Keaen: Tethys, #1

By Till Noever

Once upon a time, more than a thousand years hence, on a distant world called 'Tethys', in the kingdom of Keaen...

Armist and Tahlia, siblings in love, now destined to be separated forever.

Caitlan, Weaponsmaster of the Castle; a man with divided loyalties, having to choose between helping his friends or serving his ruler.

Ailin, a tavern wench with a secret that could cost her life.

Pandrak, emissary of the Magices of the Isle of Skele; a man charged to preserve century-old traditions at all cost.

Armist and Tahlia attempt to escape their fate, and in so doing they set into motion events that will reverberate throughout their world and change the future of the people of Tethys forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Till Noever
• Release date: Oct 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005042523

Till Noever

For a detailed bio please go to => https://www.owlglass.net/about-me

Book preview

Chapter 1

When Armist entered the cavernous Salle of Ancestors he did so with trepidation and the knowledge that time was running out. He knew why his father had summoned him here, and the knowledge was neither pleasant nor comforting.

The high, vaulted ceiling loomed above. Massive, age-darkened tika beams arched into a peaked dome, their outlines merging in the gloom with the slabs of stone they supported; uncontaminated by the light of day, shrouded in darkness since the day the last stone of Wherol Tower had been put into place many centuries ago. In this inner sanctum of Keaenean tradition daylight was an intruder. The images of the former Keaens, arrayed in two parallel rows along the curved walls, would have resented its presence. Instead, a dozen oil lanterns hung on the walls. The light from their flames caressed the paintings, some of which seemed to come alive under the touch, to move and twitch, and look this way and that, not content with having had their time of glory and power, but keen to intrude upon the lives of those who succeeded them.

Armist took another step into the salle. As always, it seemed to enfold him like a stone womb, oppressive and claustrophobic. His ancestors, distant though they might be, glared down at him from their lofty positions on the wall with disapproval, almost as if they knew what was going on in his mind. Though he was a man now, not a boy, they wanted to cower him into submission with their glowering, full of reproach and silent accusation.

The desire to leave this place—not just this room but the castle and all it represented—was almost overpowering. He took a deep breath and stepped closer to the massive round table that defined the center of the salle, hoping to find somebody sitting in one of the twelve ornate, high-backed chairs which surrounded it.

Surely, Tahlia would be here by now. She was never late.

Soft footsteps and the rustle of skirts on the stone floor startled him.

He turned toward the sound.

How could he even think of leaving?

His sister smiled at him and with that smile transformed the salle into a thing of beauty. From her fine, olive-skinned features a pair of dark brown eyes studied him anxiously.

She stepped nearer.

There you are! she whispered. I was looking for you in your quarters, but they said you’d already left.

Armist made a significant gesture and took her hands in his, pulling her closer to the table and the center of the salle. In Castle Keaen, private conversations were better held as far away from walls as practicable; even in the Salle of Ancestors. Armist knew of at least three listening holes concealed behind the upper row of portraits.

Tahlia followed him, her face anxious and troubled.

Do you think he going to tell us? she murmured.

"The Festival is in three weeks. You are eighteen. I am twenty-five and long overdue for the fael. Why else would he meet us here?"

I don’t want this!

Her voice was desolate.

Armist squeezed her hands. They were cold. He resisted an urge to enfold her in his arms and comfort her. But no matter how much he wanted to, such a gesture was not advisable at this time and in this place, where they could be interrupted at any moment and unseen eyes might even now be watching their every move. A public demonstration of the deep affection between them would result in severe censure. It might have been acceptable five years ago; and then only just. But not anymore. Any indication of their attachment would be taken to indicate serious illicitness.

I wonder what expediency dictates, Tahlia said bitterly.

Her hands fell away from his.

Who will it be? Lydd? Ilkred? Tegel? Kiefer?

Her voice was sad and resigned.

A flash of anger surged through Armist.

How could they do this to her?

Damn the Covenant! he rasped.

Despite her disenchantment with her fate, Tahlia felt compelled to enunciate the official line.

The Covenant keeps the peace. The Covenant unites Keaen.

Armist turned away from her to stare at the ancestral images along the walls. Whatever he was searching for continued to elude him. A semblance of himself or Tahlia maybe; an inclination of the head, a look in the eyes, a quirky expression of the mouth. Something telling him that he was indeed one of the long lineage of Keaens; that he belonged here and into this role mapped out for him.

But he beheld only the baleful stares of strangers, even more remote from him than his own father. Nothing to elicit resonance or sympathy, or to make him feel a part of this grand tradition spanning almost a millennium.

