Forging Divinity Read online

  Lydia rolled out of her bed and to her feet, taking her sheathed sabre from beneath the sheets along the way. After a moment of debate, she set the weapon beside her dresser and withdrew a set of her uniform robes from within. She didn’t like the idea of keeping whoever was at the door waiting long, but appearances were important.

  Once she had donned her robes, the sorceress retrieved her spectacles from the pages of an open book that sat on the chair next to her bed. She put the glasses on, glanced at the mirror near her dresser, and cringed. Vanity was not among her flaws, but even she could discern that her hair was in dire need of aid.

  Retrieving her weapon, Lydia strode to the door, carrying the sheathed saber in her off hand rather than belting it on. It was a conscious decision, intended to draw attention to the sword and away from her perilous lack of grooming. She swung the door wide.

  A young man stood before her, his demeanor modest, his pose timid. Lydia somehow managed to look downward at him, slanting her eyes, though the man was at least her own height.

  “F-forgive me for the intrusion, sorceress,” he began.

  At least he knows he’s bothering me, she considered. This must be important. Why don’t I recognize him? She quickly noted that he wore a single earring shaped like a harp – the symbol of the queen - on his left ear, that he had a small but noticeable facial scar under his right eye, and that his stance favored his right leg. She found that identifying distinctive characteristics helped her recall individuals more easily, which was useful in her line of work.

  “Yes?” Lydia inquired, lowering her left arm to rest the saber against the ground. Though the movement was the opposite of hostile, her action would serve to attract even more attention to the weapon’s presence.

  “A meeting of the court’s sorcerers has been called,” the man explained, standing up a little straighter.

  “For when?” she asked.

  “Right now,” he said in an apologetic tone, wincing slightly.

  “Resh,” she cursed lightly, using a popular expletive that literally meant ‘raw garbage’. “All right, I’ll be there. In the Cobalt Room?”

  “Yes, I’m to take you there-“

  Lydia scowled, leaning forward just a fraction, “I believe I am more than capable of walking up a flight of stairs on my own.” She felt bad for the lad – she had been a timid youth herself, and intimidating others did not come naturally to her. But her present role, “Lydia Scryer”, required meeting certain expectations. Lydia Hastings might have been gentle or compassionate, but Lydia Scryer most certainly was not.

  “Of course. Forgive me,” the man replied, folding his right arm across his chest and bowing slightly at the waist before retreating. The gesture was slightly odd – in the local culture, one only bowed using the right arm when addressing a member of the nobility. Perhaps she was being mocked, or this man held the court sorcerers in particularly great awe. She had seen similar behavior before, but most of the palace servants were acclimated to the presence of sorcerers.

  At the moment, that bit of minutia was too insignificant for Lydia to waste her time on pondering it. She shut her door the instant the messenger departed and rushed to prepare for the meeting.

  What could be important enough for a meeting at this hour? She pondered possibilities. An invasion. An assassination attempt on the queen. Perhaps Edon, the leader of the local gods, had laid down a new edict.

  The worst possibility occurred to her as well – her identity could have been discovered.

  It didn’t seem likely, since her head was still firmly attached to her shoulders, but it was possible.

  After swiftly maneuvering her hair into a workable bun, Lydia belted on her sword and a small leather pouch. She glanced at her writing table, a handful of books stacked atop it near dozens of smaller scrolls and pieces of parchment. When attending a meeting with her fellow sorcerers, she always did her best to be – or at least look – prepared.

  Her eyes briefly lingered on The Nature of Worlds by Erik Tarren, the first book she had ever owned. It had been a gift from her actual father – not the man she had grown up with thinking was her father – to her mother. Her mother had never taken an interest in it, but Lydia had found the contents fascinating.

  The tome described the various Dominions as physical locations – which the author sometimes called “Planes” – and claimed that inhabitable areas existed on these other “Planes”. The world Lydia lived on was said to reside within the “Core Plane”, and it was speculated to be one of many. The term Core Sorcery, now commonly used among sorcerers, was named in reference to this planar theory.

