Chapter 15 (Continued)
Randae vanished inside the inn with a furling of his velvet cloak, and Tad (after very carefully stowing the gold coin in a secret pocket in his breeches) eased the skiff away from the pier and into the canal. “Back to your apartment at Taminger’s, sur?”
“Yes I suppose so. It’s after the midnight chime, and been a long day.” Kim hunched into his robes, pulling the hood down over his face to keep out the damp chill. “Where do you rest your head at night, Tad?” He asked, suddenly curious. He had been acquainted with this youth casually for some weeks but really didn’t know that much about him. “Do you sleep on your boat like some of the other canalers?”
“No, sur, though I used to. But Bryon, he rents me a little room above his shop now, in exchange for hardly no more than some cleaning chores and deliveries and a few coppers a month. And Div—Sur Taminger—he lets me tie up the skiff in a safe little spot under his dock outa the way but where his boys watch it for me.”
“And how did you find yourself in this situation, if you don’t mind me asking? You seem a bit young to be out on your own.”
“Muh parents died of the Swamp Sickness a couple years back, all we had was this boat and a few other things, and we lived in a rented a place on the Bywater.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah it was tough.” Tad’s jaw set and he slammed the pole into the canal floor a bit harder than normal. “We sold just about everything else to pay for medicines, and then to take care of services for Papa. Then Mama died a week later and that took care of everything but the boat. Mama wanted me to go live with my uncle on Whalena, but I really didn’t want to go live on some farm. I like the city, and I’m doin’ okay fer myself.”
“I dare say you are. And you have good friends to rely on, which is a blessing.”
“We look out for each other. Bryon has been good to me; he and his brother treat me almost like kin. And Kerin’s mama has us all for dinner at least a couple times a week. Here we are, Sur.” Tad eased them up against the quay at the rear of Taminger’s.
“You can call me Kim, Tad, I’m not that old.” Kim held out two bronze coins for Tad, more than twice the normal fare.
Tad pushed his hand back. “I can’t take any of your money, Kim. “The Loremaster has paid for trips for a year!”
“That was for him, Tad; I don’t expect you to give me free rides on his orlin.”
Tad hesitated as if contemplating the logic of this argument.
“I insist.”
“Awright then, I won’t say no twice.” Tad grinned and accepted the coins.
Kim leapt off the boat and turned back. “Can you have your friends arrange the meeting with Veriak and send a confirmation messages to Randae and me?”
“Consider it done.”
“Then meet me here just before the first bell of night. We’ll get Randae then come back to meet this Seer.”
“Will do, Sur—I mean Kim.”
The Monk smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs up to the main level of Taminger’s building.
In the Manse, Randae paced his chamber, the events of the evening replaying in his mind. He was angry with himself for not convincing Agonar to join in his cause, but he hoped that at least he had planted a seed of concern in the old warrior-mage’s mind.
But that was not foremost in his thoughts. Rather it was the blind Seer and his unsolicited poetry that had the Loremaster’s mind racing.
What you seek comes to you,
And in fact one is two.
One bears the bird of fire,
The other has no sire.
Ancient crime comes undone,
By the other sister’s son.
Two Souls will break the Stone;
The Sword cannot alone.
The last couplet clearly referred to the Soulsword and the Shadowstone, which then explained the reason behind the whole thing. What was curious about this verse was that it didn’t seem to offer any clues about the whereabouts of the Soulsword itself, but instead suggested that there were certain particular people who might be key to stopping Ondoval. This was news to Randae, though not necessarily surprising. There were Althan artifacts (weapons and other devices of less-clear purpose) that refused to function for just anyone; informational spells indicated that the user had to be of the K’ta’viir race to be able to utilize their powers. These items apparently were able to sense who was trying to use them; some even delivered a punishing shock to a would-be wielder. So, not just anyone could pick up the Soulsword, the one weapon capable of defeating the Shadowstone. And if Randae interpreted this poem correctly, this task required not one but two people. ‘One bears the bird of fire’ would bring to mind a Phoenix; that was the symbol of Rhakhaan, though others took that reincarnating creature as their emblem. ‘Sister’s son’ would mean nephew or maybe cousins. The bit about having ‘no sire’ meant nothing to the Loremaster, beyond the implication of a missing father or – more unlikely – some sort of enchanted conception. Perhaps the one with no sire was somehow conceived using K’ta’viir genetic material? Far-fetched but not impossible with the right midwifery spells. But who would be behind such an elaborate scheme?