Armist turned back to Tahlia.

The price for peace is too high. At least for us!

Tahlia appeared troubled. Still she persisted—stubbornly and irrationally, Armist thought—in depending their place in the scheme of things.

Like it or not; we are instruments of the Covenant.

So? And what of our own needs and desires? I cannot recall us having been asked for my opinion in this matter.

She placed a hand on his arm.

We accepted the privileges of our rank. Was this not implicit consent? It seems wrong to shirk our responsibilities now.

Armist felt the warmth of her hand through the fabric of his sleeve.

"Years ago we were children. How could we possibly have made such momentous decisions? All we knew was what they taught us!

Who ever asked us if this is what we wanted to be? Who asked our mothers if they wanted to be impregnated by the Keaen? And if they had been asked… Do you truly believe they could have refused him?

The lanterns on the walls reflected as pinpoints of light from Tahlia’s eyes. Her soft, near-black curls accentuated the fine contours of her face, now was troubled and uncertain. Maybe there was even a trace of despair. Armist knew only too well that, despite her earlier defense of the Covenant, she was as reluctant as he to yield to the inevitable. He also admitted, not without at least a hint of shame, that he had none of her excuses for inaction.

Tahlia had lived a sheltered life, deliberately confined to the castle. Outings or contacts with anything that might introduce ‘improper’ elements into her life were decorous affairs, carefully screened and watched over by guardians of propriety such as Lady Teinan. Despite this, Tahlia’s rebellious streak had prevented her from submitting completely to the doctrines of the Covenant. She had sought out Pandrak’s and Caitlan’s tutelage; which they had given to her as willingly they had given to him; all that despite general disapproval from the conservative elements at court. Fortunately, it had never been contentious enough to occasion the Keaen to officially forbid such activities. Instead, it was may well have been a source of amusement to him that the Flower of Keaen learned the arcana of mathematics and how to wield a rapier. It was a novel notion, to be sure, but it appeared that the Keaen had considered it harmless enough.

Not so harmless!

The teaching had prevented Tahlia from completely submitting to the official doctrines; not enough to incite open rebellion perhaps, but sufficient to allow her to retain a sense of perspective.

Armist, in contrast to his sister, had been exposed to life outside the castle at some length. He also had traveled to Cedrea on several occasions and had made clandestine forays into Keaen City, usually in the company of his friend, Juiles. Life, as he had learned, had many different faces. The view from his lofty position as the Young Keaen was only one of many. Over the years, that knowledge had contributed greatly to his own disenchantment and the doubts that continued to nag at him.

And what had he done about it?

He had known that this day was coming and done little to prepare for it, and even less seriously considered what decisions he might have to take when the time arrived. He simply had not known what to do. Still did not know; even now, when the fate of his sister was about to be decided, and time was running out for both of them. Going someplace beyond the reach of the Keaen and everything he stood for… That was the only alternative he had been able to conceive of.

But how could he do that and leave Tahlia behind? He was responsible for her. There was nobody else. Indeed, she possibly was the only reason he had not absconded years ago; why he suppressed the nagging questions about his mother’s fate; why he succumbed to the rituals of the court, when everything in him screamed for release.

I wish…

The sound of approaching footsteps.

The words died in Armist’s throat.

Muted voices grew louder and more distinct. Tahlia let go of his arm. They hastily stepped away from each other and faced the entrance.

Hain the Keaen and his seneschal, Sir Fyrzig, entered the salle. Hain paused briefly, his gaze raking over his offspring. As always, Armist felt as if the layers protecting his privacy were being stripped away under that scrutiny. At the level of reason he knew this not to be true, but that did not help him to deal with the impact of his father’s overpowering personality; with the force of the Kean's pale blue eyes, which, by a trick of the dim light of the salle, at this particular moment appeared almost black.

Armist gave a precisely measured bow of his head, hoping it conveyed appropriate deference without expressing submissiveness.

Tahlia curtsied perfunctorily.

Hain’s stocky, compact form approached them, followed by Sir Fyrzig’s tall, gaunt frame with the precise, dignified gait of a Teela stork.

Hain stopped and considered his offspring for a few moments, his face devoid of any trace of warmth.

He motioned to the table.

Sit.

They positioned themselves around the table according to protocol, with Hain in the place of honor and Sir Fyrzig standing off to one side, behind his ruler’s chair. On the opposite side of the table Armist pulled out the appropriate chair for Tahlia and waited until she had seated herself, before taking the chair next to hers.

