Dragons and Demons, page 3
“Well, um, where do I start? There is an issue with Brandt—”
“Frisha has informed me. I am heading to the cells after this.”
“Great. Moving on. We have worked out some trade deals—”
“Are they profitable?”
“Yes—”
“Then let’s move on.”
“Very well, Channería and Jerea—”
“Farson has already informed me.”
“Right, well, food production is high.”
“There is enough for everyone?”
“And then some.”
“Very good. Next?”
Tieran pursed his lips. “There were problems with some of the nobles, but—”
“But what?”
“I have taken care of them already.”
“Good, then it sounds like you have everything in hand. Is there anything else?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Tieran looking a bit discomfited. “Except for this thing between you and me. I think we need to talk about it.”
Rezkin furrowed his brow. “What thing?”
“About Frisha. It was never my intention to betray you.”
“Betray me? How so?”
“It is just that, well, you were with Frisha and then I claimed her.”
Rezkin sat back in his chair but resisted rubbing his chest where the pain started to tug at him again. “I was not with her, and you did not claim her. She is a grown woman capable of making her own decisions. I understand why she did not wish to be with me, and her reasons were well considered and appropriate. I did not realize she had developed feelings for you, but if she is to be with anyone, I am glad it is you. You will make a good husband for her. You will be capable of giving her things I cannot.”
“Like what? You are the emperor. You can give her everything.”
“Love, Tieran. That is all she really wants. I do not love her.”
“And I do not believe you,” said Tieran suddenly pushing to his feet. He turned to pace the carpet in front of the desk and said, “I know you say that, and I think you even believe it, but I do not believe it to be true. You have feelings for her. No one would act the way you do toward her without feeling something.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“Why would I want to convince myself of your love for my woman?”
“Why would you want to convince me of it?”
Tieran ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “Because I do not want this to cause a rift between us. I do not want you secretly harboring ill feelings toward me or especially Frisha. You are my cousin and my friend … and I care about you.”
Rezkin stood from his seat and rounded the desk. He stood before Tieran holding out his hand. “I hold no ill feelings toward you or Frisha. I will endeavor to always honor and protect you both, as per Rule 1.”
“Right, the famous Rule 1,” Tieran muttered as he took Rezkin’s hand. He met Rezkin’s gaze and said, “But, Rez, I feel so guilty.”
With a tightening in his chest, Rezkin said, “Your guilt is unfounded. Let that go, Tieran. Be happy.”
“Is that another rule?”
Rezkin paused, then said, “No, it is antithetical to the Rules, but it is right for you, I think, since you are not bound by them.”
Tieran took a deep breath then nodded in acceptance. Before he stepped out of the office, he turned back and said, “You know, Rez, you are not bound by your rules either. No one is keeping track. You have free will. You can be happy too.”
Before Rezkin could issue a response, Mage Threll entered the room, and Tieran was gone. Farson slipped through the door behind the mage. She curtsied formally and said, “Your Majesty.”
“Mage Threll.”
A small smile crossed her lips. “You may call me Nanessy, if you like.”
Rezkin tilted his head. “Nanessy. What may I do for you?”
“The mages have been meeting. They elected me to liaise with you since they seem to think we have some rapport—since I have traveled with you, I mean.”
“You are speaking on behalf of the mages, then?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. It is a matter of communication. We desperately need a mage relay. No one here knows how to make one, but since you acquired all of the necessary items, it was concluded that perhaps you know how to make one.”
He nodded. “I know how to construct the device, but I obviously do not know the spells involved, nor could I use them if I did since I am not a mage.”
Her brow furrowed. “May I speak plainly?”
“Please do.”
She bit her lip, then said, “No one here believes you are not a mage. You obviously wield power. We have all seen it used for one purpose or another. If you could put aside your denial for just a little while, we could really use your help.”
Rezkin frowned and glanced at Farson who watched him curiously. He looked back to Nanessy. “I am not in denial. I truly am not a mage. Two master readers in Gendishen confirmed it. But I do seem to possess some kind of power, so I will heed your request. Allow me to think on the problem.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
He held up a hand. “You may drop the honorifics in private, Nanessy.”
She dipped her head and said, “There is one more thing. It has been apparent for some time that you have chosen Journeyman Wesson to be the king’s mage.”
“Yes, is that a problem?” he said, giving her a look that said it had better not be.
“No, not at all,” she replied hastily. She then seemed to think better of her answer. “Well, yes, it is, but only in that he is still a journeyman. It is apparent that he has a firm grasp of his power and can certainly hold his own. He should be raised to full mage status.”
“What is the problem?”
“Well, without the Mage Academy, there is no one to do that.”
“And you want me to do it?”
“Oh, not just me. The others have all agreed that it should be you.”
“Except that, as we have discussed, I am not a mage. It would not be appropriate for me to raise him. If it is to be official and recognized within the mage community, he should be raised by a council of mages. Perhaps you all should create one.”
“Yes, I would normally agree with you, but the problem is, as the king’s mage, he is our superior. Without the archmage, Wesson would be the head of the council; in which case, he would be raising himself.”
