Airlean Tales S2E13: Homecoming (1)

Atlantis welcomed Halcyon home with a polished smile of marble and coral.

He watched through the window as their diver pulled into an isolated chamber of bland white stone. The ocean-facing gateway shut tight behind them, and with a burble, the seawater filling the chamber flushed down the gridded floor. When the diver released its ramp, it was onto dry ground.

Simon led the Airlean delegation out of the chamber and into a tunnel with walls of stunning abyssal glass, affording a clear view into the great swaths of ocean above, where marine life continued to swirl in vibrant colors.

“Incredible,” Wesley Geppett murmured. “I can’t believe the sheer craftsmanship of every building.”

Personally, Halcyon found it difficult to appreciate the beauty when he felt like he was striding to his doom.

Memories pressed in on him from every side. He was young and shaking, breathing hard, stumbling through this very tunnel. He was pressing himself into some rich sophist’s luggage, chucking out the heaviest tomes to make room. He was balled up for hours until every muscle was pounding in cramps, shut in a case that buried him like a coffin…

A light touch on his hand startled him, and he looked up to see Karis watching his face. There was a question in the slight tilt of her brow, but he didn’t feel ready to answer it.

He only moved on in silence.

The aquatic tunnel opened into the pristine embrace of a classical plaza. High fluted columns were decorated with flourishing greenery and coral, and sparkling water tumbled out of the mouths of marble serpents into decorative ponds. It was a gate with all the status and magnificence that would be expected of the ancient civilization.

“Oh!” Azalea suddenly gasped softly and saluted.

For stationed in perfect rank and file in the center of the plaza, a regiment of Warmonger warriors awaited. They were impressive and imposing in their perfect lines of striking armor and sweeping helms. It was at least four centari, the typical Atlantean unit of one hundred men.

A collective gasp rose from the delegation as a large shadow cut through the airspace above them, releasing a keen, shimmering sound and leaving a ripple of mana pressing on Halcyon’s skin. His heart quickened as the shadow passed again, dovetailing elegantly like a bird of prey, then alighted.

The familiar shape of a tidebreaker levitated before him.

It was a beautiful artifice, white and navy blue with decorated gilded edges, shaped like a manta ray. Interlocking plates with subtle seams allowed its wings to change formation by pulling the steering handles within. Two thin, elegant pulse cannons, not unlike starshooter muzzles, were fixed to its belly and pointed forward.

“Oh,” Wes breathed from just behind Halcyon. “Stars, what a beauty. Oh, damn.”

The Tidebreaker Fleet was a magitech marvel that Atlantis had crafted in the golden age, a relic of just how brilliant and ahead of their time the inventors of the Forger had been. It was like a glider, but for underwater combat—the folding shell encased a pilot who physically controlled the artifice’s steering with the handles and pedals, and magically controlled its propulsion and firepower by burning their manawell. This made tidebreakers not an accessible instrument, such as a crossbow. Rather, it was an elite device reliant on the manacrafting skill of its wielder, like a starshooter.

For this very reason, tidebreakers never took far outside Atlantis despite their novelty and quality. The pulse cannons could only fire in areas with concentrated water mana, like in the ocean, and most tidebreakers could barely levitate out of the water.

Not to mention, Halcyon thought grimly, that their manufacture has only gone downhill after the Forger’s children scattered.

This tidebreaker was clearly built for showmanship more than anything else. The amount of mana required for something of that weight to fly in the air would redirect all power out of the cannons. In this state, it was little more than an extravagant flag.

But an effective one, Halcyon conceded, taking in the slack-jawed expressions of the delegation.

The tidebreaker’s belly opened and swung low, and a man stepped out with dignity. Like the other Atlantean warriors, he was dressed in light armor over a sleek tunic. Unlike them, a vibrant stole of Warmonger vermilion cut down one of his shoulders, and his crownpiece, while simple in shape, was beautifully engraved. The severe uniform was slightly softened by the ocean-colored waves of his hair.

“Greetings, honored Airleans,” he said boldly. “I am Mathias Galeas, captain of the Third Pod. Senator Vascea bids you welcome.”

Halcyon’s brow arced. A mere captain of a pod—a group of five tidebreakers—sent to welcome them would ordinarily be an insult. Nor would a regular captain bear a diakrin, a stole denoting senior rank or honorable service. There had to be more to this Captain Galeus.

“We are honored to be invited,” Sethis said mildly. “The senator is otherwise occupied?”