Hain studied them in silence from across the expanse of bare tabletop. Again Armist felt stripped and exposed. He responded by putting on what he considered to be the blandest face possible. Under the table he felt a nudge at his leg where Tahlia’s sandaled foot was touching him for reassurance.

The Festival draws near, Hain said, his face settling into the facade of the occasionally benevolent but always implacable ruler; the same countenance offered for public consideration.

This is the year of Tahlia’s maturation, he began. Now she must submit to her destiny. I have selected one of the eligible Barons as her husband-to-be. On this next Habaday, the Magice will pronounce the Binding, and thus confirm the bonds between the noblemen and the House of Keaen.

He placed his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers, considered Armist for a moment.

"Tradition also dictates that, at the same time, the Young Keaen shall undergo the fael. You have had to wait an inordinately long time to assume the privileges of your rank. That wait is now over. We will announce your maturity. Your blood will be drawn and burned. You will recite the oath of fealty, and be confirmed as my successor."

Hain’s voice took on an admonishing tone.

Because of this it is imperative that the emphasis of your training should shift to matters more germane than swordcraft, languages and the other arcane arts taught by the Magice. Affairs of state will soon require your attention. It is time that you partook in them to a greater degree. Sir Fyrzig will do his best to introduce you to matters which you have so far neglected.

Sir Fyrzig, hearing his ruler pronounce those words, nodded with the air of a man who knew that he had much wisdom to impart.

Hain leaned back and studied Armist for a moment.

Swordplay may be more to your liking than the apparently mundane matters associated with statecraft. But, as you will find soon enough, there will be much here to fascinate and involve you.

Armist bowed his head, using the opportunity to break eye contact with his father. When he looked up again, Hain’s attention had shifted to Tahlia.

Am I to know who is to be my husband? she asked, a trifle tartly.

The tone did not escape Hain. A brief cloud of displeasure passed over his features, before they settled back into their previous configuration.

His voice became a trifle crisper.

That is not appropriate. Only I know. It will remain that way until the day of the Festival, when I tell you whom to choose. This is as it should be, and this is how it will be.

Hain made as if to rise, then bethought himself. He gave Armist another moment of scrutiny.

I also expect that from now on you will consider more carefully the choice of your friends.

With that cryptic remark he rose, and his offspring followed suit.

Hain nodded at Sir Fyrzig.

There is much to be prepared and little time to do it. Ensure that everything required is done.

The seneschal bowed.

It shall be done, Sire.

Hain, with a last brief nod at the two young people, turned and headed for the exit. Sir Fyrzig followed him at a precise distance and with his usual deliberate gait.

Armist and Tahlia stood staring after them until they had disappeared from sight.

Armist took Tahlia’s arm.

Let’s go for a walk. I need to breathe the open air.

She eyed him sideways, but said nothing. They turned down a passage and walked past a heavy oaken door covered with and fortified by an ornate wrought-iron framework. Two sentries armed with long swords and curved rectangular shields stood like frozen statues, one on either side.

Armist cast a dark look in their direction. He remembered every occasion on which he had been allowed into the sacrosanct precinct of their father’s private quarters. A library, a workroom and a bedroom. The center of power in this land.

To think that one day these quarters would be his; that he would know things carefully concealed from him now. Matters only the ruler, Sir Fyrzig and the Magice were cognizant of.

Then the men standing here would be guarding his safety. They would do whatever was necessary to ensure these quarters remained inaccessible to all but himself; as well as the housemaid, who, every day and under the watchful eyes of two members of Harrap’s elite corps, cleaned the rooms and replaced the linen on the Keaen’s bed.

Of course, when Armist took up residence here, different guards would stand in this corridor, staring unblinkingly at the masonry of the opposite wall, as if they had no purpose in their lives but to do as they had been trained; unquestioning and obedient.

Armist shuddered and hastened Tahlia along. He did not want those quarters. Ever.

He resumed breathing without feeling that there was a tight band around his chest only when they gained the freedom of the parapet and the open air. A gentle breeze blew across from the Limpic Ocean. They stood in silence for a while, leaning on the balustrade, looking out across Keaen’s port and the sprawling city beyond; the harbor quarter with its taverns and pleasure-houses, encircled by the chaotic assembly of buildings and streets that was Tensel Close, where was conducted most of the city’s business and which housed the majority of the city’s populace. Beyond it, the houses thinned to become farms, which spread over most of the Western Flatlands on the other side of Fingael Bay. To the southwest lay the waters of the distant Gulf of Skele, and—somewhere below the horizon, surrounded by the waters of the Limpic Ocean—the Isle of Skele and Nameless Keep, where the Magices went to be trained.