Absently sipping his glass of Danarchis red, Randae pondered the wisdom of using magic to help clarify things. The remnants of a Flow disturbance still lingered to the north, making any sort of serious scrying not exactly dangerous but… probably unreliable. And there was the risk of being detected in this city when casting any sort of information spell. He considered teleporting home to use the Ilarsír but decided that was too perilous, at least right now. After all, what he sought would apparently come to him…
Kim went to his room, but he was feeling restless. It was late but he wasn’t sleepy, and the thought of reading didn’t appeal to him. He could try some meditation exercises… or go out.
The first bell after midnight sounded. He debated for a while longer with himself before deciding that he hadn’t gone ‘out’ in some time, and it wouldn’t hurt to drop by the Standard for a little while. He slipped out the door and made his way down the winding streets of the Old City, which were nearly silent and deserted at this hour. Turning into a narrow alley, he came to a doorway dimly illuminated by a single orange-tinted lantern, with a faded shingle above it: the Eastern Standard. He took a deep breath and tugged the door open. Even as he stepped inside, the din of lively music—and a cacophony of voices trying to talk over it—assaulted the Nuyan. The place was also thick with smoke, not only from the hearth and several lamps, but many of the clientele were smoking small pipes. Kim never understood the appeal of smoking; apparently there were some herbs that had a soothing or even slightly narcotic effect when their fumes were inhaled, but he thought the possible benefit was outweighed by the smell and the lingering odor in his clothes. And it just seemed like inhaling smoke couldn’t be good for your health…
The Monk tugged his hood off, made his way through the thick crowd to the bustling bar and ordered a drink: butak, a clear, distilled liquor made from potatoes. A small glass full of the thick liquid in hand, he then turned to survey the room, nodding curtly to a few acquaintances as their glance crossed his. Opposite the bar on a tiny stage stood three musicians: one strumming the quindera, one playing a woodwind instrument called a Daboogong, and the third—an attractive young woman—was a vocalist. She was belting out a lively song Kim had heard before: a popular tune in Sel-kai this season. The singer stood out from the crowd not only because of her powerful voice and the brighter lamps around the small stage, but she was also the only woman in the tavern.
As he continued to scan the room, the Monk spied three men standing in a dark corner, the sight of whom immediately put Kim on guard. Two he knew—Seylars and Teo—and the third he mentally pronounced guilty by association. All wore identical black sleeveless tunics embroidered in metallic crimson thread on the left breast in the shape of a coiling drake. They were members of a group called the Red Dragons, ostensibly a harmless social club. But Kim knew they were in fact nothing more or less than a gang of thugs who were clever enough to avoid being caught by the Redcapes. He suspected that the infamously corrupt Sel-kai police force might even be paid off to ignore the Dragons but had no proof except that if the Redcapes weren’t being bribed they were incompetent.
Kim watched the trio: Seylars, a willowy Elf with short-cropped ebony hair, very pointed ears and steel-grey eyes, was apparently recounting some exploit while the other two listened with rapt attention. Kim suspected that Seylars was one of the leaders of the Dragons—and a Dyar Elf. Teo was a powerfully built young Laan, while the third looked to be part Erlin. Seylars and Teo were regulars at Trevor’s Tankard, and the Monk had thrown them out for rowdy drunken behavior not a week ago. Kim knew the proud Elf would not soon forget that insult.
Just then Seylars looked up and met Kim’s gaze. He smiled in an almost predatory way and nodded his head very slightly. Kim pretended not to notice him and looked away.
By the time Kalen and Jad had arrived at the railing of the aft deck, the Navigator and the ship’s captain were already there, peering at the eerie phenomenon to the northeast.
It was not that the cousins had never seen a Flowstorm. But in central Jaiman they were very unusual and tended to be localized, brief affairs that were no more than a mile across and burned themselves out in less than an hour. Usually they were curiosities in the sky, no more dangerous than a thunderstorm to those who did not use magic. True Flowstorms often started at sea or open plains where they could build strength. Neither youth had ever seen a great vortex like this one take shape.
Tar-esiir nodded gravely to the cousins as they leaned forward against the rail. “Come to see the spectacle? It is quite beautiful in its way. Fortunately, the storm is moving north as it gains strength, and we will soon be out of its area of influence.”
“For once on this trip luck has been in our favor.” Captain N’tanga muttered, touching three fingers to forehead in the sailor’s sign against evil fortune.
