Return of the Paladin

by Layton Green

  Though Val could have flown or even walked to the restaurant, it was customary in New Victoria for wizards to travel by carriage outside the Wizard District, unless taking flight over long distances. The murder of Garbind had everyone spooked, causing even the elder mages to travel with caution. If Dean Groft truly had Zariduke in his possession, then it was doubtful anyone, even Lord Alistair, could stand against him.

  Most of all, Val enjoyed his driver’s company and found him a valuable source of information. Gus had his ear to the ground, and he and Val had developed a close bond.

  “I’ve heard good things,” Val replied.

  Though used to dining in New York City’s finest restaurants, the cuisine of New Victoria impressed him. The ingredients were always fresh from the soil, and some of the dishes were so original and delectable that Val suspected the hand of magic.

  But at the moment, the gastronomy of Urfe was a distraction.

  Gus took notice. “Something on your mind?”

  Val leaned back and turned his head to the side, absorbing the city. “Lots, Gus.”

  “I’ve heard some rumors about ye. What ye did for the Queen. They say Lord Alistair is right appreciative.”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “Always does, laddie, always does.” Gus looked back and grinned through tobacco-stained teeth. “Especially in low places.”

  “What else have you heard?”

  “Nothing new about yer brothers. I’ve been asking hard, too. It’s impossible to be sure, but no one’s seen a pair like the two of ’em around, especially with the sword.”

  “I’m sure they’d keep the sword hidden.”

  “Aye. But eyes in the gutter have a way of noticing hidden things.”

  “What about Mala or Allira?”

  Gus slapped at a mosquito on his neck. “The gypsy hasn’t been seen in New Victoria since she left town with ye and yers. They say the dark one, though, has joined the Prophet.”

  Val’s eyebrows rose at the mention of the leader of the gray-clad followers of Devla. The wizards wanted the Prophet’s head on a platter, and for good reason. He symbolized a return to ignorance and persecution of the wizard-born. “Why?”

  “Dunno, lad. I s’pose she found religion, though ’tis a right dangerous thing to find around here.” He spat again and looked as if he wanted to say something else, then cut himself off.

  “You can speak freely,” Val said quietly. “It’s me.”

  The increased Protectorate patrols, inquisitions, and other harsh measures against those who had not taken the Oaths had incensed some of the population. Val understood his friend’s wariness, but he also understood the Congregation’s response to the threat of the Revolution, especially after the murder of Garbind.

  “It’s just that yer moving up in the wizard world, and I know ye’ve heard me speak ill of them in the past. I want ye to know my loyalty is with ye, lad, whether ye be a commoner or a tax collector or the Chief Thaumaturge himself.”

  Val leaned forward to lay a hand on his driver’s broad shoulder. “I know, Gus. And I want you to know you never have to watch what you say around me, even if it’s negative.”

  Though Gus looked relieved, Val could tell he wasn’t entirely convinced. But that was okay. Val did not want blind devotion. Full disclosure was a fool’s game, and Gus was no fool. Val would prefer his driver to keep his harshest criticisms to himself and preserve their relationship.

  They navigated the cobblestone streets of the Central Business District and its dizzying array of shops, taverns, and markets. Val felt a pang of sadness as he recalled the wonder in Will’s eyes when they first beheld the Adventurer’s Emporium, the Museum of Curios and Oddities, and the New Victoria Magick Shop.

  After skirting the Government Sector and the Guild Quarter, they passed through one of Val’s favorite neighborhoods, a bohemian district full of street-side cafes tucked under a sheltering canopy of live oaks. Finally they reached Canal Street and its legendary row of high-end restaurants. The arrival of dusk had sparked the glow orbs arcing over the street, casting a silver glow on the finely brocaded carriages and velvet-draped entrances. At the end of the street, a golden bridge spanned the river, and Val heard the sounds of revelry from the parks and cafes stretching along the banks.

  The beauty of the wizard capital took his breath away. New Victoria, he realized, had almost come to feel like home.

  As they drew closer to the bridge, some of Val’s goodwill faded when he saw a pair of ten-foot iron cages flanking the entrance, each holding a prisoner inside. The captives’ wrists were bound to iron rings at the tops of the cages, their soiled black sashes still around their waists. Val thought they were dead until one of them twitched. A pair of silver-robed majitsu stood guard with folded arms by the entrance to the bridge.

  “Gibbeted without food or water,” Gus said, “as a lesson to the rest of ’em. Tis harsh, but can’t say I lose any sleep over their ilk. Right vicious ones they are.”

  Val firmed his jaw before looking away. War was a harsh business, and he had seen first hand the brutal tactics of the black sash gypsies. One of them had gutted Mari like a fish, and he would never forget it.

  An arched entranceway and a glowing emerald sign heralded the entrance to the Duck and Fig. As they approached, he heard Dida calling his name from a flagstone patio built around an enormous jacaranda. After Val asked Gus to wait nearby, a hostess opened a gate built into the low stone wall separating the patio from the street. Val walked through and embraced the bibliomancer, who almost tripped over a chair as he rose to greet him.

  “My friend!” Dida cried. The light from clover glow orbs set on stands around the patio gleamed off his eraser-shaped bald head. “It is so good to see you.”