Armist glanced at Tahlia, who wistfully pondered the landscape. Caravella was slanting down toward the horizon. The sky slowly assumed a ruddy complexion, bathing the land in the bright glow of distant fire. Soon the sky would turn green, then pink and blue; before daylight surrendered dominion to the dark of night.

Armist, what are we going to do? Tahlia whispered. In a few days they’ll separate us forever. I will be sent off to some ghastly place in the provinces to live and share a bed with a man I’ve never met and whom I’ll hate. She made a soft, fretful sound. The thought of any of the Barons becoming my husband is really too horrid to contemplate. Still, contemplate it I must.

She turned to Armist. Caravella’s light caught in her hair and framed it in a halo of fire. Armist felt his throat tighten; not just because of his total impotence, but because of his knowledge that any alternatives he might be able to offer would only bring her more grief than her predestined path.

Still, was that really such a certainty?

If only she did not feel so bound by her obligations.

What could he possibly say to her to change her mind and make her see things from his perspective?

Besides, there were other problems.

It happened again, he said.

Tahlia’s eyes widened. When?

Earlier today. When I was training with Caitlan.

Did he notice?

Armist shook his head.

Nobody ever does.

~~~

He had known it was a feint. He saw it coming and discerned the intention behind it. Yet his body’s reactions betrayed him. Caitlan’s blade, which only a moment ago had appeared committed to hitting his shoulder, now descended in a tight arc whose end point coincided with Armist’s wrist.

Armist cringed because he could see the inevitable outcome. Whatever he did, it would be too late. There simply was no time to avert calamity.

His body ignored his intellect’s judgment. Instinctive reflexes, which only a moment ago had forsaken him, now worked to counter the move. Armist’s rapier came around in a clockwise arc. Its tip touched the heavy blade as it swooped down. Metal touched metal with a sharp grating sound.

In a contest between two such unequal weapons the wielder of the lighter one had to learn how to use the attacker’s inertia to deflect, rather than counter. Still, in this case the momentum of the Weaponsmaster’s blade, supported by the strength of the individual behind it, would force his own aside. The best Armist could hope for was that it would land on his guard instead of his hand or wrist.

Armist tensed until he felt that his muscles must surely snap and braced himself for the impact.

The descending blade froze in mid-air. Caitlan froze. Armist stood transfixed. His rapier dropped away. The point came to rest on the floor.

Now?

It had never happened when he needed it!

The scene was getting familiar, after several similar incidents during the last few weeks.

The world around him had congealed. Yet he could move; even breathe! And those objects in immediate physical contact with him, like the rapier, appeared unaffected, at least long as the contact was maintained.

Armist opened his hand and let go of the rapier’s pommel. As expected, instead of dropping to the floor, it remained suspended in mid-air. He grasped it again and it reverted to its ordinary state.

For a time he had thought that these fugues were fabrications of his imagination and that he must surely be going mad. One day, however, despite his terror, when the fugue came upon him he performed some tentative experiments. Move a chair. Empty a cup. Use a knife to cut a notch in a table.

When everything had returned to normal—as abruptly as it had started—he found that he had indeed done all those things.

He performed another experiment, suspending a cup in mid-air above a table. He stood back, closed one eye and watched the cup very carefully against the background.

It moved; almost imperceptibly, but there was no doubt about it. Which meant that time had not frozen altogether, but was merely passing very slowly.

So, he wasn’t crazy! That had frightened him even more. If this was real, the implications were terrifying. He desperately needed guidance, but found that Tahlia, his only confidante, was as scared and helpless as he.

Who else was left? Should he tell the Magice? Was he willing to live with the consequences of being identified as one with ‘talent’? Caution advised against it, despite the fact that he considered Pandrak a friend. The discovery of a talent within himself might lead to even more strictures on his freedom.

And then… Maybe his greatest fear… That the Magices of the Isle would find out. There was no doubt in his mind; they would be very interested indeed in a man who could make time stand still.

Armist studied the frozen Caitlan. It wouldn’t take much to displace the sword just enough so that, when everything reverted back to normal, it would give him an advantage, and maybe even allow a suitable riposte. If he twisted the wrist slightly, to change the angle of the weapon…

He dismissed the thought. It would not do. Not with Caitlan. The Weaponsmaster would wonder; maybe ask questions that must not be asked.

Armist heaved an inaudible sigh. He raised his blade and placed it back against Caitlan’s, though in a slightly more advantageous position, angling the rapier a little more favorably in order to give himself more leverage.

He inspected his new position and found it as satisfactory an arrangement as he could hope to achieve. Then he relaxed and prepared himself to wait until the fugue passed…

Caitlan’s sword continued on its trajectory, was deflected by the rapier. Armist noted the astonished widening of the eyes behind the grid of the Weaponsmaster’s mask. Still, the weapon had enough momentum to smash on to Armist’s guard with brutal force. It slid off, and impacted on his wrist with sufficient force to numb him and make the rapier drop from his paralyzed hand.

Caitlan raised his weapon, stood back, and saluted the loser.

Well done! You’re still dead, but well done. That parry was an excellent example of how to turn a mistake into a fighting chance for success.

Armist, massaging his sore right wrist, grinned lopsidedly.

I don’t know quite what happened there.

It was, he reflected, not too far from the truth.

Caitlan shrugged. "

In combat something more fundamental than our perception is at work. The combatants seldom truly perceive what actually happens. They either know or they don’t."

In this case it seems you didn’t, Armist noted dryly.

Caitlan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

Even I am not perfect.

He placed his weapon on a nearby ledge, took off his mask and undid the protective shielding around his own hand and wrist. Armist followed suit.

Enough for today, Caitlan said. You might wish to see Pandrak about some of his special ointment. It’s said to do wonders for painful joints and muscles.

Armist gingerly moved his right wrist. He grimaced with the pain.

Don’t feel inadequate, Caitlan said. Duels involving unequal weapons are the most difficult. But you can’t rely on your enemy obliging you by choosing his weapon to suit your needs.

Again he clapped Armist on the shoulder.

You’re good at this, Armist of Keaen. You’ll defeat the vast majority of your opponents. But the ones you defeat don’t matter. It only takes one better than you to do you in.

Armist felt a brief surge of guilt when he thought of how he hadn’t really earned Caitlan’s last compliment. Without the strange time freeze to assist him he would have been in much more pain.

To cover his unease, he smiled at his tutor and glanced at the ornate time piece on the far wall of the training hall.

I have to go. The Keaen wants to see me.

Caitlan nodded.

When the he summons, one does not dally.

He made a negligent gesture and picked up the sword and an oil-soaked cloth.

We’ll continue this tomorrow at the same time.

