The scholar handed the journal to Vahineh, who showed it to her brothers.
“Those are my notes and drawings concerning the Fenlings. The Fenlings were made in the Torque Mills, after the Avān, the Tau-se, and others. The last great living sculpture of the Seethe. The Sēq Scholars have no knowledge of why they were made, only the certainty the Fenlings should’ve been destroyed.” Mari felt a slight sense of apprehension even thinking about them. “From what we understand, the Fenlings were a mix of the Avān and giant, tool-using rats. Totally amoral. They’re indiscriminate in what they kill. They’ll drag their enemies from the battlefield to be eaten, often alive. They eat their own. They reproduce prodigiously. They’re disease carriers, though they don’t suffer from what they infect others with. They don’t make anything of their own, rather, they steal what they need and change it as best they can for their own uses. They have shamans, more akin to witches than they are to scholars. Their arcanum is wild, unfettered, rather than disciplined. The concepts of honor, love, or affection seem alien to them, though there’s much we don’t know or understand. Had the Fenlings better organization, the Sēq have little doubt the rat-folk would make a formidable army.”
“Are there many Fenlings?” Vahineh asked gingerly.
“More than us.” Indris shrugged. “They’ve a superstitious dread of the Seethe. I think the only reason they’ve been contained so long is because of Far-ad-din and his Flying Hunt.”
“Flying Hunt?” Vahineh looked up from Indris’s book.
“Seethe wyvern-riders,” Indris offered. “They’d fly out into the Rōmarq and take retribution on any Fenling tribe that raided any of Far-ad-din’s vassals. Sayf-Siamak of theFamily Bey, along with his marsh warriors, was equally as…convincing.”
“Indris?” Hamejin blurted. “Is that weapon you carry the one they call Changeling? And your pistol? I’ve never seen one fired.”
Mari looked at the prince with some surprise, as did his father and siblings. Hamejin was in his midtwenties, yet he was acting like a boy in the presence of the renowned scholar and adventurer. Mari turned her gaze upon the weapon sheathed across Indris’s back. There had been stories of Indris and Changeling. Until she had seen what he was capable of on Amber Lake, she had dismissed them as fancy. No longer.
Indris reached up to rest the fingertips of one hand on Changeling’s hilt. Mari heard a gentle murmur, almost a purr, come from the weapon. Her black
kirion
—star steel—scabbard was mottled with an oily sheen, red or blue depending on the angle of the light. She resembled an amenesqa, slightly more than a meter in length, with a long hilt that could be used either one or two handed. From her pommel to the tip of her blade she had a gently recurved shape, like an elongated, flattened
s
. The hilt was scaled, leading to an ornate Dragon’s-head pommel with amber eyes facing out along the line of the hilt. The Dragon’s head made the already serpentine weapon look even more dangerous. Her eyes dropped to the storm-pistol in its tooled leather holster. It was a rare and expensive relic of the Awakened Empire, suited to a scholar’s hand or a collector’s shelf. The weapons were notoriously hard to maintain, with the techniques known only to a few.
Indris politely took his journal from Vahineh’s hands. “I’m certain the Asrahn has more pressing questions for me.”
“Indeed he does.” Vashne’s voice was tinged with impatience. “Was there a reason you made me send my Feyassin to bring you here?”
“Displays of control can be quite tedious.” If Indris was surprised at the suddenness of the Asrahn’s question, Mari could not see it. “Was there a reason you bothered to send them?”
“How dare you? I gave you your life!” Vashne’s voice cracked across the room. His three children, as well as Nehrun, paled. Ariskander
“Those are my notes and drawings concerning the Fenlings. The Fenlings were made in the Torque Mills, after the Avān, the Tau-se, and others. The last great living sculpture of the Seethe. The Sēq Scholars have no knowledge of why they were made, only the certainty the Fenlings should’ve been destroyed.” Mari felt a slight sense of apprehension even thinking about them. “From what we understand, the Fenlings were a mix of the Avān and giant, tool-using rats. Totally amoral. They’re indiscriminate in what they kill. They’ll drag their enemies from the battlefield to be eaten, often alive. They eat their own. They reproduce prodigiously. They’re disease carriers, though they don’t suffer from what they infect others with. They don’t make anything of their own, rather, they steal what they need and change it as best they can for their own uses. They have shamans, more akin to witches than they are to scholars. Their arcanum is wild, unfettered, rather than disciplined. The concepts of honor, love, or affection seem alien to them, though there’s much we don’t know or understand. Had the Fenlings better organization, the Sēq have little doubt the rat-folk would make a formidable army.”
“Are there many Fenlings?” Vahineh asked gingerly.
“More than us.” Indris shrugged. “They’ve a superstitious dread of the Seethe. I think the only reason they’ve been contained so long is because of Far-ad-din and his Flying Hunt.”
“Flying Hunt?” Vahineh looked up from Indris’s book.
“Seethe wyvern-riders,” Indris offered. “They’d fly out into the Rōmarq and take retribution on any Fenling tribe that raided any of Far-ad-din’s vassals. Sayf-Siamak of theFamily Bey, along with his marsh warriors, was equally as…convincing.”
“Indris?” Hamejin blurted. “Is that weapon you carry the one they call Changeling? And your pistol? I’ve never seen one fired.”
Mari looked at the prince with some surprise, as did his father and siblings. Hamejin was in his midtwenties, yet he was acting like a boy in the presence of the renowned scholar and adventurer. Mari turned her gaze upon the weapon sheathed across Indris’s back. There had been stories of Indris and Changeling. Until she had seen what he was capable of on Amber Lake, she had dismissed them as fancy. No longer.
Indris reached up to rest the fingertips of one hand on Changeling’s hilt. Mari heard a gentle murmur, almost a purr, come from the weapon. Her black
kirion
—star steel—scabbard was mottled with an oily sheen, red or blue depending on the angle of the light. She resembled an amenesqa, slightly more than a meter in length, with a long hilt that could be used either one or two handed. From her pommel to the tip of her blade she had a gently recurved shape, like an elongated, flattened
s
. The hilt was scaled, leading to an ornate Dragon’s-head pommel with amber eyes facing out along the line of the hilt. The Dragon’s head made the already serpentine weapon look even more dangerous. Her eyes dropped to the storm-pistol in its tooled leather holster. It was a rare and expensive relic of the Awakened Empire, suited to a scholar’s hand or a collector’s shelf. The weapons were notoriously hard to maintain, with the techniques known only to a few.
Indris politely took his journal from Vahineh’s hands. “I’m certain the Asrahn has more pressing questions for me.”
“Indeed he does.” Vashne’s voice was tinged with impatience. “Was there a reason you made me send my Feyassin to bring you here?”
“Displays of control can be quite tedious.” If Indris was surprised at the suddenness of the Asrahn’s question, Mari could not see it. “Was there a reason you bothered to send them?”
“How dare you? I gave you your life!” Vashne’s voice cracked across the room. His three children, as well as Nehrun, paled. Ariskander
Similar Books