“What you are saying is that by choosing the journeyman as my mage, I have put a kink in your chain of command.”
“More like you have unraveled it altogether.”
“If I may,” said Farson. “We could send him to Lon Lerésh or Ferélle to have one of their councils raise him.”
Rezkin nodded. “That is a good idea. It has been some time since I left Coledon in charge of Ferélle. I should send a contingent to check on him anyway. Perhaps Moldovan will go back and do the job he so graciously dumped in my lap. It would be much more convenient if he remained king.” A thought occurred to him, and he said, “Send Yserria as my emissary. She is the leader of two Leréshi echelons bordering Ferélle. For her to be sent into the king’s court, my court, it will be a great show of strength. Erisial may think twice before replacing her. Of course, Malcius will need to go with her.”
“Why?” said Farson, eyeing Rezkin with suspicion. “You care nothing for the sentiments of marriage.”
“I have my reasons. Suffice it to say that it is necessary for him to stay near her.” He looked back to Nanessy. “In the matter of Wesson, will this solution serve?”
She blinked at him as though surprised he had asked. “Yes, of course.”
“Good, then you should prepare yourself. You will be going with me to retrieve Tam.”
“Me?”
“Yes, I may have need of an assistant.”
“No,” said Farson. After meeting Rezkin’s challenging gaze, he said, “You need no assistance. You are capable of retrieving him on your own if he still lives.”
“If he still lives, which we both know is unlikely, he will be in dire need of healing. Healer Jespia is too old for such a journey. I will require Reaylin, and she will require someone who can guide her. Journeyman Wesson will not be there, and I am already familiar with Mage Threll.”
“How familiar?” gritted Farson.
Rezkin ignored him and said, “Besides, having two women along will satisfy the requirements of propriety.”
“Two women, and who else?” said Farson.
Rezkin decided not to tell Farson he intended to take no one because the fewer people he had with him, the smaller the chance of betrayal. He knew it sounded paranoid, and it probably was, so the sentiment would not go over well at that moment. Instead, he said, “I have not yet decided. Right now, I must visit the cells.” He looked back to Nanessy and said, “You and Reaylin should be prepared to leave in the morning.”
He rounded his desk and motioned for Nanessy to depart. Then he followed Farson to the cells with a detour through the kitchen to grab enough sustenance to quiet his grumbling stomach. He figured that randomly stopping in for food, himself, would reduce the chances of being poisoned again. Although he had just eaten enough for an entire meal and then some, he was still hungry as he strode through the winding corridors.
It was unclear if he was ascending or descending without peering through the windows since the entire structure contained no stairs or ramps. Somehow, the design of the building and its enchantments defied basic engineering principles. On the way, he spied Journeyman Wesson and bade him to join them.
“I heard you were awake,” said Wesson. “I am very glad to see it. You had us all worried.” Rezkin nodded, and the journeyman said, “Where are we going?”
“To the cells. I understand there is an issue with Brandt.”
“Um, yes, I have studied them quite closely and have not been able to discern which is the real one—if either.”
“We shall see,” said Rezkin.
As Farson guided him toward where they had established the cells, Rezkin surveyed the number of guards in the corridors. It seemed that either quite a few more trained soldiers had immigrated to Cael or the Eastern Mountains men’s training efforts had been successful. He stopped in front of two of the new guards who seemed to be doing nothing more than standing around and socializing. He did not recognize them, which meant it was unlikely he had ever seen them.
Without bothering with introductions, he said, “I need your swords.”
Both guards’ eyes widened, and they quickly saluted with fists across their hearts. Then they both fell into line beside Farson with swords drawn. Rezkin frowned at them. “No,” he said. “I need your swords. Give them to me.”
One of the guards hesitated, and Rezkin could not decide if this frustrated him or if he approved. On the one hand, he was the king, and his guards should do his bidding without question. On the other, anyone living by the Rules would balk at handing over his weapon. Rezkin decided to let Farson figure it out. He took the two men’s swords and continued down the corridor with the soldiers in tow.
The corridor with the cells looked to have once been a small residential wing. The two cells were on opposite sides of the corridor and were secured by identical doors. Only the glowing crystals embedded in the walls permitted light as this corridor had no outside windows.
Rezkin peered through the small, barred window into the cell on his right. Brandt lay on a cot staring at the ceiling. When he turned his head and saw who watched him, he jumped to his feet and hurried to the door. Brandt gripped the bars and said, “Rezkin, I am so glad to see you. They said you might die. I swear, I had nothing to do with your poisoning. I have done nothing wrong. Please help me!”
Without a word, Rezkin turned toward the other door across the corridor where another Brandt already stood watching him through the window. “Rezkin, I am the real Brandt. Please believe me. I cannot say what he has done, but I would never betray you.”
Rezkin glanced at Farson and said, “You have the keys?”
“I do.”
“Open the cells.” Then, to Brandt-on-the-left, he said, “Stand back. We are going to let you out. You will exit your cell and stand against the corridor wall. The striker, the journeyman, and I are watching you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course!”
