by Layton Green
“Wow,” he said, rising off the chair, “I would almost think you cared.”
Her cynical smile appeared like the crack of a whip. “As I said, don’t be a fool.”
He stepped right next to her and cupped the nape of her neck. The supple smoothness of her skin sent a shiver coursing through him. He still remembered their kiss before the surprise attack on Freetown, the taste of plum and spice, danger dancing in mystery. “Would you respect me if I stayed?”
“I’d rather share ale with the living than respect the dead.”
“Is that all you want from me?” he said as he moved even closer, until their lips were almost touching. “To share a good ale?”
As the moment stretched, he felt the warmth of her breath on his face, smelled the floral musk of her perfume. He moved to kiss her, but she put a finger to his lips.
“I won’t kiss the hero before his ill-fated journey,” she said, though her fingers caressed the edges of his mouth, “like the village lass who lives inside her skirts and waits patiently for his return.”
“And if I stayed?”
A flicker in her eyes caused him to think she was about to change her mind. Yet instead of leaning into him, she held his gaze and took a step back. A distance that, to Will, seemed as if a mountain had just landed between them. “You won’t.”
Her answer caused him to flinch. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t deny the truth in her words. He loved her, but he could never live with himself if he chose desire over what he thought was right. He knew Mala was not the same kind of person and, while it did not make him love her any less, it was a barrier between them he didn’t know how to cross.
She crossed her arms against her chest, as if drawing herself tight. Protecting. He knew she could read his thoughts in his eyes. “Go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Perform your duty.”
Unable to bear the distance between them, he took her by the arms and moved to kiss her, but she turned her head and slipped out of his grasp.
He stood in the center of his room, feeling hurt and foolish.
“It’s time for you to leave,” she said coldly. “You have a quest to attend to.”
The guarded look had returned to her eyes, the one that had been there for as long as he had known her—except for the last several minutes.
“Tell me where you’re going,” he said.
“I cannot.”
“How will I find you again?”
“You probably won’t.”
Feeling as if the ground was slipping out from beneath him, he stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. She tensed as if ready for a fight, but didn’t pull away.
He looked her in the eye. “I love you, Mala. I have for some time.”
She started, as if that was not at all what she had expected to hear. A flicker of confusion entered her eyes, and he relished the emotion, the spark of uncertainty.
“I just wanted you to know,” he said. “Take care of yourself. I hope we meet again.”
Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his sword and closed the door behind him.
Reeling, feverish with disappointment, Will trudged through town towards the Red Wagon Tavern. The sun had almost descended. He had no fourth companion and no idea whom to choose. He supposed he could limit it to three people, but as dangerous as this journey promised to be, that seemed foolish.
Yet whom could he trust? He wished Marek were still there, but the big warrior had returned to his family while Will was away in the Mayan Kingdom.
As he passed the beer fountain, he heard a familiar voice calling his name. Not the voice of someone he knew from Urfe, but from back home.
Could it be, he thought? Or am I hearing things?
He turned and saw a tall, beautiful woman, her hair and skin the color of a light roast coffee bean, riding through the square on a handsome chestnut stallion.
A shrill cry split the air. Will looked up and saw a massive bird land atop a nearby rooftop, settle its mottled wings, and watch over Yasmina’s approach as if protecting the young wilder. The wounded harpy eagle Yasmina had rescued in the Yucatan forest, now healthy and strong.
His old friend’s countenance had changed from the last time he had seen her. They had not been apart that long, but she looked wiser and more competent, as if her wilder powers had grown during her absence. An aura of power enveloped her, not just in the traditional sense, but the sort of personal power that comes when someone figures out exactly who she is.
Yasmina still carried the owl staff Elegon had bequeathed her, as well as the pewter-colored traveling cloak she had worn on the journey to the tomb of the sorcerer king. She dismounted and embraced Will with a warm smile, which relieved him. He was afraid she had turned into some sort of wisdom-spouting recluse who spoke in riddles and had changed her name to something unpronounceable.
