Eastern Forward Base, greater Zaichaer
45th of Glade, Year 124 of Steel
45th of Glade, Year 124 of Steel
At the least provocation, Admiral Angevin would take Searing Victory out on a mission. He missed the high, rarified winds doing battle with his pomade. More often than not, he had to delegate command to an acting captain so he could remain in the city proper to do his duty when Zaichaer required her flagship, but today, he was at their easternmost outpost of any strength, ostensibly for reports and inspection and to oversee the implementation of the large-scale magical apparatus that was being built for the betterment of mankind.
"Though it doesn't look normal," he admitted to Reichart as they overlooked the forest from the deck of the airship, "one can see new life peeking through, and weary trees greening once more. That is a relief."
The warship had carried more in the way of supplies than armament. Though the Eclipse had broken, supplies were being shared lest those new shoots of life be immediately consumed. While he was a city boy born and bred, his grandmother had brought him up with plenty of stories of the country estates and the importance of agriculture. A healthy forest made for healthy crops. The borders of a farm were as important in some ways as the farm itself. He hated to sound like a mud elf, but they would have to become stewards of the wilder lands as much as for their populated and plowed lands if they wanted Zaichaer to return to its former glory in any capacity and with any alacrity.
Today, he would fly back to the capital and his life there. Reichart had already made his official and unofficial reports. Eitan and Benno had already gotten drunk to celebrate his new son. Proper wards had been established, as well as an anchor for an instantaneous communication device so Reichart could report an emergency in real-time, or receive urgent orders. Otherwise, there were enough airships in transit to keep the flow of information and goods moving, and the roads between the easterlands and the city—such as they were, some being mere game trails—were being patrolled to ensure the warped creations of the cataclysm and all were kept well at bay. There would always be dangers in the wild, but they would do their best to ensure the safety of their lands and their people.
A sigh escaped him. Dawn was passing and the time to go was nigh.
"Get the mists off my ship before I rename this place Fort Reichart," he said with a straight face. They both paused, then laughed. It sounded too loud for the early hour, though they had already had their coffee and broke their fast. His face went blank, though, when the murmured sun salutations of a licensed Kindred broke the following silence.
He glanced at her, going through what looked something like calisthenics and something like dance. While he didn't mind the look of the pose she called downward dog, he had looked at her through aura glass and didn't like what he saw. But she was licensed and she proved useful. She knew more about aetheric harmonics than anyone he knew, impressing all the Minders, and so she was here to help him and his team set up things such that the city wards would resonate with the wards established in places like the future Fort Reichart. As tuned into the wards he created as he was, he would be able to sense an attack upon the fort even from a deep sleep in his bed at White Knight Hall. He wondered if Grey and her Railerunners would be able to open a portal large enough for airships or, at least, transport them directly to a theater of war if necessary.
Time would tell.
If one had to keep one's friends close and enemies closer, he would make use of them, whether they were friends or foes.
Reichart gave him a sly smile that asked if he was dipping his wick in the witch; Angevin rolled his eyes. The laughed, shook hands, clapped shoulders, and embraced before Reichart disembarked and Angevin gave the order to hove aloft. He was certainly going to rename this Fort Reichart. Benedikt would push back, but if they did the same for the other fort commanders, especially the fractious riverland commanders, it was the sort of honor that made sense would might be seen as an honor and not a political move.
It could be both.
Hotel Schiller, Zaichaer proper
47th of Glade, Year 124 of Steel
47th of Glade, Year 124 of Steel
"Is it private?" he asked.
Loren Ebersole nodded. "That is, a powerful enough or a clever enough mage might be able to discern what is being said. I think not without the intrusion being obvious."
Angevin nodded, face unreadable. She was a Kindred and, while she was helpful and cooperative, she remained a witch and none of them had his entire trust. Major Trier was looking on, blessedly quiet. He would need a promotion. While not the perfect soldier or commander, he had managed to keep things together, making Hotel Schiller a safe station throughout the year of hell. Of course, he had been given help, and this would be an important post. All posts were, though. Zaichaer was a skeleton crew, not an ounce of fat on the people or the organization.
He placed his hand upon the marvel of aetheric engineering. When he heard the crackle and hum that soon faded into background noise, he cleared his throat.
"Base Schiller to Eastern Forward Base. Do you copy?"
They had the language already. Airships had shorter-range communications devices, but their new First Minister was a genius and had the authority to push through many an innovation. There was a pause, and then he very clearly heard Reichart cursing.