~~~

Armist finished relating events in the salle.

That’s the third time in as many weeks, Tahlia said anxiously. Please be careful!

I intend to, but…

His voice trailed off.

But?

He took her hands.

It cannot go on like this. Whatever is happening to me is a Magice thing, and a Magice may not become Keaen.

It’s all working out in your favor then, Tahlia said dryly. Just tell Pandrak, who will of course investigate. If you’re right, he’ll inform the Keaen. You’ll be instantly relieved from all duty to the kingdom.

She shrugged sadly.

Unlike me, you’ll have a legitimate reason to extricate yourself from this whole affair.

"I wish it were that simple. No talent Pandrak’s ever mentioned bears any resemblance to this…thing. So, what does that make me? A freak? A new kind of Magice? What?

Pandrak informing the Keaen isn’t what really concerns me. I fear much more that he’ll tell the people of the Isle, as we know he must.

They might be able to help you.

I don’t want their help. They’ll just take me away from here. From you.

Not if you don’t want to.

Those with talent have no choice in such matters.

Oh Armist.

She hugged him. "

What are we going to do?"

Her voice was muffled by his clothes. They stood in silence for a while, thinking their private thoughts. Finally, reluctantly, they separated. Armist looked out over the dark waters of Fingael Bay and the flatlands beyond.

"I don’t want to undergo the fael or swear an oath of fealty, which I have no intention of keeping. Neither do I want to be given official blessing to impregnate any female I happen to take a fancy to. All in the name of the Covenant, of course. There’s nothing in this whole charade I want."

Tahlia touched his face.

"You have to want something."

He took her arm and led her further along the battlement. They proceeded to walk slowly around the curvature of Tynwand Tower.

I want to be where I can make sure you’re safe. But I don’t want to be Keaen. I want nothing to do with this place; wouldn’t be here anymore, if…

He fell silent, but she knew. How could she not?

Anyway, I must find out what’s happening to me. What it will mean for me. What it tells me about who I am.

Please be safe!

I’ll do my best. But I need to know! Why did she have to die? She didn’t kill herself. She wouldn’t have!

It’s been so long. How can you ever know?

Armist gazed across the bay where a tall-masted ship cleared Cape Tilfer and gained the freedom of the ocean.

