white, downy feathers, and shook all the pent up water from its body. Marcel hid his face from the spray, half-delighted, half-disgusted.

    When the eagle drew in its wings, it assumed a noble pose, its head held high; a posture it may have been trained to do. Or perhaps this was just its way. Marcel shut the door and fell into a chair on the other side of the desk, placing his bag there just as Isaac was scooping his papers into his satchel.

    Marcel looked extremely pleased about something, even through his very sorry appearance. He pushed back the hair from his eyes and used the same hand to wipe the water from his face. The eagle twisted its head and observed with its watchful eyes in what might as well have been admiration at Marcel’s movements, for all the grandness in its stance. Marcel now reached into his bag and removed an envelope made of an expensive and embroidered paper. He placed it on the desk and pushed it towards Isaac, who noticed the seal had been broken.

    What’s wrong? Marcel said in jest.

    One of Isaac’s brows was sharply raised. He stared at the letter and deflated.

    How many people have read this? Isaac said.

    Everyone except you.

    Alright, but hold on. I’ll get some light first. It’s like the middle of the night in here.

    Isaac opened a drawer and rummaged through the cluttered contents for flint and fire striker.

    Is that a Mürathneèan eagle? Isaac asked, not looking up.

    That it is. It landed at Melphor originally, of course, and the courier took it from there.

    Isaac finally retrieved the striker box, but didn’t light his desk lamp at once. He lightly bit his lower lip and leaned back into his relaxed position again.

    Why would he bring that bird with him?

    The cathedral considers it a matter of courtesy that the receiver of the message should see the bird that carried it. I don’t quite understand it myself. I think, maybe, it’s just them showing off, when it comes down to it. Must be a pain, having to escort this eagle across half the county. He was very clear that he had to pay for its food with his own money too.

    Isaac struck steel and flint in the lamp with a ponderous expression, almost as if offended by being enriched with such unique information from a land he had recently been researching so diligently. The fire leapt up and illuminated the magnificent, golden coat of the eagle, and the brilliant green strips on its wings; a sight for sore eyes in what was, by and large, a relatively drab room. Isaac felt warmer already, and at that, was feeling better about his ignorance. Ignorance was the best motivator there was, after all.

    I did not know that, Isaac whispered, half to himself. Still, that might go some way to explaining why that courier was such an arse, having to look out for that eagle for fifty miles of uneven ground.

    "I’m sure he was already an arse,

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1
    pFad - Phonifier reborn

    Pfad - The Proxy pFad of © 2024 Garber Painting. All rights reserved.

    Note: This service is not intended for secure transactions such as banking, social media, email, or purchasing. Use at your own risk. We assume no liability whatsoever for broken pages.


    Alternative Proxies:

    Alternative Proxy

    pFad Proxy

    pFad v3 Proxy

    pFad v4 Proxy