Captain Galeus looked unbothered at the subtle jab; the senator not greeting Sethis in person was certainly a poor look. He only raised a fist across his middle in Atlantean salute. “You will be received with a fine banquet tonight, Your Highness. As for the formal reception hosted by the senators of Atlantis, it is scheduled for the morrow. They believed you would be fatigued following your long travels.”

Sethis nodded, appeased. “Very well. Lead on, Captain.”

The sea of Atlantean warriors hit their spears against the ground in unison—a broad, intimidating noise—and then turned smoothly, parting a wide berth down the middle for the Airlean delegation to traverse. If it meant to impress, it worked; the delegation was utterly silent and stiff-backed as they marched through the columns of deepsteel armor and shimmering opalite polearms.

Feeling a gaze lying heavy on his back, Halcyon turned around.

Captain Galeus was staring at him.

Halcyon smoothed his motion into a casual, lazy spin, as if he was simply a gawking tourist taking in the unbelievable sights of an underwater kingdom. But Captain Galeus was certainly looking at him, and with a sharpness and intensity that could mean nothing good.

Captain Galeus pulled himself back into his tidebreaker. Its belly folded up to secure him in the steering capsule, and with a blast of mana, shot off into the distance.

Heart pounding, Halcyon turned back to the road.

Simon led the Airlean delegation through the arched gates and into the central part of the city. Blinding white spires and domes soared skyward, classical architecture intertwined with slim, glowing magitech lines and flecks of gold. Fountains of pristine water poured freely from beautiful statues of rock features, women holding jars, dancing fish.

“This is Polis,” he announced proudly. “The central province of the nation. A haven for art and trade and study, and a territory of absolute neutrality. No senator owns Polis, and no conflict is permitted in its borders. You will find many important public features here, like our schools, theaters, and water-based farms.”

Azalea’s hand shot up in the crowd, and with a slight quirk of the lips, Simon nodded in her direction.

“What happens if there’s a crime?” she asked.

“For jurisdiction, Polis is under the purview of the acolytes of Atlantis’s central beacon. Otherwise, the senators are responsible for order within their own dominions.”

Halcyon glanced around surreptitiously. At least here, there was life. Children had been released from school and were running about in their tunics, laughing brightly. Several sophists in their academic robes and sashes loitered around a fountain, discussing philosophy. Families mingled in the small courtyards of their houses, some working on shelling fish and nuts, some hanging fabrics and rugs on clotheslines, others studiously pouring over texts.

The delegation passed through Polis and entered the Warmonger Dominion. Halcyon could only tell by the way the warriors around him relaxed, their shoulders unknotting and their strides widening.

Their borders had expanded again, then. Last time he was here, the dominion hadn’t encroached so far into Polis.

The delegation boarded a line of large, decorated chariots, pulled by oxen dressed with jewel-studded war helms and craggy armored saddles. Oxen, which were lowly beasts of burden in Airlea, were exceedingly rare in Atlantis and prized in Atlantis for their fatty meat. The Warmongers were certainly flaunting their wealth and influence if their senator was rich enough to afford a private herd of oxen.

Halcyon almost chuckled when it went unappreciated by the Airlean delegation, as more than a few nobles wrinkled their noses at the beasts.

The oxen pulled them through the dominion, and the air of peaceful hubbub slowly crystallized into wary vigilance. Instead of scrawling their assignments in books, children had taken up wooden spears and were striking at dummies, or wrestling bare-footed on hempen pads.

Not like that, Orion. What are you doing, wrangling a minnow?

I’m trying, Theron.

Not enough. Watch again.

Halcyon shook the voices from his mind. He instinctively lowered his head as patrolling Warmonger warriors strolled by and nodded in acknowledgement to the passing retinue.

The buildings began to change. Fat stripes of ebony and black marble inlaid the pristine white walls. Intricate gold lines were carved over their surfaces in geometric patterns, catching light from liquid lamps on poles. Beautiful, yet cold and imposing and undeniably harsh.

Finally, they pulled into the embassy village—a sprawling circle of guesthouses around an open plaza with a blooming faux coral and seashell garden. Larger villas loomed in the distance over garden pathways, removed from the noise of the main thoroughfares. No doubt those villas were for royalty and nobility.

So it was a surprise when Sethis ducked next to him and murmured, “With me.”

Halcyon and Karis followed him down the pathway and into what could have been a house of dreams. The luxurious villa sat on a sprawling estate of lakegrass, colored kelp, and cultivated wildflowers. Double doors opened to a foyer and dining room, all black and white marble with royal blue Airlean standards unfurled on the walls. An enormous glass center column was filled with ocean water and thriving, shimmering schools of fish, which lazily swam in spirals by a winding staircase to the second floor.