I wish I had been able to know her, he said bleakly. But all I have are inklings of things lost. I wonder what she smelled like. What it was like to be nursed by her; before they took me away. Her touch. The sound of her voice.

Tahlia squeezed his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. In silence they continued their circuit of the tower’s battlements and stopped again at the northern side.

What will you do? she asked.

Armist shrugged. Somewhere out there, beyond the rolling hills on the horizon, lay Cedrea, the place of his birth.

I want to leave. But you know I can’t.

It would be terribly dangerous, she said. Such a thing is unthinkable! Father would be livid. He would search for you everywhere, and if he found you— she swallowed —he’d show you no mercy. Not only would you be disinherited, but you’d be punished as a traitor.

It wouldn’t be much worse than what’s about to happen to me here. And to you!

At least we’d be alive.

Alive? What kind of a life are we to look forward to? You in the bed of someone you despise. The two of us separated forever. Our lives ruled by etiquette, tradition, propriety. I’ll be groomed for what the Keaen calls statecraft.

He considers statecraft important.

Of course he does. I don’t. Neither do you. Nor do you want to be a Baron’s plaything; bearing him ten children; attending to him like a dutiful spouse; presiding over his household; spending your time socializing with the other noble ladies.

No.

Armist smiled.

You’ve spent far too much time with Pandrak and Caitlan; not enough with Lady Fosgiel or Lady Teinan. ‘Too much learning and not enough sewing of seams’, as Sir Fyrzig once commented.

He put an arm around her shoulder.

You’ve exasperated a lot of people at court.

How terrible.

Nice, proper girls don’t learn to wield swords and knives.

Caitlan has always liked me.

He has.

What are we going to do?

I don’t know. And we have very little time left to find out.

Chapter 2

Armist left Tahlia at her quarters in the Thaenic Wing. The door closed behind her. He stood for a moment, uncertain about what to do next. Time was indeed running out. So much had to be organized that he didn’t know where to begin. Finally, in the spirit of procrastination, he chose to return to Tynwand Tower. Pandrak would surely contribute a fresh perspective to the dilemma. Besides, Armist considered Pandrak to be one of his few friends: a tiny group that apart from Tahlia, included only Caitlan; as well as Juiles, the son of a Terganese envoy, with whom Armist had formed a close bond over the last year.

He ignored the lone sentry and knocked on the door to the Magice’s suite of rooms. There was no reply.

Is the Magice in? he asked the sentry.

"He is, Ishni," the man replied, using the honorific appropriate when addressing the Young Keaen.

Armist pounded on the door with his fist. From the other side he could hear a faint response. He chose to regard it as an invitation and let himself in. From Pandrak’s workroom wafted the pungent smells of strange substances. A sudden crackling made Armist jump. It was followed by a string of plangent curses, which caused him to smile. Pandrak was indulging in his favorite pastime; experimenting with what he called ‘energies', derived from such mundane sources as rocks beaten together, or polished wooden rods rubbed vigorously across animal furs. He had also recently managed to combine various obscure substances into mixtures, which when lit would produce noisy and smoky explosions.

Pandrak had hinted to Armist that such experiments might be frowned upon by his masters on the Isle of Skele and that his indulgences should therefore be kept in strictest confidence.

The Magice looked up at Armist standing in the doorway. His face was blackened from the soot his latest experiment had generated. His clothes, a loose-fitting shirt and pantaloons, were likewise soiled.

Pandrak walked over to a basin, turned on a tap, and washed the dirt off his face and hands with the aid of a bar of soap.

Armist watched in silence. Pandrak, barely twenty years older than Armist, was one of the youngest Magices ever to be appointed to the court of a Keaen. He deviated from the example set by the tradition of Keaen’s Court Magices by disdaining to conform with expectation and image, concentrating instead on performing his assigned duties with excellence and vigor. His effectiveness was undisputed, and indeed this was the cause for his assumption of the post at such an unprecedented early age. The competition for the position, after the previous Magice had resigned and returned to the Isle, had been fierce, but none had been a match for Pandrak. In the end, Hain’s father had chosen him only days before his own demise at the hands of unidentified assassins.

Pandrak dried his hands on a cloth and came over to Armist. He nodded pensively.

The Keaen has made the announcement.

Armist, unsurprised at Pandrak’s knowledge, nodded.

Pandrak put an arm around the young man’s shoulders.

Let us talk.

In the adjacent room, which was a clutter of books and instruments ready to burst at the seams, Pandrak freed the sofa by removing some drawings which lay scattered over it. Armist caught a glimpse of the lines on the parchments; however, their meaning and purpose was incomprehensible to him. Pandrak, noting his attention, held one up.

