Читать книгу Spellbound: Book 2 of the Spellwright Trilogy - Blake Charlton - Страница 22

Cyrus had just removed the spells from Francesca’s robes when the hierophantic apprentice returned with orders to report to the warden and marshal on the jumpdeck. After delivering her message, the girl hurried away.

Cyrus stared at Francesca. “I refuse to lie.”

“Then don’t,” she said. “Just leave out what’s dangerous. You were flying above Avel when you saw me fall from a kite. After catching me, you learned that the sanctuary might be under attack and came here to warn the wind marshal.”

He crossed his arms. “You want me to be a storyteller?”

“Unless you can keep our fat from the fire with another art form. Dance perhaps? Want to double step around the warden while I pirouette for the marshal? Or maybe sculpt a bust of the—”

“Don’t be difficult,” he said. “Very well. I’ll tell them just what they need to know.” He paused and then added, “For now.”

“Good. Until we know what’s truly happening, it’s your duty to be careful.”

“Don’t tell me about duty, Magistra.” He turned toward the flap. “Come on then; let’s get this over with.” She followed and discovered a rope ladder and the long sandstone side of the garden tower. Fifty feet below, a field of knee-high grass waved in the constant wind.

Cyrus climbed up the ladder as sure as a squirrel on a tree. Every gust made Francesca cling to the rungs. When Cyrus was more than ten feet ahead, she called out for him to wait. He looked back, his black curls flying, his face unreadable.

When she was close enough to touch his heels, they climbed twenty feet more to a narrow ledge that led into a dim hallway. Cyrus helped her off the ladder but then pulled her aside so that three hierophants could pass. Each man had a large cloth pack strapped to his back. Francesca hadn’t noticed them on the ladder, but they must have been climbing impatiently behind her.

Cyrus led her after the three hierophants down the dim hallway. Eventually they entered a long, narrow space that stretched upward for a great length. Far above them shone a strip of blue sky dappled with seaborn clouds. It was like standing at the bottom of a deep mountain fissure. But the fissure walls were made not of stone but of row upon row of scaffolding. Some supported elaborate pulleys and chains. About half of the scaffolding was filled with folded sailcloth.

Francesca watched one of the hierophants climb among these scaffoldings and then remove his pack. He handed it off to another man, received another pack, and began hiking up a long staircase.

Suddenly Francesca understood what she was seeing. She had known that the garden tower was a ware house. Mundane sailcloth was shipped down from Dar and Queensport and unloaded at Coldlock Harbor. From there it was flown to the garden tower, from the tower to the windcatchers, where it was saturated with hierophantic language.

The men she was watching had just returned a batch of saturated cloth and were about to fly blank cloth out to the windcatcher. She was watching a link in the long chain of literary production that supplied the hierophants of Daga, Queensport, and Erram with enough language to keep their airships aloft and their merchant ships sailing faster even than the legendary Ixonian catamarans.

If the hierophants failed to produce enough cloth, their kingdom’s great trading wealth would vanish. Worse, the Spirish armies and fleets would lose their aerial and naval support. Like all other literary disciplines—the wizards, the pyromancers, and so on—the hierophants had sworn never to directly participate in the wars of the six human kingdoms. But this promise did not stop them from providing reconnaissance, communication, and limited transportation to the Spirish forces. Without this advantage and the gold brought in by merchant ships with hierophantic sails, the east coast of Spires would once again become a thoroughfare for the armies of Lorn and Verdant as the old enemies once again went for each other’s throats.

As Francesca thought about all this, Cyrus led her through the fissure-like space to a narrow set of stairs.

Twice, Francesca saw where the stairs branched off into hallways. Once she glimpsed a dormitory. Everything was cramped—steep steps and low ceilings. It reminded her of being inside a boat’s hull, which made sense considering that half of all hierophants served on Spirish merchant ships. Many male hierophants took to seaships, where their greater weight was not as much of a disadvantage as it was aboard an airship.

“I’ll do the talking,” Cyrus said as they neared the tower’s top. “If you must speak, don’t show off. And always show equal respect to both the warden and the marshal.”

They stepped outside. The brilliant sky now held tall white clouds that flew overhead with dreamlike speed. The wind was strong and carried bursts of rain so fine it was more like mist. Below them, the redwood jumpdeck was perhaps twenty feet wide and thirty long, still wet from the last rain.