“Sweet stars,” was all Karis said.

Outdoors was no less impressive. A large mosaic pool filled with bobbing lilypads and lotus flowers sat just behind the villa. Pebbled walkways wound through spiny trees and lantern-dressed coral to a pond orchard, where aquatic fruit like crabbells and murkberries flourished. Even Karis, who had no doubt seen her fair share of finery, gaped openly.

“At its height, the Warmonger Dominion was the wealthiest of all the territories,” Sethis recounted. “Most of that wealth was acquired by intimidation and exploitation due to their superior martial power, but even so. If this is just an embassy where they house foreigners…”

Karis swallowed. “Then I suppose even the chamberpots in their main palace are made of gold.”

“Possibly diamonds,” Sethis said with a straight face.

“Your Highness, how can we stay here? I mean, you’re a prince, but Hal and I—”

“You are my royal guard,” Sethis replied, though he also looked a tad uncomfortable. “And…resplendent though these accommodations may be, I say we can do nothing at this point but express gratitude.”

“Shall I check the cellar, then? Crack open a vintage?”

He laughed. “I would not stop you.”

Karis left—no doubt to check if the splendor would hold up in even the side rooms, where she would be staying. She shouldn’t have doubted. Every one of the suites in this villa was enormous, holding two plush beds and two cushioned chaises and a private bath.

Halcyon turned to make a round about the house, checking for any threats. But he’d only taken a few steps when Sethis’s voice stopped him.

“Lord Yuden, is there something I should know?”

He glanced back. “Your Highness?” he queried.

“You’ve been very quiet.”

Halcyon hesitated, wondering if he should say anything. If any of his uneducated observations would be welcome, or if the wrong word could break this tenuous peace.

Finally he said: “This place is very open.”

A flicker of surprise from Sethis. “I suppose so. A great many windows.”

“A great many angles of entry.”

“I hear the senator is responsible for our safety. Will assassins so easily enter the embassy?”

“It’s not assassins from outside that I’m worried about.”

The words landed. Sethis’s hand stilled where it had been tracing the gold-rimmed dining table. Then it continued.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said quietly. “As you were, Lord Yuden.”

Halcyon nodded, and seeing no threats around the ground floor of the villa, decided to scout upstairs. He saw an open door leading to an empty balcony, and surmised that Karis had taken to the rooftops to survey the roof topography of the whole plaza. It was a good idea. Windsoles weren’t used in Atlantis, so the buildings lacked the flat beams commonly found on the ridges of Airlean roofs. It would take some adjustment to traverse across some of the angled and domed caps of Atlantean buildings.

As Halcyon made his way to the luxury suite at the end of the floor, one outfitted with foreign rugs and historic paintings that would no doubt belong to the prince, something caught his eye.

The door to one of the side suites was ajar. And the placard on it bore his name.

Halcyon carefully drew his glaive and pushed it open.

He was unsurprised to find Captain Mathias Galeas standing in the room, hands clasped behind his back, a dozen other Warmonger warriors with him. He didn’t jump forward and swing his weapon, though his nerves screamed for him to do so. He kept a placid, immovable expression, even as his manawell simmered in preparation beneath his skin.

“Close the door for a moment, Lord Yuden, if you would,” Mathias said calmly.

Halcyon closed the door.

“Prime Consul Kourios tells me that you are the First Hunter of Airlea,” Mathias said.

“Didn’t realize the position warranted a personal welcome in my bedchambers,” Halcyon replied. He shouldn’t be goading, but he couldn’t help it. This ploy at intimidation only served to irritate him.

Mathias seemed unbothered. “We could learn much from each other.”

“Sure. Shall we start with manners?”

“Be my guest.”

Halcyon stared. Mathias stared back. The Atlantean warriors did not move.

“You’re an ace,” Halcyon surmised. “Someone with the weight to throw around, even if not the rank. What did you do? Shoot down a leviathan? Save the senator? Bake a particularly good batch of flatbread?”

“You’ll not sway me, Lord Yuden, but you may wish to curb your flippancy. Others may not be so amused.”

“What, has the senator lost her sense of humor with her mind?”

Still, Mathias was calm. “There are several hours before the welcoming feast. Could you spare a moment of your time? One of our officials would like to speak with you.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“There is always a choice. But consider the consequences of saying no.”

Blunt enough. There was no choice, then, not really. If Halcyon kept acting out, it could endanger the rest of the delegation.

And that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Halcyon let himself be led out of the room and down the stairs. Sethis had disappeared, likely surveying the lower level with its cellar and storage rooms. That was a relief. The prince fighting for him would only complicate the current situation.