  Dismissing her errant thoughts, Lydia retrieved a scroll at random from the pile, knowing it was almost certainly unrelated to the discussion at hand, and headed toward the meeting chamber.

  As she walked down familiar halls, Lydia pondered the possibilities for the meeting. They could want us to interview a new potential apprentice, or someone to serve in the Queensguard. Selyr might have sent another ambassador, since things with the last one didn’t go anywhere. Or maybe someone has finally identified the assassins that were discovered in the palace a few months ago?

  Two months before, a group of armed men had been found near the chambers of the crown prince. They had been noticed, but most of the men had managed to evade capture. Rialla, one of the local gods, had personally interrogated the man who had been captured. Whatever she discovered had caused the prince’s coronation to be delayed, and the new date for the crowning ceremony was currently three weeks away.

  Lydia rubbed at her eyes as she approached the door to the meeting room. Gods, I hate mornings. Maybe I should have sent that hugely conspicuous servant to get me some breakfast.

  The Cobalt Room was named after Corrigan Cobalt, one of the city’s founders. While most of the rooms in the palace had colorful names – literally in some cases, figuratively in others – the Cobalt Room was utterly plain in appearance. The nondescript gray walls completely lacked adornment, which Lydia had quickly realized was a security measure. Sorcerers tended to find ways to turn mundane objects into tools, and practically any item could hold hidden danger.

  The lone wooden table in the center showed many years of use, though the chairs around it were plush and comfortable. There were no windows, and the room only had a single entrance.

  “Close up the room, we’re all here,” said Sethridge, one of the three sorcerers seated at the table. Lydia nodded and shut the door behind her as she entered, moving to take her place in the single vacant seat.

  Lydia glanced at her colleagues, noting who was present. Sethridge had spoken first and, if his usual behavior patterns held, he would do his best to speak last. He was senior among all those present, having served the queen regent for more than fifteen years. His face was lined with light wrinkles, not from mirth, but the deep creases of worry.

  While Sethridge wore three pins on his collar just as most of the others did, he unofficially functioned as the group’s leader and primary organizer. This meeting had most likely been his idea; the majority of the other sorcerers tended to avoid each other unless they needed something specific. Aside from coordinating the sorcerers, Sethridge spent most of his time politicking with the city’s nobility. The city’s nobles commanded comparatively less influence to what Lydia had seen in Velthryn and other cities – the queen regent commanded virtually absolute power, at least in theory. This was, at least in part, because Queen Regent Tylan was also considered one of the four local gods.

  To Sethridge’s left sat Veruden, a younger man with skin bronzed by the dawnfire’s rays. With only two pins, he was the lowest ranking of the sorcerers present, but apparently senior enough that whoever organized the meeting wanted him there. Apprentices wore a single pin, and apparently none of them had been invited.

  Veruden was the only one among them who spoke openly of his past, often telling stories about his father’s farm, which he supposedly still visited. Sorcerers from the lower c
lasses were rare, if only because few could afford the education required to hone their skills. Veruden had been fortunate enough to find a wealthy sponsor, though Lydia did not know the details of their arrangement. It must have been a pleasant one, since he wore a smile like a second set of robes.

  Veruden had a series of bandages wrapped around his right hand. They looked pure white, which meant that they must have been freshly applied. Recent injury, Lydia noted, filing the information away for later.

  To Sethridge’s right was Morella, a woman Lydia guessed to be a few years older than herself. She was a genius at Memory Sorcery, one of the most difficult types of sorcery to master. Lydia had long considered Morella for lessons, but they rarely spent any extended time in the same location. Morella’s talents made her incredibly potent at finding criminals and she was frequently utilized for that purpose. Her presence was peculiar, indicating that a crime was most likely involved.