In the upwind direction, the tower sloped down like a shark’s fin to provide a row of smaller decks, where incoming airships and windcatchers docked. To the east, the pass stretched away inland. All the wide mouths of the windcatchers faced them. Francesca focused on the nearest one.

Inside the windcatcher, hundreds of radial sails were arranged like windmill blades and rotated around a central point. Somehow a hierophant was suspended within the windcatcher. The many sails focused the energy of their rotation into the hierophant’s heart and accelerated its spellwriting. Each augmented heartbeat produced a hundred thousand times more runes than it otherwise would.

This was the hierophantic key to power. Their language was produced only in heart muscle, was limited to cloth, and melted into a wind when cast. However, they had harnessed nature’s power, transformed the wind into words. From a school of kite-flying hermits on the slopes of Mount Spires, they had grown into the linguistic backbone of a powerful kingdom.

“Warden!” a man yelled.

Suddenly Francesca noticed two hierophants standing under a small wooden pavilion on the deck’s downwind side. Both were of average height for hierophants, which was to say barely five feet tall. Neither wore a turban or veil. The first was a man with pale skin, short white hair thinning in the front. The second was a gaunt, dark brown woman who kept her dense black and silver hair trimmed close to her head. She was facing away, seemingly studying her wind garden.

Given their ranks, both hierophants had to be powerful spellwrights, and so would have aged only slowly. Though he looked late into his forties, she late into her fifties, Francesca would guess they were both past their first century.

“Cyrus!” the man was calling. He gestured for them to approach. “What’s this news about an attack?”

Cyrus and Francesca walked over. “Warden Treto,” he said, bowing to the man and then the woman. “Marshal Oria.” The woman looked away from the pass only long enough to nod at the newcomers.

Cyrus cleared his throat. “Apologies for my sudden appearance. We had an unexpected event at Avel.”

“Go on,” the tower warden said.

Cyrus’s eyes flickered to Francesca and then back to his superiors. “This is Magistra Francesca DeVega, a cleric of our canonist’s infirmary. I was flying above Avel, coordinating the watch patrols when Magistra made an emergency blind jump. When I caught her and learned the infirmary was under attack from a curse, I flew here to warn the wind garden.”

The tower warden’s eyes narrowed. “What orders did you leave?”

The light around them dimmed as a cloud covered the sun. Cyrus shifted his weight. “My pilots had patrol orders. The lycanthropes had just ambushed a caravan at the North Gate. We were on watch for a second attack.”

The tower warden frowned. “But regarding the curse in the sanctuary, what orders did you give?”

“None, sir.”

“Aren’t you concerned for your city? What did—”

Without looking away from the pass, the marshal laid a hand on the tower warden’s arm. He fell silent. “Magistra DeVega,” the marshal said in a powerful voice, “what makes you think it was an attack?”

Francesca cleared her throat. “My lady, aphasia was spreading among all spellwrights in the infirmary.”

The marshal looked at Francesca. “You knew the dangers of opening a jumpchute?”

Francesca met the older woman’s eyes. “I judged them merely disastrous compared with the catastrophic danger of not opening the jumpchute.”

The marshal paused before turning back to the pass.

The tower warden was still looking at Cyrus. “But why, Air Warden of Avel, did you abandon your city?”

Cyrus opened his mouth to reply, but the marshal preempted him. “Do not answer that, Air Warden,” she commanded. “Avel exists to support the wind garden, not the other way around.”

The tower warden pursed his lips but said nothing.

The marshal spoke again. “An attack on Avel threatens its citizens; an attack on our wind garden threatens all of Spires.”

Just then two hierophants emerged onto the jumpdeck. Both wore white cloth packs on their backs and carried folds of bright orange cloth. They trotted over to the pavilion.

The marshal pointed to one of the nearby windcatchers. “The first of you to the third rig.” She pointed to another farther back. “The second to the eighth. And tell Julia to pull herself down ten feet; she’s draining the wind from number twelve.”

Both of the new hierophants threw the orange folds into the air. The bright cloth snapped into wide crescents, catching the wind and hoisting the pilots aloft. Within moments, the wind had blown the hierophants far away from the garden tower. Their kites changed shape, causing each to fly toward the designated windcatchers.