He was marched out of the villa and down through the embassy plaza. The Atlanteans made no effort to be subtle; they marched in all their splendorous rank, ignoring the sea of odd looks they were receiving.

A flash of flower-pink caught his eye, and he saw Karis drop down from a roof at the other side of the embassy village. There was the slightest spark of concern in her eyes, the minute shift of her fingers to her sword. Halcyon gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. It was probably nothing. If he had truly been recognized, there would have been twice the number of guards with twice the hostility.

Karis let her hand slip from her weapon, but still—stubborn thing—strode across the plaza and stepped right into Mathias’s path with a brilliant, insincere smile.

“Oh my!” she said in a silly, airy tone. “What’s all this, now? Lord Yuden, where are you going?”

“Please step aside, my lady,” Mathias said flatly.

She fanned herself with a hand, which almost wrung a laugh out of Halcyon. He had never seen such an ill-fitting match for a damsel in distress.

“I, I don’t understand all the fuss,” she said weakly. “Did our esteemed Lord Yuden do something wrong?”

“Do not obstruct us, my lady.”

Her voice suddenly cooled and hardened. “No? Because from all perspectives, this looks like an unlawful arrest.”

Now Mathias regarded her fully—and with a spark of interest that Halcyon didn’t appreciate.

“Am I wrong, captain?” she said frostily.

“One of our officials merely has a few questions for Lord Yuden. The matter hardly bears worrying about. He will be treated with honor and returned safely within the day.”

“Then why the armed escort?”

“Merely to ensure his security.”

“Really. Security from what?”

“Nothing in particular. We take no chances with honored guests placed under our care.”

Only Halcyon caught the flicker of irritation that pinched Karis’s face. Mathias’s answers were prepared and impenetrable.

“If you please, step aside, my lady,” Mathias said. “We’ve been delayed long enough.”

“And you shall have more,” she muttered under her breath. But she did step aside, though the motion was slow and reluctant.

As the plaza disappeared behind them, Halcyon felt the weight of her gaze on his back. He said nothing to her and kept his eyes forward. He couldn’t risk drawing any more attention to her. She had already acted out far more than what was wise.

Once the guesthouses were far behind, Mathias led him down a mosaic stairway to one of the many underground waterways that spanned Atlantis. Unlike the tidy canals that wound through the city’s surface, servicing leisurely gondolas for tourists, these waterways—known as gullets by the locals—were strictly for authorized officials. Securely moving senators. Dispatching military to the borders in record speed. Or, more similar to this case…transporting prisoners.

Still flanked by warriors, Halcyon stepped onto a railed platform, which shot down the gullet with surprising speed. Built for practicality and not aesthetics, the tunnel around him was bare and dimly lit. Even so, he knew precisely where they were going; each dip and turn was etched deep into his memory.

The Amphitheater of the Warmonger.

One of the warriors at Halcyon’s side, a scrawny young man just past boyhood, eyed him suspiciously. “No questions for us?” he asked.

“Do you want some?” Halcyon replied.

“We took you away from your delegation. You’re in an unfamiliar place, alone. If you are…unsettled, it would be understandable.”

“Colin,” Mathias said.

Young Colin fell silent, gripping his spear tightly. Halcyon’s mouth quirked in amusement as he turned away. So his silence and composure unnerved the Atlanteans, did it? Then he’d continue to uphold it. It was the smallest sliver of power afforded to him in this situation.

The platform lurched as it shrieked around a harsh bend, then ground to a halt. Halcyon was escorted up the stairs to daylight, where he was met with the familiar splendor of the Amphitheater.

The entire area was arranged in a disc like a coliseum, the center filled with a broad courtyard, the end standing tall as the house proper where the senator lived and slept. Most would expect the Warmonger’s Dominion to be ugly and aggressive. But while the Warmongers had always taken pride in their strength, they also thoroughly enjoyed the spoils of their victories—whether in war or trade. The battle standards were lined with speckled fur from Drâkvul, the doors dressed with feathered chimes from Kahu Tei, the central path illuminated with geometric braziers burning golden Yueraian sundust bricks, the windows paneled with color-rich Zuhadite glass.

“Back in the day,” said young Colin, puffing out his chest slightly, “we used to line this road with the heads of our worst enemies and traitors. They were impaled on spears and faced to stare at you as you passed by.”

“Just the heads?” Halcyon replied. “We impale the whole body in Airlea.”

“What—no, you don’t! Or you didn’t ten years ago. Do you?”

“Colin,” Mathias said, though he was clearly making an effort to keep his mouth from twitching upward. Ah, new recruits. The permanent source of entertainment for the veterans.