  “You heard anything yet?” Veruden asked Lydia, leaning against the table with both arms. In spite of many years in the queen regent’s service, he had never learned appropriate courtly manners. Lydia had a soft spot for him – he reminded her of Keras, one of the boys – now men, she supposed – that she had trained with.

  “No,” Lydia replied, shaking her head.

  Almost all of us are here, she considered. Peculiar.

  Lydia had heard that Istavan, the last of the five full sorcerers in the queen regent’s service, had been assigned to a diplomatic mission outside of the city. She had heard that it had something to do with Prince Byron’s upcoming coronation, but she didn’t have any details. She presumed it involved attempting to track down the potential assassins that had been discovered near Byron’s chambers. Regardless of his agenda, she did not expect to hear from him for weeks.

  Odd that the queen regent always sends Istavan on long-distance assignments, rather than Veruden. I’d think that she’d want Istavan here – he’s familiar with multiple types of battle sorcery – and Veruden only knows travel sorcery, as far as I know. Maybe she just trusts Istavan more. Veruden is a bit impulsive.

  In the many years since Orlyn had been freed from Xixian rule, sorcery had retained a degree of mysticism amongst the general populace. For centuries, sorcery had been the tool that was used by the most powerful Xixian nobility to keep their slaves in check. While slavery was illegal in modern Orlyn, sorcery was still considered an endeavor reserved for society’s elite. Sorcerous training was passed on directly from experienced practitioners to a small number of apprentices.

  The other major cities on the continent handled sorcery differently. Liadra and Selyr tested children for inherent talent at a young age, drafting them into mandatory training and military service if they demonstrated a significant degree of potential.

  In Velthryn, sorcery was largely controlled by the burgeoning merchant class, with sorcerous academies selling educations of varying degrees of quality to those wealthy enough to afford the privilege. Some degree of elitism remained among the highest degrees of Velthryn’s nobility, who proudly attributed their training directly to the city’s greatest masters.

  As a result of these cultural differences, Lydia estimated that the sorcerers in Orlyn numbered in the low hundreds, and the three who sat with her now were among the most influential. By contrast, Velthryn had hundreds of sorcerous students in their academes at any time and thousands of trained sorcerers in the city as a whole.

  “We have an invasion to plan for,” Sethridge said without any hint of emotion, his hands folded in his lap.

  Veruden shot Sethridge an uncharacteristic look of dismay. “We don’t know that for certain.”

  “What’s this about a potential invasion?” Lydia asked.

  “Those worthless zealots in Velthryn seem to be feeling the itch to expand their territory again.” Sethridge scowled, and Veruden raised his hands defensively in response.

  “Leaping at a conclusion there, Sethridge. He doesn’t even look like he’s from Velthryn.” Veruden leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

  Morella ignored Veruden and Sethridge’s argument, looking straight to Lydia. “This morning, the city guard brought in a man for carrying a symbol of the Tae’os Pantheon.”

  Lydia nodded and the two men ceased their banter, turning to listen to Morella’s explanation.

  “Normally, this would be a minor issue. I don’t think you’ve had to deal with any cases like that yet, but we typically don’t even arrest people for Tae’os worship, even though it has been outlawed for over a century. We estimate at least a fiftieth of the population still worship the older gods, in spite of everything,” Morella continued. Lydia knew much of that already, though her estimate of Tae’os worshippers in the city would have been much lower.

  “The few arrests that have been made in the past usually result in the culprit apologizing, promising to never worship the old gods again, and being set free after paying a minor fine. This case cannot be so easily dismissed. The man was carrying a sword that resembles the sacred weapon of the Tae’os religion, realistic enough to appear authentic,” Morella concluded.

  A replica of the Sae’kes Taelien? Lydia’s mind hit several possibilities immediately. A wealthy noble that worshipped the Tae’os Pantheon could have been making a statement, hoping that his trial would reverse the laws against Tae’os worship. This would be an ineffective tactic, but it was plausible. More likely, a noble had bought the replica in another city, thinking it was a beautiful design and not realizing the significance. Even more likely, however, was that the sword-bearer was sent from the city of Velthryn to provoke the people of Orlyn into taking action against him. If Orlyn took an overt action against the man, it might be significant enough to convince Velthryn to declare a holy war.