“Actually, I would say that we have been quite lucky—if one were to believe in such a thing as ‘luck.” The Navigator clasped his hands behind his back. “While it is true that we have encountered far more than the normal perils on the Lethys to Sel-kai sailing, we have nevertheless come out of them all relatively unscathed.” He turned to Kalen and Jad. “I trust the Viscount is as well as can be expected and resting quietly?”
“He is, and Ruuth says he should make a full recovery.” Jad answered, a tinge of pride in his voice.
“I know your gallant efforts aiding the Herbalist in delivering aid to the Viscount Ridgeston will not go unrewarded.” Tar-esiir smiled indulgently.
“So, Navigator, you said we would soon be out of the storm’s influence…” Jad began while he had the Navigator’s attention. “I was wondering if by that you mean we were affected by it just now during the attack by those raiders. I don’t know much about spells, but how did they escape using magic?” He asked the question Kalen was too timid to voice.
“Yes, what about that?” N’tanga turned to Tar-esiir.
The Navigator scowled. “As perhaps you noticed, their spell user failed in his first attempt to transport them away. When he tried again he used additional power and took serious risks that could have killed them all. Such risks I am unwilling — and indeed forbidden — to take.”
“And who decides what is too much risk, when my passengers might be in equally great peril from bloodthirsty pirates?”
“The Navigator Council makes guidelines, and from there we must decide based on our assessment of the situation. But I assure you that few things are more deadly and permanent than materializing inside solid rock—or not materializing at all.” Tar-esiir huffed.
“Who do you think they were? Surely more than just pirates. And what was that strange underwater craft that destroyed one of their ships?” Kalen, thinking perhaps the Navigator would be grateful for a deflection of topic, added his questions to the chorus.
Tar-esiir glanced at the Marquess with a slightly raised eyebrow and hint of a smile. “Obviously they were not their run-of-the-mill pirates. Perhaps their goal was to capture members of the Rhakhaan nobility, since you and the Viscount would indeed be prizes to demand a high ransom. And despite appearances, their spell-user was not a Navigator; we are forbidden from transporting any passengers or cargo for the purpose of aggression or other criminal activity.”
“Sure looked like some sort of Navigator.” N’tanga muttered, squinting towards the glowing storm.
Tar-esiir shot him a glance that could have turned wine to vinegar. “Anyone doing what that man did would be promptly called before a Tribunal of Investigation and no doubt stripped of his membership and Compass.”
“And what about that… machine?” Kalen pressed.
“That was truly a wonder, was it not?”
“A terror, more like it, an abomination. It looked like something those Loari from Námar-Tol would build. I’ve seen some of their infernal machines.” The Captain grunted.
“The Námari are not in the habit of building machines designed to destroy merchant ships, Captain N’tanga.” The Navigator said tersely. “I think it is a bit unfair of you to lump all technologically advanced vehicles into the same category. I would add, though, that the submarine boat we just saw is most likely beyond the capabilities of even the Loari engineers. The ability to sink beneath the water, and the motive force to drive it at such speeds and ram a sailing ship without suffering any apparent damage… quite remarkable. You also neglect to mention that the craft destroyed only one of our attackers. It never behaved in a threatening manner towards the Naristral.”
“True enough, though who knows the motivations of whoever was driving that thing.” The Captain shrugged. “Well, our dinner is cold by now, but I for one could use a drink to settle my nerves. Would you gentlemen care to join me in my cabin?”
“Ah, you’ll damn the Námari for their technology but you will still drink their wine.” Tar-esiir said, but he was smiling.
“‘Fair water from a foul well,’ I believe is the appropriate explanation for that!” The captain replied with a laugh, the turned quickly to the cousins and said in a low voice, “No offense intended, young sirs, if you are of that Elven descent. I say these things only to irritate our esteemed Navigator.”
Jad looked in confusion to Kalen as they followed the still-bantering pair down to the Captain’s cabin. The Marquess shrugged then leaned in and whispered “apparently they have known each other for some time; they jab at each other like this and think nothing of it.”
Chapter 16: Sel-kai
Journal of Kalen Avanir
TE 6050, Orhan 5, day 65
Aboard the Caravel ‘Naristral’
The morning has dawned grey and chilly in the Melurian Straits, with a stiff wind off the water (if the wet blasts coming in our little window are any indication). I am finishing the last of the breakfast coffee as I write this. Three more days — barring further incident — and we will arrive in Sel-kai! I for one cannot wait to get off this boat and onto dry land again, even though it has been an exciting voyage beyond my wildest imaginings. If my father had known that this journey would have been fraught with such adventures I have no doubt he would have kept us at home.
