First Apprentice

Chapter 25 Part 2

Magic shot from my fingertips and sank into the seal on my bracelet. A knife smacked into my palm. Cotton cord — the cheap kind Aunt Sumati introduced me to after my poisons ruined the woven doe skin hilts that came on my knives — rasped against my palm like sandpaper.

I held it at my side, a visible threat.

Tylar held up his hands, palms out, showing he was unarmed and still in his most vulnerable human, form. A lie.

Tylar commanded the Daneian Anchorpoint for fifty-seven years, making him the longest surviving Daneian commander since the Second Clan War. He pushed back multiple Dracon raiding parties, incursions, and once a full-scale invasion without losing the fortress or his life. Grandfather said he could count the number of people who held Daneus without fielding a ferepris on one hand and still have fingers left over. Uncle Manfred was one, Tylar another. If the candidates were a death sentence, Daneus was often their graveyard. When Daneus didn't kill him, Tylar returned to the candidate pool to die.

At least, that was the going theory.

Dark violet flames lit his aura — nerves — yet his stance never wavered. For the first time, I questioned both mine and Grandfather conclusions. Why tell me to not panic if he sought death?

Magic oozed out of my feet and sunk into the stone. Jagged ice sprang from the ground like a sea of knives — an interesting effect, much like the aa lava Endellion described as being a good encampment defense. A fortuitous accident, and one I'd explore later.

Torquiose flames overtook the violet — a soothing color normally associated with healers, not fighters. His shoulders relaxed and his hands dropped to his sides as if the knife in my hand didn't exist. His gaze slid to my hand and back up to my eyes. "If you wanted me dead, Alannah-dae, I'd already be part of the Central Keystone. Dev and I understand what"—he nodded towards my left wrist—"a master's stripe really means."

"The others?"

"The last time Joel fed a man to the Gates I was thirty-seven; Dev twenty-one. Ninety-two years since that battle and I can still remember how my boots sunk into the mud, the screams, the magic..." He shook himself. "We saw it. We felt it. It's something you must witness to understand." He paused. "Or do. They can't understand something that last happened before their grandparents were born. Not yet."

Interesting. Katia's ban on soul sealing was absolute with one exception: traitors. Under the charter, traitors should be hanged, drawn, and their souls fed to the Gates. As far as I knew, Joel was last censured over six-hundred-years ago by Asha. If he wasn't punished for the soul sealing, logically it was allowed, meaning he executed a traitor. But why execute a traitor on the battlefield? Why skip the first two parts of the mandated punishment? What about interrogations, investigations, trials...the normal ways you ensure that you only have one traitor and not a dozen?

Questions I needed answered. Perhaps, Joel acted in the heat of battle, but my gut screamed there was a deeper reason.

"Did Dev know?" The question slipped from my lips unbidden as I recalled his magic coaxing mine into the correct forms and evening out the spikes. The few times I brewed cruju Endellion helped me. I'd never tried it alone. Looking back, I doubted I could have brewed it without Dev taking Endellion's place.

"Dev's shepherded dozens of maturing daes. He knows the signs better than I do. I'm certain he knew."

"The risks—"

"Were his to take. Just as this is mine."

Claws grew from his fingertips as he raised his hands, keeping them in my line of sight. My instincts reared, a simple stirring like a cat lazily opening one eye before it rolled over and went back to sleep.

Without hesitation, he stabbed the palm of his left hand. The mingled scents of smoke, copper, and iron stung my nostrils as his blood dripped on the stone floor. Blue flames flickered in each drop.

"I, Tylar, son of Journeyman Swordsmith Seward, Dracon Lord, former commander of the Ninth Sealer Legion and now second candidate, swear by my blood, magic, and life that I will guard the status of Ancient Alannah-dae, Clan Dracon, keeping her titles, power, and clan affiliation only to myself until such time as she either releases me from this oath or the information becomes public record."

With each word he spoke, runes flared to life. As the final drops of blood struck the floor, they crawled up his body like a thousand fiery ants and soaked into his body as if they were raindrops against cotton.

I opened my mouth, a million questions dancing on my tongue, and snapped it shut. I would not dishonor his oath by asking why, not when he tied his life to my secret.

My mind turned back to the non-existent winter coats, the training weapons they were given instead of sentirus swords, the gates Terry never intended for me to maintain, and all the things Grandfather wrote about his man Tylar.

"If I order thirty sentirus swords from the Tradesmen tomorrow, how long will it take to get them?"

Air whistled through his teeth. "Assuming they don't mysteriously lose the order or suddenly demand more signatures than required for a treaty, two years minimum."

"Two years?"

"We stockpile sentirus ore, not swords. Sentirus blades are made to order. If you ask for a seventy-thirty blend, they might finish them inside of two years. The fifty-fifty blend like the Seven use could take five years or more."

"Why so long?"

"Because bonded sentirus weapons are the pinnacle of a smith's craft," said the swordsmith's son.

Which left buying them from the Daneian Swordsmiths' Guild.

A Daneian masterpiece cost six times what the tradesmen charged. Unlike the tradesmen and the clan smiths, Daneian blades contained five percent steel or less. They were crafted with magic, not hammers and anvils, using techniques developed while searching for a sword Endellion couldn't melt. Their quality was unmatched and they charged accordingly. They also kept blades in stock.

Even if I used every last pip in both the research and the office budgets, my office couldn't afford the weapons they needed, which left dipping into my personal accounts. Doable, but the Border Guard only allowed corps-level donations. I couldn't donate the money to my office. Borrowing it required promissory notes, which my office couldn't enter into without Terry's consent unless I spit on caution.