Francesca realized that she had been holding her breath in amazement. Even watching from the deck, she had an almost dizzying sensation of velocity and control.

Marshal Oria looked at the tower warden. “Pull the second watch out of the mess. Arm all pilots and form two wings. Take command of the first and set up a hovering patrol on the pass’s northeast edge. Should you judge the wind garden to be threatened, drop the flag signal for all windcatchers to dock. I will loft all kites. You are to command any needed defense. Am I clear?”

The tower warden bowed.

The marshal continued. “For the second group, name your most trusted author wing commander. Charge them to circle Avel looking for signs of conflict or distress. They’re to relay by flag any report to you. If it appears safe, they’re to tether with the city flock and have one pilot who’s seen combat pull down to investigate. Questions?”

The tower warden’s face had gone blank. “The Queen’s Lance, my lady?”

The marshal looked away to the pass. “I want her aloft until we know what’s happening in Avel. I won’t allow her to dock without your presence.” She looked at the warden and said, “Don’t worry; I’ll respect your office.” There was nothing friendly about her tone.

“Permission to speak to the air warden of Avel?”

“Granted, but I want you aloft immediately after.”

“Yes, Lady.”

“Dismissed,” she said before turning back to her view of the pass. “Magistra DeVega, join me.”

Francesca started. “Yes, Lady.” She glanced at Cyrus. He had become as still as stone and was staring straight ahead.

“Cyrus,” the tower warden commanded, “you’ll accompany me to the mess.”

After turning to Francesca, he brought his hand to his heart and glowered.

She flicked a short spell into his chest. “You’ll be fine for a quarter hour,” she whispered. “It won’t start contracting until then. But don’t you dare leave me here!”

Cyrus only grunted before heading off with the tower warden.

Acutely aware of the three hundred foot drop beyond the jumpdeck, Francesca carefully approached the marshal. “My lady Oria?” When standing next to the other woman, she realized that she was almost a foot taller.

The marshal did not seem impressed by this. “Magistra, forgive my ignorance. For the past thirty years, I’ve done little other than fly oversized kites.” She gestured to the windcatchers. “But do I recall that as a wizard you are not a subject of any crown?”

Francesca nodded. “You do.”

“Therefore you represent only the wizardly order?”

“It’s a shade more complicated in my case, Lady. After mastering both wizardly languages, I trained in the clerical academy in Port Mercy. There I learned how to write medical texts. In effect, I left the wizardly order and joined the clerical one. Clerics have no language or deity or political interests as the wizards do. Our purpose is only to relieve the burden of disease.”

The marshal nodded. “An admirable purpose, cleric. Admirable. And, as one woman of purpose to another, I ask you frankly not to toy with me.”

“My lady, I should never dream of doing so.”

The woman glanced at her with a blank military expression and then flashed a sudden, affected smile. “Splendid. Now, can you tell me why that warship has two black-robes aboard?”

Francesca frowned. “What warship?”

The marshal looked up at the cloud that was blocking the sun. When Francesca followed her gaze, she jumped and swore, “Holy blasted heaven aflame!”

It wasn’t a cloud but a long, sleek airship hovering with perfect steadiness in the powerful wind. Its narrow foresails projected forward like the cutting blade of some curved weapon. The angular side and aft sails made constant, tiny, reflexive adjustments to accommodate for changes in the wind. The result kept the ship perfectly still. It seemed like some giant bird of prey ready to drop into a murderous dive.

The ship was no more than thirty feet above them, giving Francesca a sudden, ludicrous urge to duck.

The ship’s hexagonal hull looked delicate—more like spun-glass than like a warship’s spine. It consisted of six strips of silk that must have been sixty feet long. One served as a wide floorboard. The others were held apart by a hexagonal frame of thin rods—likely also enchanted silk. Because there were spaces between the silk strips, Francesca could see through the hull to the sky beyond.

With a sudden intake of breath, she realized that she could also see three green-robed figures moving rapidly about the ship. Two moved within the hull. The third walked out onto a side wing as if it were as solid as a mountainside. The figure squatted and began moving its hands, no doubt editing the wing’s text.