After checking on the (still sleeping) Taluk and Bertram, Kalen and Jad made their way down the short hall to the outside door. When the cousins emerged from the cabin corridor, they were indeed greeted by a steady bracing wind.
“I’m glad for our cloaks; this wind makes it seem even colder!” Jad shouted over the sound of air and water as they made their way to the balustrade. The sea was as colorless as the sky, choppy but with many smaller waves whipped by the wind.
Kalen clutched at his hood and looked up. The sails were unfurled, taking full advantage of the strong, steady wind from the northwest. It seemed more forceful that what the Navigator usually summoned and he wondered if it was natural. Certainly it appeared that they were moving at a good clip.
The Marquess noticed Yandar Vit’s distinctive silhouette on the aft deck and leaned close to Jad. “The evil tutor is out of the cabin; let’s go visit Lukas while he’s alone.”
Jad smirked and nodded. If possible, he liked Yandar Vit less that Kalen.
Heads down, they scuttled forward to the Viscount’s cabin. Jad knocked softly.
“Who is it?”
“Your healers, come to check on your progress!” Jad said with a short laugh.
“Well come in then!” Lukas called softly.
They slipped into the cabin to find the Viscount in his bunk propped up on several pillows. A blanket was pulled up to his waist but he still had no shirt on. The bandage that covered his wound had a slight discoloration in the center, but was by no means soaked as it would be with any wound of that severity that hadn’t been magically treated.
Lukas had regained much of the color in his face, though he still looked a bit haggard. His usually perfectly arranged hair was a wild mop. He seemed to sense this as they entered, frantically combing through it with his fingers. “I’m sure I look like I’ve been to the Fifth Pale and back.” He smiled self-consciously.
“Somehow you’d still manage to look good.” Jad blurted out.
Kalen and Lukas both looked at him in surprise. The Squire was blushing, as if he was as taken aback as the others by his oddly worded compliment.
“Well, thank you, Jad. I wish I felt so good.” He shifted and winced. “I guess I should consider myself lucky though.”
“I should say so; Eissa must be looking after you.” Kalen admonished him as the cousins pulled up chairs next to the berth. “That was quite an impressive spell you cast.”
“That was an impressive spell, but it wasn’t mine!” Lukas grimaced. “I was casting a Shock Bolt, one target, intended to stun really. And I nearly lost control of that—some instability in the Essænce almost tore the spell from me. But I managed to get it off, and suddenly something else happened right behind it, something very… different.”
“Different how?”
Lukas shook his head, then cringed again. “Ow. I’m not sure, only that it wasn’t like the spells I have been learning; it felt… different somehow. I felt it go through me, and it gave me a chill.”
“You know who was standing behind you.” Kalen said in a low voice.
“It was all kind of a blur.” Lukas frowned.
“Your Tutor, Yandar Vit.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised, really.” The Viscount sighed. “I’ve suspected for some time that Vit isn’t quite what he appears to be.”
“Why do you keep him around, then?” Jad demanded, in a louder voice than he had probably intended.
Lukas smirked. “Curiosity. I want to know what he is really up to. And I don’t have any proof that he isn’t what he seems. My father wouldn’t let me just dismiss him out of hand, especially now.
“He gives me the chills.” Jad mumbled.
“He is a bit spooky, isn’t he?” The Viscount wrinkled his nose. “At least you don’t have to share a cabin with him. I don’t think he sleeps.”
“At least he doesn’t snore like Jad!” Kalen said, and then cringed as his cousin shot him a withering glare.
Lukas barked out a laugh, then winced again in pain. “But at least you know he will always have your back. With Vit I am forever on my guard.”
“At least you know he needs watching. But it seems unfortunate that you cannot trust your own teacher.”
“Good practice for my future life in court politics.” Lukas responded with a tight smile.
But Kalen could only frown, remembering how closely parallel to the Viscount Ridgeston’s his own future would no doubt run.