  Lydia concluded that her colleagues had been discussing the third scenario in her absence. It couldn’t possibly be authentic, could it?

  “We believe it is possible the sword is authentic,” Sethridge declared, leaning back slightly as he spoke.

  Lydia considered her actions carefully. Revealing her level of knowledge about the weapon in question would potentially lead toward unraveling one of her best kept secrets – as such, she decided to keep her inquiries brief and her statements briefer.

  “Why do you believe it may be authentic?” Lydia asked.

  Sethridge unclasped his hands, putting his right on top of the table. “One,” he said, extending his pointer finger. “The man gave no resistance when he was taken in. He claimed confusion and ignorance of the law. I know this may not seem relevant yet, but bear with me.”

  “Two,” he said, extending his middle finger. “He proved extremely reluctant to part with the weapon, far more so than to surrender any other possessions – or to surrender himself into custody.”

  “Three,” he continued, counting with the next finger. “The city watch members who confiscated the weapon were unable to draw the sword from its sheath. They found no bond, latch, or other mechanism to keep the sword in place.”

  “Four,” he said, extending his pinky. “The man had black hair and blue eyes.”

  Lydia knew those traits immediately – they were associated with the mortal appearance of Aendaryn, the leader of the Tae’os Pantheon. She said nothing to give any indication that she understood the significance of this, save perhaps with a blink of her eyes. Neither black hair nor blue eyes were individually uncommon, but they rarely appeared together. Of course, alchemy can be used to dye hair, Lydia considered. And someone with Rethri blood might have exhibit a rare combination of hair and eye colors naturally.

  “Five,” Veruden added, interrupting. “We haven’t been able to get the reshing thing out of the scabbard, either. It’s up in the armory. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  Lydia quirked a brow with that. “All of you have tried and failed?”

  “I wouldn’t go near the thing,” Morella explained. “Veruden tried to teleport the sword out of the scabbard. When he touched
it to cast the spell, a flare of blue sparks seared his hand.”

  Veruden lifted up his right hand with a grimace, displaying the bandages that Lydia had noticed earlier. She crossed that mystery item off her mental checklist, nodding to him.

  “Has anyone attempted any sort of identification spells on it?” Lydia asked. “It could simply be an ordinary weapon with some sort of protective sorcery on it.”

  “That’s part of why we woke you up,” Sethridge explained. “Veruden and I have no expertise at that sort of sorcery, and Morella won’t touch it. Istavan isn’t here, so that leaves you. We need information, fast. Chances are we won’t get another opportunity to look at it after Myros arrives.”

  Lydia could not contain her concern at that last statement. “Myros is coming here?”

  Myros was one of the four local gods. He represented battle, strategy, and protection. Unlike in any other kingdom Lydia had ever heard of, the gods of Orlyn took part in the affairs of their land, walking among mortals undisguised. To most, this meant that Orlyn’s gods cared about their people. To Lydia, it meant several completely different things – not the least of which was that these “gods” were more than likely not gods at all.

  Still, they were formidable, and wielded more political power than anyone. She did not relish having to deal with the supposed god of battle for any reason – and this was one of the worst reasons possible.

  Myros carried the Heartlance, an artifact that served as a symbol of the gods of Orlyn. Edon, the leader of the local pantheon, had held the spear until Myros had ascended to the position of god of battle. Any blood drawn by the weapon was said to strengthen of the wielder.

  Faithful of Myros would volunteer to cut their hands on the Heartlance’s blade, supposedly contributing to the god’s strength. Wounds inflicted by the weapon were rumored to bleed indefinitely, and thus, Myros would supposedly bless the wounds of his faithful himself, reversing the artifact’s effect and showing his appreciation for their dedication.