This is a pictorial representation of the reaction I was working with. This— he pointed —is the sulfur, depicted as a potency—

Not now, please. This isn’t a good time.

Pandrak nodded. It was difficult, yes?

They sat.

I don’t know what to do, Armist said sourly. I knew it was coming. But now that the time is here, I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

Nobody ever is.

I’m sure Hain was!

Pandrak smiled.

This is probably true. He would have taken to the office like an elec to the Woods. But that’s rare. Politics is a rough business, and the position of Keaen is a difficult one. Seldom do the man and the office merge without some significant adaptation on the part of the man.

"That’s what I mean! I don’t think I can adapt, even if I wanted to! I have no taste for statecraft intrigues, power games. The thought of becoming responsible for the actions of Hain’s elite corps—"

You could disband it when the time comes. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

Not unless Tergan is willing to dismantle its own squad of spies and assassins.

Armist laughed bitterly.

I want nothing more than for Keaen and Tergan to stop eyeing each other like two rabid dogs. And yet… Listen to me talk! I sound as if I was a warrior just waiting for the next encounter.

You’re not entirely a man of peace, Pandrak replied. Caitlan tells me you’re slowly getting to the point where the pupil will best the teacher. You don’t get there without having more than just a trace of warrior inside you.

Caitlan flatters me. I’m nowhere near to becoming his equal; with any weapon, or under any circumstance. Besides, this is different.

How?

It’s about acquiring a skill that may be necessary for my survival.

Statecraft is a lot like that, Pandrak said. Only that the survival skills are those benefiting a whole nation.

Armist scowled.

Nonsense! Statecraft is just a polite word for the manipulation of people. Did you know that Juiles told me…

He stopped when he saw the expression on Pandrak’s face.

What?

The Magice shook his head.

Nothing. Please continue with your ponderings. They show a remarkable degree of insight into the workings of your future subjects.

But Armist knew his mentor too well.

What did I say?

You— Pandrak grimaced. —bout your friend, Juiles and his father. The Keaen hasn’t told you, has he?

Told me what?

Armist remembered Hain’s remark about choosing his friends more carefully.

Your friend and his father were arrested last night for being Tergan spies. The father has been implicated in attempts to bribe officials and elicit state secrets. The son has been accused of attempting to use his association with you to achieve similar goals.

What?! Armist jumped up. How dare they?

Sit ! Pandrak said sharply. Listen to me!

You knew!

I was told earlier today. But I’ve known for a long time.

Armist looked at Pandrak, aghast.

"Are you saying that these preposterous accusations are true?"

Of course they weren’t! How could Pandrak even contemplate such a thing?

Maybe Juiles’s father…

But Juiles?

Never!

One of the few things Armist was certain of was Juiles’ friendship.

Armist felt a sudden, terrible urgency. He had to clear this up before it was too late. His friend was in danger and if he didn’t help him, nobody would.

Armist looked at Pandrak and saw a stranger.

Juiles is my friend, he grated.

I suggest you speak to him yourself, Pandrak said.

I will! Armist shouted.