The great audience chamber in the Haalkitaine Imperial Palace was, as usual, a swarming hive of activity. Pages clad in the royal livery came and went; courtiers and advisors in fine brocades and velvets clustered in small murmuring groups; guards and hangers-on lurked in the shadowy perimeter. At the center of this activity, slouched on the massive Phoenix Throne with its great upswept wings of glittering amber and red crystal, was His Imperial Majesty Jerrin Arej Malvion Faslurin III, Emperor of Rhakhaan, King of Wuliris, Zor and Meluria, Duke of Chantay, Evara, Thendara and Sororis, Marquess of Dingange, Nolgara and Arzor, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
On a simple stone seat on the emperor’s right sat the Royal Truthsayer Jorun of Yarmuth, his fitted black robe appearing stark next to Jerrin’s crimson brocaded finery. The Truthsayer’s caramel-brown skin also contrasted with the fair complexions of all others present. He was a lone Itanian among the noble-bred Laan of the audience chamber, but all there would strain to hear his words. Truthsayers spoke rarely but they always said something of import. Even now, as others chattered and whispered around him, Jorun remained silent and nearly motionless. Only his darting glace possibly betrayed his shifting attentions; and of course the fingers of one hand continually caressed and fingered the long slender quartz-like Crystal hanging around his neck. The Crystals were the key to the Truthsayers’ Mentalist powers.
On the Emperor’s other side a simple throne was conspicuously empty. The Empress had suddenly taken ill; apparently nothing more serious than a persistent headache, but with the New Year fast approaching, her incapacity left Jerrin to review and approve the dizzying array of celebratory events.
Planning things like this was an activity she usually loved, and one he equally loved… to defer to his wife. But now he was forced to make decisions about things that—to him at least—were unimaginably trivial. He needed to concentrate on the war against the Pretender, on the defense of his realm… not these frivolous festivals whose only purpose was to improve morale among the civilian people.
The Emperor rubbed the fingertips of one hand on his temple. It was a habit familiar to many close to him, and it meant that their ruler was getting irritated.
But Fervalis the Royal event planner had been recently appointed, and did not understand the significance of His Majesty’s gesture. Instead he droned on about food courses and wine…
Before the Emperor was a table scattered with documents: diagrams, seating plans, guest lists, even agendas that the feast planner would refer to as he made his elaborate presentation. Finally Jerrin rolled his eyes in disgust and sighed loudly. A few courtiers made quiet gasping sounds and recoiled back into the shadows.
Even Fervalis got the hint then. “Would you like to continue this at a later time, Your Majesty? “ He asked in a small voice.
“I would prefer that you continue this somewhere else!” Jerrin seethed. Then he suddenly sat up in his throne, startling everyone nearby. Fervalis blanched: Jerrin’s temper was infamous.
“Where on Charôn is my worthless son?” The Emperor suddenly demanded.
“Which worthless son, Majesty?” Ren Thraysk, leaning against a pillar to the side of the Emperor, kept his tone innocent while his mouth curled into a smirk. He was chagrined to realize that the Truthsayer saw him, however. Jorun pressed his full lips together in disapproval but said nothing.
“The one with his head full of songs and poems and history and Elven tongues and other useless knowledge, Loremaster: Prince Toren.” The Emperor ranted. “And I believe I have you Loremasters to thank for that!”
“Music and poetry and Elvish Toren learns at his leisure. As for history, those who do not learn from the mistakes of the past are doomed to repeat them. Always a good lesson for potential Emperors, don’t you think?” Ren examined the nails on his (flesh-and-blood) hand.
“I’ll learn from my own mistakes, thank you!” Jerrin scowled. “And it’s not as if he’ll likely ever rule. He ought to be learning about military tactics and strategy, as his place should be commanding one of my armies!”
“You know that all five of Alaek III’s sons died before he did, leaving only his daughter Italana as heir.” Ren asked matter-of-factly.
“Of course, that is family… history.” Jerrin frowned and his eyes narrowed. “Loremaster, it continually amazes me that I allow someone who annoys me as much as you do to remain in my presence. In fact…”
Jorun leaned in close. “Majesty, need I remind you that he and his order possess confidential knowledge from lands beyond ours impossible to gain elsewhere, including intelligence about Your Majesty’s enemies… and sometimes he does have valuable insights at council.” The Truthsayer whispered in a voice carefully modulated to reach only Jerrin’s ear.
“In fact, Loremaster,” Jerrin continued with hardly a pause, “I charge you to take this… planner… with you and locate my son. I hereby assign you and Prince Toren with personally approving all activities for the New Year Celebrations.”