"...sorry. This is Eastern Forward Base. Commander Reichart speaking."
"This is Admiral Angevin. Instantaneous communication achieved." A smile crept into his voice as he imagined Reichart's frustration, but then hearing the relief in his voice. Eitan had enjoyed the opportunity to play savior to his old friend and even though he remained at the ass-end of the High City's territory, he was doing the good work and his friend, the admiral, was helping him keep his men safe and sound.
It wasn't the time or place to have a personal conversation, so sooner rather than later, they had both delegate conversation to others. Thankfully, Major Trier seemed delighted and stayed behind. He would be no help with the warding.
The erstwhile hotel was not on the eastern side of the river, but it was easterly as far as the West End went. Lucrece understood the geometry better than he did, but those calculations had been left to the Minders. Both Lucrece and Stefan had looked them over, assuring him that the maths were correct. He trusted them, though he also trusted his Minders. From the anchor he had created to keep the soldiers and refugees safe what seemed like forever ago, he listened to Ebersole go on and on about aetheric harmonization. He pulled on a pair of aura glass spectacles, peered at his work, then gazed up into the air to see what he had only sensed when he made it. Higher in the sky than the hotel's defenses were those of the city itself. It was a patchwork, really, and there was more hole than shield, truth be told. But today, those numbers would shift in favor of Zaichaer.
Between the communications anchor and the warding anchor, he had gone from Admiral Angevin to High Sentinel. While he accepted the accolades for wearing "too many" hats, he craved the power. While the efforts to save the Brass City had required many, it would not have survived without him. And without Stefan. Eventually, they would cede more power. Already, there was too much work to leave all of that power in only their hands. Still, after so long clutching it with white-knuckled desperation, it was difficult to relax.
"Oh..." She didn't need spectacles to see. He was glad she finally shut up, even if it was just to admire him working.
Normally, all his magic required was his will. For something this big, he found his hands in the air, nowhere near the wards themselves, but he found it helpful for his body to mimic what his mind was doing. Mind and body working in accord helped. A warder he was mentoring hurried into the room, saluting silently to Angevin's back. He was silent, not wanting to interrupt the work. He could sense what was happening, and he was on hand to offer aether primed for wards or, should Angevin deign to allow him, some small weave that was simple enough to be left to one much less expert in the work.
More of the sky began to close to unlawful intrusion, true. More than that, the wards of the hotel were woven connected to the greater wards. More than that, Ebersole helped him reach through the communications relay until he could feel the wards of the faraway base and link those, albeit more tenuously.
When the work was complete, months and months from now, they might be well and truly safe. There would be layers upon layers, onionskin thin. Elements of the wards would overlap like dragonscale. Layers would be "sticky," catching this magic or that projectile and, instead of "stopping it" with pure negation, would catch it and move, slowing kinetic velocity, sapping aetheric power. Some had called it overly ambitious. Certainly, some had called him insane where he couldn't hear. Perhaps he was, but he had the knowledge and the resources to slowly build things up such that his home would be safe.
Perhaps someday, he would even see a god through aura glass and he would be able to deny entrance to the gods themselves.
When he was done—though, of course, the great work was far from complete—there were more patches to that patchwork, and the city's growing defenses were connected to the defenses of its wider territories, at least to the east. It was a good place to start. He was an old friend of its commander. Ebersole, being a witch, had said things about east being the direction of Spring. He was polite enough not to roll his eyes at the time.
His eyes almost rolled now, though, from exhaustion. While he managed to walk unaided to the waiting cab, his worried mentee and the witch got in with him. The drive to White Knight Hall might take some time given traffic, but Angevin let his head loll back against the padded seat.
"He will be all right," Ebersole promised. "He hasn't overstepped... though I have never seen a warder do so much, even with your help." There was admiration in her voice. Then she passed the young man a flask. "Have him drink this. It'll fortify him until he gets his proper rest."
The Aspirant glanced askance at her, and took a sip of it first, waiting.
"I'm not trying to poison the High Sentinel," she said, exasperated. She snatched it back, took a swig herself, and handed it to him. "Mostly tea. A bit of something stronger. Herbs and the like. Will perk him up enough so he won't worry his family, and then he can pass out in his bed. He's earned it."
More was said, but he wasn't listening. He was just imagining how it would feel to lay the last foundation of these masterwork wards.
Someday.