Without looking back he hurried out of the Magice’s quarters.

~~~

There was a rap on the door. Caitlan, Weaponsmaster to the Keaen, stopped drawing the whetstone across the blade. He inclined his head and frowned. He didn’t expect anybody; not until the lessons later in the day.

Come!

The door eased open with a creak to reveal Sir Fyrzig.

Just about everybody else would have come to attention at the seneschal’s entrance. Not so Caitlan. He put down the whetstone, lowered the sword he was sharpening and nodded at Fyrzig, wondering what he wanted. Fyrzig was Hain’s right hand; had lesser minions of his own to deal with routine errands. That he should appear in Caitlan’s salle in person was significant enough to merit the Weaponsmaster’s full attention; an attention it was prudent to conceal under a mien of apparent indifference.

What brings you here?

A shadow of annoyance flickered across Fyrzig’s face. He was one of those who thought that Caitlan’s demeanor was far too casual for one of his station.

I was sent by the Keaen, he said, with an obvious and futile effort to bring his irritation under control, to speak to you about his offspring.

What about them?

"The Keaen considers them far too unenthusiastic about the roles they must soon assume. The fael is near. It would be useful if the Young Keaen in particular exhibited a greater inclination to redirect his attention to matters more germane to his future role. You are one of his teachers and a man he looks up to."

The admission appeared to give Fyrzig physical pain.

Therefore you are in an excellent position to influence his attitude, he concluded.

Caitlan eyed Fyrzig as one might a noxious whisperwing, deriving a grim satisfaction from Fyrzig’s discomfort. The dislike between them was mutual.

Still, right now Caitlan took pains to conceal his amusement.

You want me to tell Armist that it is a good and proper thing to become involved in the high art of statecraft.

Fyrzig nodded with almost comical eagerness. Caitlan resisted an urge to kick the idiot out the door.

And, the seneschal added, since the Lady Tahlia is also your student — his tone told Caitlan that this was something totally beyond his comprehension —she might also—

You want me to counsel her to be a good girl and submit to being bartered off to one of Keaen’s Barons.

Fyrzig drew himself up.

Bartered? What kind of a term is that?

One that describes the transaction of the Flower of Keaen being traded for continued amicability and support; without using political double-speak. In this case I suspect the likely candidate is Tegel, to whom she’ll be surrendered to become one of his many abused playthings.

The seneschal opened his mouth. Caitlan made a quick, imperious gesture.

I’ve heard you, Fyrzig.

He carefully avoided any inflection that might have given away his real thoughts.

Advise the Keaen that I will do what I can to convince his children of the need to submit to the exigencies of the situation.

He considered Fyrzig with a carefully neutral expression, hoping that the old schemer hadn’t taken note of the implied equivocation. In truth, he, Caitlan, could do very little to accommodate the Keaen. Armist and Tahlia were far less malleable than either Hain or Fyrzig appreciated. Besides, they harbored a deep shared secret; which, if it became known, would throw the court into turmoil and possibly cost them their lives.

If the seneschal had noticed Caitlan’s dissimulation, he gave no sign of it. Maybe he didn’t consider the Weaponsmaster capable of such dialectic devices. It was a common failing among the courtiers, who only saw Caitlan’s size, muscles and skill with weapons; and immediately assumed that he was an uneducated simpleton who could be manipulated to suit their purposes.

Caitlan had done little or nothing to correct these impressions. They could be useful.

He reached for the whetstone, dipped it into a bowl of water, picked up the sword and drew the stone along its length. It created a ringing that penetrated right through one’s skull. Behind him he heard the door creak as Fyrzig departed in haste.

~~~

The dungeons of Castle Keaen lay underneath the oldest and gloomiest of its wings. Built at the time of the Founders, they were still extensive enough to accommodate all of the Keaen’s current enemies. A tribute, a cynic might have said, to the foresight of the original builders.

Armist had to traverse almost half the castle before descending the winding flight of an ancient stairwell whose steps were worn from use and slippery from the lichens, mosses, and fungi thriving in the dank gloom. This was not a place where one went frivolously. Indeed, it was not a place whose existence Armist even wanted to think about, except maybe in those moments when he pondered on what he could do as Keaen to truly make a difference. Then he thought maybe he would make the dungeons disappear; the stairway permanently sealed off, leaving it to the moulds and slime in perpetuity.

Armist arrived at the bottom of the stairwell and headed straight for a heavy metal door, which defined the actual entrance to the dungeon. A sentry positioned there tried to stop him.

Armist glared at him.

Don’t you dare! he hissed.

The soldier was unmoved.

You cannot enter. Not without authority from the commander.

Armist, still livid, ignored the tone of voice and roughly pushed the man aside. The soldier resisted and grasped Armist’s right arm to stop him from proceeding. Armist’s left hand came up and applied a kian grip to the man’s upper arm. The hand on his arm slackened and fell away. The soldier, his fighter’s instinct getting the better of him, momentarily forgot who confronted him and crouched into a defensive position. His right hand aimed at Armist’s throat in a vicious cutting motion. Armist’s own hands came up from underneath, parried the blow and whipped the attacker’s arm aside. Adrenaline surged through his veins. Anger flared brightly. It needed an outlet and found it here.

Armist’s head jerked forward. His forehead crushed the soldier’s nose. His opponent, in stunned surprise, failed to react for a critical moment. Armist used the opportunity to grab the man’s right arm and twist it around behind his back. The soldier winced and gasped for breath. Armist applied yet more pressure gave him a shove that sent him stumbling away and against the opposite wall.

The soldier whipped his weapon out of its scabbard and pivoted to face Armist. Blood streamed down from the broken wreck of his nose, ran over his mouth, and dripped from his chin to the ground.

Armist pointed an imperious finger at him.

Don’t. You. Dare!

The sentry came to his senses and dropped the point of his sword.

Armist nodded coldly.

Open it!

The guard, holding a hand against his battered face, stepped up to the door and