Ren opened his mouth, but a sharp glance from the Truthsayer made him reconsider what he was going to say. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Come, Fervalis. Gather your papers and we’ll find the Prince.”
As the planner fussed with his diagrams, the Emperor gestured to his personal secretary who stood nearby scribbling in a large book on a stand. “What’s next?”
“Your Majesty, His Grace Hedaro Seleyah the Archprelate of Enov Turic, and His Grace Osaran al Delphys, the Archprelate of Purll Kirn. They are here to discuss the religious ceremonies for the New Year.”
“Ugh! More ceremonies!” Jerrin groaned. “Very well. Let’s make this brief.”
Ren nodded to the two entering Prelates as he departed the audience chamber. Hedaro he knew fairly well, but Osaran he had only met once before. As he passed the Archprelate of Purll Kirn, he remembered that Randae had said something about him, but couldn’t recall exactly what. Ren knew he didn’t care much for the priest, but then there were a lot of people he didn’t care for. As his gaze met Osaran’s azure glance, he felt a chill.
And it wasn’t just a winter draft in the palace.
“Two whole days at sea without some misfortune, can you believe it?” Jad leaned on the balustrade between his cousin and Lukas. “Tomorrow morning we will be off this boat and in Sel-kai!” He added wistfully, looking southwest as the sun dipped behind a band of clouds near the horizon. The Naristral’s sail color began to change from bright orange to a shadowy mauve.
“I’ll be glad to have my own room separate from Yandar.” The Viscount sighed. “These close quarters have been… stressful. I like my privacy.”
“I have been meaning to ask how you managed to get away with only your tutor as escort.” Kalen asked, glancing at Lukas. “I have not only Jad but Bertram and Taluk of my household—and I think my father would have sent even more if he thought he could spare them.”
“Vit and I are the only ones to board the ship, but we had quite an entourage from Craedinor to Lethys. I suppose my father assumed that more guards on the Naristral or in Sel-kai would be superfluous.”
“I still wonder about that pirate attack.” Kalen said, frowning. “Two ships, some sort of Navigator, all to capture us? And then that strange metal underwater boat that essentially rescued us. It’s almost too incredible to believe!”
“Well I shall have a scar to always remember it by,” Lukas rubbed his shoulder, “Though a small one, thanks to you both and the Herbalist. It is almost healed already; you can hardly see anything, and there is only a bit of stiffness to remind me of it.”
“That’s amazing!” Kalen marveled at the power of a simple herb.
“You shall have a story to tell your grandchildren.” Jad mused.
“I suppose, if I should ever have grandchildren.” The Viscount said cryptically.
Kalen peered into the southeast. They should be sighting Resenda —the northernmost of the Sel-kai islands—fairly soon. After rounding the eastern coast of that island the Naristral would begin her maneuvers through the narrow channels between the Sel-kai islands that would eventually take her to the Sharhya Bay. Less experienced crews would only make this passage by day, but the men of the Naristral apparently knew the passage well enough even in the dark. There were also many night-beacons set along the coasts to guide friendly ships; and of course they had a Navigator, whose Elven eyes could see at night as well as day. Still, the ship would be slowed to a fraction of her normal clip at sea, and the crew would be kept busy at the sails.
Indeed the last couple of days had been virtually without incident. There had been no sign of the mysterious metal ship, nor of any other seagoing craft for that matter. The weather had remained fair and chilly, with a strong wind from the west… and the sea had not been too choppy.
“You know who I have not seen in ages, the young man with the short red hair, the monk. What was his name? ‘Patrock?’ Something odd.” Lukas said with that crooked smile that Kalen had come to learn usually meant the Viscount was up to mischief.
“‘Patrick’ I think it was.” Jad put his back to the rail and squinted up into the rigging. “I have not seen much of him either. Perhaps he’ll be at the Captain’s dinner tonight.”
Ren Thraysk, with Fervalis in tow, arrived at Prince Toren’s chambers in the Palace. The outer door was flanked by a pair of bored-looking house guards who, when they saw who was coming, only made a half-hearted attempt to come to attention.
“Is the Prince inside?”
“He is, Loremaster.” One said, looking off down the corridor. He didn’t offer to announce them, so Ren knocked on the door to the Prince’s chambers. He was answered immediately with a disgruntled-sounding “Enter!”