Halcyon was not led into the senator’s house, but through a triple-barred gate and down a blocky staircase into the remote wing of holding cells. This wing, dubbed affectionately by warriors as the Armpit, served as a dungeon for the Warmongers to keep the real lunatics—although if trends were the same since Halcyon had last visited, it currently saw more use as a quarantine than a prison.

Either way, the cells were surprisingly pleasant. They were windowless but spacious, dressed with one table and two chairs, lit by an overhead gold mana lamp. Halcyon could almost believe that he was in a luxurious inn, the mana lamp serving as a chandelier. Until he looked at one of the chairs, where the arms sported a pair of open bracers glittering with veins of opalite.

Halcyon carefully veiled his expression, trying to quell a sudden rise of nausea.

Nihil cuffs.

No sensation was more unpleasant to a manacrafter than being cut off from their own manawell. It was like losing a limb, like going blind. A strange, horrifying hollowness where there should have been a wellspring of energy.

“Set your weapon against the wall and fasten the nihil cuffs, if you please,” Mathias said. He sounded calm, but Halcyon didn’t miss how he held his spear—with a careful grip, ready for use at any moment.

“Sounds like I have to even if I don’t please.”

“This is for the safety of all involved. We ask for your cooperation.”

“You’re asking, but I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”

Mathias only stared at him with a hard look in his eyes, unwilling to give an inch.

Was now the time for Halcyon to draw his weapon? Once those bracers locked around his arms, he was nearly helpless. He’d barely be able to call forth a jet of water, let alone anything of combative substance. But no; he had to remember that it wasn’t just his life at stake. His actions would reflect on—and potentially endanger—the entire Airlean delegation.

Damn his promise to Clara Caelute.

Halcyon withheld a grimace as he set his glaive against the wall and sank into the chair. A warrior snapped the bracers shut, mana quartz glimmering as the mechanism sparked to life. He braced himself for the abrupt severing of his manawell, a cold snap within his chest—but no. It was a quiet, languid dullness that sank into him, detached him, like taking half the dosage of a sleeping draught, but not enough for oblivion.

Well, well, he thought. Improvements in some areas, at least.

Whether from the sedative or the improved suppressors, Halcyon eased slightly. Mana quartz of this volume wasn’t enough to completely suppress him. His manawell was still there. Sluggish, resistant, but within reach.

He watched as the company turned as one and departed, leaving only the young one known as Colin to stand watch. No doubt they felt the threat was over, with Halcyon bound to a chair and suppressed, but he was almost offended that they thought a novice recruit could single-handedly subdue him. He could probably tan this kid’s hide, even suppressed.

The door shut behind him, leaving Halcyon with a single guard and stony silence.

“Evening,” Halcyon said. Mostly to unsettle Colin. Partially to orient himself.

The boy was clearly disquieted at being left alone, and his throat bobbed. “Don’t speak with me, my lord.”

“Ah. It’s my lord, now that I’m in chains?”

Colin set his jaw and said nothing. Now that Halcyon was watching closely, he really was young. Just a kid, not even a wisp of hair on his chin or upper lip yet.

“How old are you, son?” Halcyon asked.

“Please don’t speak with me, my lord.”

“Should I speak with the wall?”

Colin was silent.

“You serve Senator Vascea, son?”

Colin looked relieved, probably because this was the one question he was allowed to answer. “Proudly, my lord.”

Halcyon raised a brow. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“She doesn’t seem the type to inspire loyalty.”

“The senator may not make grand speeches or big displays of power,” Colin said defensively, “but she cares for everybody in the dominion, my lord. Far more than any of the other senators can claim.”

“Does she now?”

Colin promptly looked horrified and clamped his mouth shut.

Halcyon turned away, relieving the poor kid of the pressure of his gaze. “At ease, soldier. I already knew everything you said.”

As Colin moved to respond, the cell door swung open without ceremony. A small cloaked figure stepped into the room, flanked by more warriors, who lined the walls in orderly discipline.

“Leave us,” the figure said—in Atlantean. The dulcet syllables of the smooth, rolling language contrasted with the sharp, sweet voice of a girl.

The warriors dispersed silently, closing the door behind them.

Sandals patted softly against the stone as the figure approached. She slowly sank into the chair opposite of Halcyon, then threw back her hood, revealing sharp features, a decorated tunic colored deep teal, and crimson fin adornments protruding from beneath coral-red hair.

“Well, if it isn’t Orion,” said Xiphia Kairhea Vascea, white smile lighting up her face with a flash of mischief. “How have you been, my old fiancé?”

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