“Yasmina?”
“Yes?”
“Just checking. What are you doing here? Where did you go?”
“North,” she said. “Beyond the Protectorate.”
“How did you get there and back so fast?”
She gave a mysterious smile and didn’t answer. He reassessed his earlier conclusion.
“It’s good to see you, Will.” A conflicted look shadowed her face. “I’d love to catch up soon, but is Caleb here?”
“He left.”
Her face tensed. “Left? Where did he go?”
After a shake of his head, he told her everything that had happened since she had left their party atop the pyramid, including the recovery of the Coffer and Caleb’s marriage to Marguerite. Yasmina stood very still as he told her about the murder of Marguerite and Luca, and the circumstances of Caleb’s departure.
She whispered, “It’s as I feared.”
“How could you fear something when you haven’t even been here?”
“I . . . knew something had happened to him.”
“How?”
“I can’t explain. I just did, and I knew I needed to help.”
“Was it a wilder thing?”
“Maybe. And maybe . . .”
“You two have a connection,” Will finished for her. “Magnified by the weirdness of this world, or your wilder powers. Or both.”
Her eyes gave a mute assent.
With a sigh, Will eyed the shadows collecting on the streets, the purple hue bruising the sky. He had to get to the Red Wagon Tavern.
“Will?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you really think recovering the Coffer might help your brothers?”
“I don’t know, Yaz. I don’t know how much trouble Val is in, and I don’t know if anything can bring Caleb to his senses. But I feel in my gut this is the right thing to do, both to help my brothers and these people.”
Yasmina’s hand moved to the top of her staff, and she looked past Will to somewhere distant. “Do you think it was an accident I arrived here at this very moment?”
“I have no idea. Do you?”
“I don’t believe in fate in the traditional sense. But I do believe that sometimes, things happen that are beyond our ability to understand. Is there any way you might consider taking another companion on your journey?”
He hadn’t told her about the gateway bauble and the limit on the number of people.
But now he didn’t need to.
Sky merged with earth, a cloak of darkness settling on the land as Tamás led Will, Mateo, Dalen, and Yasmina on a well-trod horse trail out of Freetown, up into the high green hills overlooking the ocean. The council had decided to keep the method of the journey a secret, in case more spies were about. If anyone saw them leaving town, Tamás could claim he had seen Will and his companions off on horseback, on an expedition to find the Coffer in the Dragon’s Teeth.
Each member of the party carried a backpack full of rations and miscellaneous items. With no idea how long they would be gone, the packs were stuffed as full as each member could handle. They also had a single bott
le of healing salve, one of the few left in Freetown after the wizards’ attack.
In addition, Will carried Zariduke, his new buckler shield, the supple leather armor he had worn on the Yucatan journey, and his magical armband that translated foreign tongues and had eluded all attempts at removal. The armband made him nervous, but there was nothing he could do about it. Would it not fall off until his death, as with the ogre-mage? Was it a sentient thing?
Mateo rode beside him, his flexible urumi sword worn as a belt, the two of them ensconced in a comfortable silence. In place of his left hand, his cousin bore a magical chain mail glove he had found in the tomb of the sorcerer king. An archer as well as a swordsman, Mateo claimed the five-fingered glove did not afford him the nimble dexterity needed for a bow, though it possessed other advantages. Mateo could now break the bones of a man’s hand with his grip, or smash through a brick wall with his fist.
Dalen rode just ahead, chattering to himself, excited and apprehensive. Will still didn’t know the young mage’s true background, or what had led to his capture by the tuskers. He sensed it was a sore topic, perhaps because his family had abandoned him.
At the front of the group, Yasmina rode beside Tamás, conversing softly. Ever since he had met her, Tamás had harbored an attraction for the striking wilder. They seemed to be getting along, though Will could not tell whether Yasmina had started to return his feelings, or was just being nice.