They found Prince Toren in his sitting room, lounging in a dormer, reading of course. Eighteen years old, slender and handsome to the point of being almost pretty, Toren could have been the court darling, but it didn’t seem to be in his temperament. Almost painfully shy, he tended to prefer solitary pursuits over the usual social activities usually expected of a royal heir.
Upon seeing the Loremaster, however, Toren’s pouting expression turned to a genuine smile. He hopped out of the dormer seat and rushed to greet his visitor. “Ren! So good to see you! I have some questions about the translation of that fascinating history of Urulan you loaned me.”
“I’m glad you are enjoying the book, Highness, but I come with orders from your father.” Ren bowed.
“Lords, no! Not more sword practice!” Toren rolled his eyes, then seemed to notice Fervalis for the first time. “Or perhaps not?” His eyes narrowed.
“No my Prince. May I introduce Fervalis, the royal event planner. Since you mother has taken ill, the Emperor has charged you with making all decisions regarding the New Year celebrations.”
Fervalis, humbled after his close call with Jerrin, stepped forward meekly. “An honor, your Highness.” He bowed… groveled really.
“Really?” Toren raised an eyebrow. “And your punishment, Loremaster, is to assist me? You must have annoyed my father again.”
“Spared from banishment only by the intervention of the Truthsayer.” Ren smiled.
“Well anything is better than sparring.” Toren shrugged in defeat and he gestured to a round table already cluttered with books and documents. “Lay out your plans, Fervalis and I shall order tea.” He reached for a brocade bell-pull.
Though a reluctant participant at first, Prince Toren soon took to the event planning like a phoenix to flame. He and Fervalis, moving from parade to banquet to performance, fed on each other’s excitement. Though he found the Prince’s enthusiasm interesting, Ren Thraysk didn’t share it, and when they got to wine selections, the Loremaster decided to bow out of the discussion. He pulled a book at random from the Prince’s well-stocked shelves and retired to the same dormer that Toren had occupied. Though of the chance of being attacked in the palace was minimal, instinct made him place his staff close to hand. Few knew that it was actually the scabbard for his holy sword Thorn. Ren looked at the title of his selected book for the first time: Art and Architecture of the Sixth Millennium of the Second Era of Ire. He should be asleep in no time.
As it turned out, however, Ren barely got through the Foreword before there was an urgent knock at the door.
“Yes, what is it!?” Toren didn’t try to hide his annoyance.
The door flew open and an out-of breath guard burst in. Ren was on his feet, staff in his hands in an instant. Before the guard took two steps into the room the Loremaster was between the door and the Prince. The intruder was drenched from the waist down and seemed frazzled, though he didn’t have his weapon drawn. Then Ren saw who was behind him, half supported by another guard.
“Yes, Gevon, what is it?” Toren sounded more curious than alarmed.
“Your Highness, I am sorry to disturb you, but this man insisted on seeing the Loremaster immediately, and we were told that he was in your chambers. He appeared rather… suddenly… in the Fountain Court, and we didn’t know…”
“I can stand on my own, thank you very much!” The small man behind Gevon snapped, struggling to free himself from the guard’s not-entirely-supporting hold.
Ren’s face broke into a smile and he said over his shoulder, “I can vouch for this man, Your Highness.”
Toren came forward to stand next to the Loremaster. “From the look of it, he’s been in the Fountain.” He said with a smirk. “You can release him.”
“Yes, Highness.” The other guard reluctantly loosened his hold on the smaller man, who shook him off and staggered forward. He was soaked from head to toe.
“Drey Laachek!” Ren exclaimed. “What a surprise to see you here. Did you swim?”
The diminutive Loremaster glared up at his much taller fellow. “No, when I asked to be transported to Haalkitaine, my irascible host apparently decided that it would be amusing to teleport me to empty air about ten feet directly above the Sorenian Fountain!” He fumed, before remembering his manners. “Highness.” He nodded to the Prince, then sneezed.
Toren couldn’t suppress a giggle before dismissing the guards. “Let me see if I can find you some towels and a robe so you can change out of those wet clothes.” He vanished into his bedchamber.
“Weren’t you in Cynar? It sounds like there is a story behind this abrupt arrival.” Ren prodded when the door closed behind the guards.
“More than you can imagine.” Drey shivered.
“Here, come to the hearth and dry off.” Toren emerged from the bedroom with a beautiful full-length robe and a pile of towels. He directed Drey to a stool by the fire, his eyes alight with excitement. The tale of a Loremaster’s adventures trumped banquet planning any day.
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