Just then, Francesca realized that a hierophantic airship was really a gigantic, flying manuscript.

Then Francesca saw the two black-robes. They were standing within the hull. Apparently, a man and a woman. Even though they were thirty feet above her, Francesca could tell that that the two wizards were staring down directly at her.

“My lady,” Francesca blurted, “I have no idea who they are.”

“It is odd,” the marshal said, “two wizards in a Kestrel-class cruiser.”

“Because of the wizards who supported Celeste in the past?”

The marshal raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. She spoke ironically: “Magistra, I hadn’t made that connection, but now that you mention it, yes. That is peculiar. Two wizards in a Kestrel arriving the same day a wizard in Avel falls out of a kite because an unknown curse has spread through the sanctuary.”

“My lady, bring those two down here and they will tell you that I have no political connection to the wizardly order. This red stole around my shoulders”—here she held up her mark as a cleric—“has separated me from the other black-robes.”

The marshal looked her up and down. “Magistra, you strike me as someone who has more skill with words than she lets on. I wouldn’t scold myself if you’ve deceived me. You also strike me as someone unaware of the role she’s playing. So I will tell you now that my loyalty to Celeste is as strong now as it was on the day I joined the monotheistic armada.”

Francesca stammered. “M-my lady, I’m not—”

The other woman raised her hand. “Magistra, I believe you. Don’t protest now. Only … remember what I have said.” With that, she grabbed a strip of cloth hanging near one of the pavilion’s beams. Suddenly, a bright green and yellow flag unfurled from the pavilion’s apex.

An instant later, the wind brought a yell. Francesca looked up at the warship. All of the hierophants climbing about the rig were now looking at the flag. The green-robe who had been editing the wing stepped off of it and dropped into the air.

Francesca sucked in a breath, but then she saw the thin strip of green cloth running out of the man’s robes, slowing his fall. Above him, the warship’s wings adjusted to counteract the torque he was exerting on her.

The hierophant dangled just above the deck long enough to remove what looked like silk slippers.

Without looking away from the man, Francesca cleared her throat and said, “My lady, may I say something frank to you?”

“You may.”

“You are one God-of-gods damned intimidating leader. I think I’d wrestle a lycanthrope if you ordered me to.”

The marshal looked at her. “Magistra, haven’t you learned that any commander worth her weight can’t be charmed?”

“Good thing you’re not my commander then. You still have the luxury of being charmed.”

The other woman studied her face a moment then laughed. “Good thing,” she agreed and then looked away.

Now barefoot, the hierophant from the airship dropped to the deck, lowered his veil, and unwound his turban. He trotted to the pavilion and bowed. “Marshal Oria.” He was a short, lean man with chestnut-colored skin that was just beginning to go slack with age. His eyes were large and dark brown, his shaved head glossy. Given that he was a powerful spellwright, Francesca would guess he had seen eighty or ninety years.

The marshal’s expression relaxed. “Captain Izem, don’t ask for permission to dock the Queen’s Lance. There is distressing news from Avel, and I want you aloft until we know for certain what is happening.”

The captain bowed his shaved head. “So shall it be. We are happy to do anything your service requires.”

The marshal grunted. “Hopefully we will require nothing. But meantime, please explain the two black-robes skulking about in your hull.”

The captain laughed. “My lady, I was hoping you were going to explain them to me. We were docked at Lurrikara when orders came from Queensport to fly two black-robe dignitaries from Kara to Avel. For the whole flight, begging your pardon, Magistra”—this last to Francesca—“they’ve been the perfect model of academics: polite, quiet, and obnoxiously aloof. Neither I nor my crew can figure heads from tails why they get to fly in the Queen’s Lance.”

The marshal sighed. “I’m not fond of intrigue in my garden, Captain.”

Izem bowed. “Then I’ll pray to the sky and the holy canon that I’ll soon fly them away.”

Just then, Cyrus appeared by Francesca’s side. “Lady Marshal,” he said in a formal tone, “the tower warden reports that he’ll have both wings aloft momentarily.”

Captain Izem looked up and smiled broadly. “Oh dear, my lady, it seems one of the local idiots has dressed up like a hierophant and wandered into your tower. Look at the poor creature; he’s clearly too big and heavy to ever pilot.”