Before they set out, Will had asked her about the harpy eagle. Yasmina said she had sent her off on an errand, but had refused to elaborate. He wondered if it had anything to do with Caleb.
The long-haired, handsome leader of the Revolution led them to a majestic redwood grove high above Freetown. In the distance, stars glittered above the velvet canvas of the ocean. As Will dismounted, he noticed a handful of elders assembled beside an enormous tree with a hollowed-out space in the trunk. He tried to shake off his nerves and the memory of his last encounter with Mala, wondering if they would ever meet again.
As they dismounted at the base of the redwood, Will noticed Jacoby Revansill, Merin Dragici, Tinea Alafair, Kyros Toth, and a gray-haired sylvamancer named Grelick, Tinea’s brother, who had recently arrived from his homestead near the eastern edge of the Dragon’s Teeth. Grelick had visited Praha once before and would handle the shaping of the gateway bauble.
The Prophet was also present, standing by himself at the edge of the wood, observing the proceedings with a serene air. Will had the sudden urge to grab him by the collar and shake him. Stay away from my brother, you zealot. He’s not who you think he is.
When Tinea saw Will, she gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth, pointing at his shield. “Where did you get that?”
He looked down at the battered, teardrop-shaped buckler. “I found it in the treasure room of the sorcerer king. Why?”
Though unimpressive to look at, its weight had felt right in his hand, lightweight and maneuverable.
“When I saw it on your return, it didn’t look like this. The runes . . .so vivid . . .” She trailed off and stared at the shield in wonder.
He hadn’t thought it was a big deal. “The Coffer did that when Caleb opened it. I assumed the residual magic affected it in some way.”
“The Coffer?” Tinea gave a strangled cry, though the other elders looked as confused as Will. “Does no one recognize the pattern on this shield? What he is holding?”
Kyros Toth snapped his fingers. “By the queen . . . could it be?”
Tinea approached Will and laid her withered hands on the buckler with reverent care. “Perhaps I’m the only one here ancient enough to remember the old books. This is a paladin’s shield. Not just any paladin, either.” She turned her piercing gaze on Will and pointed at a rune that resembled a squiggly line wrapped around a sword, piercing a seven-pointed star. “This is the personal insignia of Fieran Blackwood. Captain of the paladins under Priestess Nirela, devoted servant of Devla and a true cleric of our people.”
Tamás gaped at the buckler. “A paladin’s shield has not been seen in ages. And now one is revealed by the Coffer? Fieran Blackwood’s, no less?”
“Does this mean Will’s a paladin?” Dalen blurted out.
“Only a true cleric of Devla can anoint a paladin,” Tamás said, gripping Will by the shoulder. “But this is surely a great honor. Yet another sign from Devla that our path is true!”
Mateo was looking on with wide eyes as the elders gathered around Will, inspecting the buckler with awe. All the attention embarrassed him. “Does it do anything?” he asked gruffly. “Any powers I should know about?”
Tinea said, “It’s said that under the aegis of a high cleric, the shields are enhanced in some way. What those abilities might be, I’m uncertain. The lore has long been lost.”
Will let his gaze rest on the rune-covered buckler. He had always been drawn to the concept of the paladin, a warrior with an allegiance to a greater cause, something more than just a sword-for-hire. Despite the unknown nature of the runes, the shield seemed a symbol of everything that had happened since he and his brothers had arrived on Urfe: his journey to become a warrior, becoming entangled in the Revolution, and now the weight of undertaking a journey that might be the last hope of his people.
“We should go,” Tamás said.
Will took a deep breath as Grelick, the sylvamancer, took a glass bauble the size of a grapefruit out of a cloth sack. He bent and carefully placed the bauble inside the hollow of the tree.
“It helps to keep the bauble in a confined space,” Tamás said quietly to Will. “To ensure it stays contained.”
“Uh, what happens if it’s not contained? Like if one of our arms is sticking out?”
Tamás’s face turned troubled. “Do not allow that to happen. It is why only four people can be taken.”