As Farson unlocked the first cell, Rezkin turned to Brandt-on-the-right and repeated the command. Once both Brandts were out of their cells and standing against the walls, Rezkin perused their persons with a critical eye. He looked for any inconsistencies or defects. He watched the way they held themselves, the most minute of mannerisms, and the way they watched him in return. They were, in all regards, identical.
Rezkin handed each of the Brandts a sword then drew Kingslayer. Both Brandts’ eyes bulged, and they each took a few steps, placing them closer together but farther from him. Rezkin followed.
“Uh, Rez. What are you doing?” said Brandt-on-the-left who was staring at Kingslayer. His eyes shifted to Rezkin’s face just as the other Brandt’s gaze dropped to Rezkin’s sword.
“You had best raise your swords,” said Rezkin.
“B-but there’s no way I can defeat you,” said Brandt-on-the-right, a sentiment that was echoed in similar words by the other Brandt.
Rezkin said, “This is your only chance to defend yourselves. On guard.” Then he swung at Brandt-on-the-right before twisting and striking out at Brandt-on-the-left. Both Brandts blocked his attacks but were hesitant to issue their own. After a few additional swings increasing in both force and speed, they seemed to realize that he was serious. Rezkin continuously switched fighting styles between several he knew Brandt had been practicing. His attacks progressed in intensity until both Brandt’s were pushed to their limits. By the time he disarmed them, Brandt-on-the-right had received several scores to his forearms while Brandt-on-the-left lay on his side bleeding from his cheek and neck. Rezkin motioned to the two guardsmen to retrieve their fallen swords, then dismissed them.
“Bilior!” Rezkin called as he sheathed his swords. The others glanced at each other anxiously. After a minute, he repeated the call to the Ancient, a shape-shifting forest nymph. “Bilior! Show yourself.”
After another minute, an orange-eyed tortoise-shell cat lazily rounded a bend in the corridor and came to sit at Rezkin’s feet. It blinked up at him, then blinked at the two Brandts. Rezkin looked down at the cat and pointed to the twins.
“Explain.”
Brandt-on-the-left eyed Rezkin and said, “Thank you for not killing me.” Then he looked to Farson and Wesson as he gained his feet. He breathed heavily as he said, “Are you sure he is well? He is talking to a cat.”
The cat abruptly began to elongate. Its back stretched upward, its limbs dangled at its sides, and its head sprouted twiggy vines from which swayed feather-like leaves. The creature’s eyes enlarged, and the catlike visage was replaced by that of an animated tree. The sound of rain rattled throughout the corridor.
Farson jumped back and drew his sword as Wesson erected a shield ward across the corridor. Unfortunately, the Brandts were on the other side of the ward with the Ancient, and both looked as if they might run away.
“Stay!” Rezkin snapped, gaining the attention of both.
“What fiend is this?” said Farson, stepping to Rezkin’s side.
The fiend in question said, “The Shattered One calls, the we do answer.”
Ignoring Farson’s query for the moment, Rezkin pointed to the Brandts and said, “What is this? Why are there two of them?”
“Thee thinks ’tis known by the we. Should it be? Two of them we see.”
Although his words had the sound of denial, the creature’s large, blinking gaze suggested the hint of unshared knowledge. Rezkin took a step toward the fae being, causing its leaves to rattle and limbs to shake. He said, “You know what this is. Tell me. Is either of these men really Brandt? Has something happened to him? Do not forget our deal. You were to provide my people with safety in exchange for an army.”
Bilior’s twiggy hands turned up toward the ceiling, and he seemed to shrug. “No harm befalls the friend of thee. He be safe within the we.” Bilior’s gaze slid toward the Brandts, then his body followed. He slinked toward them, bouncing and lurching with an unnatural gait. Tendrils of vines snaked out from his hands to caress the Brandts’ faces. Both Brandts flinched as the vines slipped across their skin, and they each looked to Rezkin as though pleading for him to save them.
“What is that?” hissed Farson.
“That is an ancient,” said Rezkin.
“The one with whom you made the deal?” said Wesson.
“The same.”
Wesson said, “You think he has something to do with this?”
“We shall know shortly.”
Bilior’s form abruptly began to shift again, this time taking on a decidedly feminine human physique. Blond hair sprouted from its head, and its eyes turned pale and bright. Soon enough, Farson, the Brandts, and Rezkin were staring at Mage Nanessy Threll.
Farson’s hand quickly went to his hilt. “No!” he growled, “Not her.”
Rezkin stayed the man’s hand. “Be calm, Striker. She is elsewhere, unharmed. Bilior takes on the form of a man—or woman—to make communication easier.”
“So,” said the false Nanessy, rubbing her hands together as the real Nanessy sometimes did when she was anxious. “This is a little embarrassing, actually. You see”—she paused, looking at Farson. “You are upset.” She patted her torso and said, “I apologize. This form is easier to hold because it bears the power.” She pointed at Brandt-on-the-right and said, “He is the real Brandt.” Then she pointed at Brandt-on-the-left. “And he is the real Brandt.”
“How is that possible?” said Rezkin.
“Well, one of the lesser—one like me—”