Suddenly Francesca became acutely aware that she was a head taller than everyone else. Rarely was she conscious of her body, even more rarely unhappy with it. But at that moment she felt like a giant.

Cyrus smiled but otherwise continued to stare straight ahead.

The marshal looked between the two men. “You two are acquainted?”

Izem laughed. “Forgive the familiarity on your deck, my lady. You are lucky to have a hierophant like Air Warden Alarcon. He was my first mate for a year of fine flying. Haven’t seen a better pilot of kite or airship since the Siege of Erram, which makes up for his being so damned tall and heavy.”

Oria exhaled in a way that indicated both annoyance and amusement. “Air Warden, you have permission to speak.”

Still smiling, Cyrus nodded and turned to his captain. “It is good to see you too, sir. Have you managed to keep the Queen’s Lance out of the ocean now that you don’t have me to correct your tacking subspells?”

The captain waved away the comment. “Saltwater gets the stains out of the silk.”

Just then two dozen hierophants emerged onto the jumpdeck. All had their headdresses tightly wound, and all held folds of brightly colored lofting kites. Short steel blades glinted from among their green robes. Without hesitation, the newcomers ran off the deck and cast up their kites. With the pop of unfolding cloth, each one took flight and shot away on the powerful wind. In a heartbeat, they were away, rising into the sky and dividing themselves into two neat formations.

The marshal watched them with keen attention. The rest of the group had fallen silent. When one of the formations disappeared over a mountain, she looked back at them. “Magistra, excuse the captain and me.” She looked at Cyrus. “Air Warden, attend to our guest. You are dismissed.”

Cyrus bowed and then gestured for Francesca to go ahead of him. Francesca bowed to both the marshal and the captain before heading for the doorway that led into the tower. As she walked, she noticed the sea was now obscured by a dark cloudscape—another storm, an hour away.

As soon as she stepped into the hallway, Cyrus took her arm. “Something is happening,” he whispered. “Something dire.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t understand completely. There are terrible forces at play.”

“So do you believe me now? Can we investigate Avel without telling the world about it?”

“This involves more than Avel. Something’s happening in the whole kingdom. Seems Deirdre wasn’t lying about being Avel’s Regent of Spies.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked past her, looking for anyone nearby on the jumpdeck. “A split is coming. Wind marshals are appointed by the Celestial Court to supply the entire order with text. Wardens are appointed by the local canonist. Their duty is to the city.”

Francesca pursed her lips. “And, naturally, there are tensions between a city and its kingdom.”

“This is more than tension. You saw how the marshal and the warden argued in front of us. It got worse when he got me alone. He thinks the aphasia was an attack from Celeste on Cala. Apparently there are two wizards in the Queen’s Lance. Years ago, a faction of wizards fought in our civil war. I can’t remember what their name was. But—”

“The counter-prophecy faction,” she supplied. “They supported Celeste’s monotheism. They wanted a unified Spires to check the power of Lorn and Verdant. But they acted without the whole academy’s approval, went rogue essentially.”

Cyrus sniffed. “As if that matters to hierophants. Don’t you see what today’s events look like? The aphasia, your jumping blindly from Avel, the Kestrel with two wizards.”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “The marshal had the same suspicions. She thinks it’s some test. Something Celeste cooked up to see if she’s loyal. She tried to assure me that she’s—”

“But that’s just it!” Cyrus interrupted. “The tower warden made the same interpretation, but he kept talking about how Avel produces more enchanted cloth than any other wind garden. He thinks they should shut down the garden, miss the next few shipments, see how Queensport and Erram do without it.”

He touched her elbow. “He thinks that Cala is the most powerful demigod in the canon, that if she hadn’t graciously surrendered to Celeste in the Siege of Avel, the realm would still be polytheistic. This place is within inches of tipping into hostility between warden and marshal, city and kingdom, canonist and high goddess. Do you see, Fran? Do you see what would rage across the whole realm if that spilled out into violence?”

Francesca nervously looked out toward the sky. The Queen’s Lance had fallen back in the wind and now hovered just above the jumpdeck. It looked like nothing so much as a giant, perfectly poised blade.

“God-of-gods defend us,” she said. “I do.”