The hole in the trunk was so large Will didn’t even have to duck as Grelick ushered the four companions inside and asked them to link hands around the bauble. Once they were positioned, the old sylvamancer smashed the artifact with his foot and backed out of the tree. Strangely, the sound of his footsteps was muffled as a dense mist rose out of the shards and swirled around the companions. Everyone pressed close together, ensuring they were inside the mist. Grelick was staring intensely at the fog, which had no smell or taste and began to move rapidly, as if the wizard was sifting through it.
Will looked down and noticed his hands had started to merge into the ephemeral gray substance. He gritted his teeth and forced himself not to panic. Tamás and the other elders observed the process with tense expressions from outside the tree, their hopes resting on the fate of the four companions.
Grelick moved his hands in the air like a conductor. The fog started to congeal as the bodies of Will and his friends grew more and more transparent, and then an image emerged in the soupy haze, surrounding them as if they were in a Cyclorama theater with a three hundred and sixty degree view: a cobblestone street set beneath a slender, crumbling archway spanning the air between two black obelisks. As the vision solidified, the trunk of the redwood tree and the faces of the elders grew ever more distant.
Eventually the fog dissipated and, with a start, Will realized he and his companions were corporeal once again. They were standing on that very cobblestone street, staring up at the archway and the obelisks, drinking in the same dystopian cityscape of soot-blackened buildings, cracked bridges and arches, and nests of maze-like alleys they had glimpsed through the escape portal taken by the Coffer thief.
“Praha,” Dalen whispered.
-4-
Ringed by columns of red-gold marble, the Hall of Wizards was a rectangular, hundred-foot tall building that stretched the length of a football field. Inside the open-air structure, a frescoed ceiling depicted conquests from the Pagan Wars and the Age of Expansion, looming high above the statues of deceased wizards filling the hall.
Those statues looked so real, Val had learned, because artisamancers trained in geomancy had fused the corpses of decease
d mages with solid chunks of granite, immortalizing them in a process he did not fully understand. Each figure held or wore the wizard stone they had carried in life, scepters and wands and crowns and bracelets, adding splashes of color and majesty to the somber display.
Val strode to the rear of the Hall, awed by its grandeur, then stood in front of a plaque with a list of names bearing a birthdate followed by a dash. The roster of wizards whose fate remained unknown, including the second name on the last row: Dane Blackwood.
Except his father’s fate, if Lord Alistair was to believed, might no longer be a mystery.
Had Dane Blackwood died on Earth, killed by an agent of the Revolution?
Murdered by Dean Groft?
Maybe that was why the Dean had treated him kindly. Out of guilt for his deeds. He might even have liked Val’s father and slain him to get the sword, due to zealous belief in the cause.
Head bowed and eyes closed, Val took a knee, honoring his father’s memory. He gripped the azantite-topped staff he no longer had to keep secret, a birthright for all the Realm to see, then whispered a vow of revenge as he choked back his emotions with a snarl.
He did not have time for weakness. Not with so much at stake.
As he always did, Val focused on the big picture, which to him was quite clear.
First, recover the Coffer and use his leverage with Lord Alistair to find his brothers. With any luck, they were safe on the Barrier Coast, in the bosom of the Revolution.
After he sent his brothers home, he would find a way to get to the bottom of his father’s death.
Save his family. Avenge his father.
The rest was details.
Using the staff to push to his feet, Val touched his fingertips to his father’s plaque and murmured goodbye. He needed to get going. The shadows had lengthened outside the hall and, oddly, Lord Alistair had requested that Val meet him at the Sanctum at midnight to discuss how to recover the Coffer.
Before that, Val had a dinner date with two very special people.
“The Duck and Fig, is it?” Gus spat out a gob of tobacco as the two horses pulling his black carriage clacked down Magazine Street. The dappled steeds splashed into puddles of muddy water that had gathered on the cobblestones during the afternoon deluge. “Fanciest new restaurant on Canal, they say.”