  “And you,” Val said warmly, taking care not to hug his friend too hard. Dida had been gravely injured in the fight with Asmodeus, and Val had last seen him in the care of the cuerpomancer in the Queen’s infirmary in Londyn. Though Dida looked thinner as he limped back to the table, his mahogany skin bore only faint traces of the dagger-like barbs that had pinned him to the demon lord’s torture wheel.

  In contrast to the earnest greeting of the bibliomancer, Adaira eyed Val from across the table with a coy twist to her lips, her pale blond hair caught above her head in a turquoise circlet that matched her eyes, drawing the stares of every man in sight.

  “Valjean,” she said, extending her hand in mock formality.

  He took a knee to kiss her hand. “Milady. Mine eyes have never witnessed such a bounteous vista as thee,” he said, imitating the archaic speech of Queen Victoria and her court.

  Adaira laughed and traced a hand across his cheek. Val took a seat between them, ordering a glass of granth as they exchanged pleasantries. He decided to wait until he and Adaira were alone to discuss the truth about his past and her father’s offer.

  “What do you plan to do now?” he asked Dida. “Finish out the year at the Abbey?”

  Dida pulled out a scroll from his orange chidakor, a strange hybrid between a silk robe and a business suit favored by the mages of Great Zimbabwe. “After our return, I was granted an honorary diploma.”

  “Dida, that’s excellent news!” Adaira said.

  “The accolade itself is unimportant,” he said modestly. “In truth, I valued the exchange of knowledge and the camaraderie.” He broke into a slow grin. “But the diploma is why I have applied for and been granted another year of post-doctoral study at the Abbey. The Archivist General has granted me full access to the library and rare manuscript rooms!”

  “Another year in New Victoria?” Val said, clapping him on the back as Adaira rose to hug their friend. “Even better news.”

  “And you?” Dida asked. “Will you return to your studies?”

  “Val completed the Planewalk,” Adaira said, fingering the black pearl choker resting on her sleeveless dress of matching color. “Technically, he’s now a spirit mage and member of the Congregation.”

>   Val could tell from her eyes that Adaira knew more than she was letting on. He began to question how much her father had told her.

  Dida clapped a hand over his chest. “By the moon, I hadn’t considered that! Is it true, then? Will you be the first spirit mage in generations to accelerate your studies?”

  “I don’t know,” Val mumbled, as a man in a chef’s apron approached. It was customary in the finer restaurants on Canal Street for the head chef himself to take the orders of respected guests. Val was grateful for the interruption, though he started when he noticed that the chef was Mattie, the owner of the country inn to which Mala had taken them on the journey to Leonidus’s Castle.

  Hard times must have forced the chef to return to the capital. Val saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, but after seeing the look of warning Val gave him, he took their order without comment.

  Val was relieved. A question from Mattie about Val’s brothers would have forced an uncomfortable conversation with Dida and Adaira. He hoped he could confide in them soon, but now was not the time.

  Dida lowered his eyes. “What terrible news about Dean Groft. Quite hard to fathom, I must say.”

  “He seemed like such a kind man,” Adaira said. “Val, you’ve met him. What did you think?”

  “The same,” he said, balling his fist at his side. “We never really know anyone, though, do we?”

  “I don’t know,” Adaira said, looking right at him. “Do we?”

  How much does she know?

  “Being kind yet secretly devoted to an unpleasant cause are not mutually exclusive,” Dida said.

  Val slammed a fist on the table. “Killing someone in cold blood is hardly a kind act.”

  Dida looked startled. “You’re quite right. Forgive me. All I meant was—”

  Val put a hand out, surprised at his own outburst. It was unlike him to lose control. “I’m sorry. You’re right, sometimes people do things for a cause, a deeply held belief, that they otherwise wouldn’t do.”

  “And sometimes,” Adaira said softly, looking right at him, “they do them when there is no other choice.”

  She knew Val was still troubled by two things that had happened in the strange nether world from which they had just returned. In a fit of bloodlust when the villagers had tried to sacrifice Adaira, Val had accidentally killed a young girl with Spirit Fire. He thought an adult was trying to grab him, and would never forgive himself for the girl’s death.

  The second incident was the cold-blooded murder of Tobar Baltoris. Though a catatonic who probably would never recover his mind, Val had nevertheless put his own life and those of his friends above Tobar’s, and killed him with magic.

  If needed, he would do it again, too.

  Though he wasn’t sure what kind of a person that made him.

  “There’s always a choice,” Val said roughly.

  Adaira found his hand under the table and squeezed it.

  “And you, my dear?” Dida asked Adaira. “What are your plans?”

  “I’m returning to the Abbey to finish my studies. I feel it’s important for the daughter of the Chief Thaumaturge to follow the same path as everyone else. My dream is to restore cuerpomancy to the discipline of public stewardship it was meant to be. I don’t want an air of nepotism to cloud my mission.”

  Val took a sip of granth. “It’s a worthy cause.”

  The meal arrived, and the bounty from Mattie’s kitchen was just as amazing as Val remembered. Yet he couldn’t relax enough to enjoy the balmy night air, the dome of stars above, or the laughter of his companions. Whenever his eyes roamed to his left, the tortured bodies of the black-sash gypsies were visible at the end of the street, a visceral reminder of the Revolution raging over parts of the Realm. While Dida and Adaira and the other well-heeled diners on Canal Street might not be affected, at least not that night, his brothers were embroiled in the conflict, lost far from home. If Val didn’t intervene, they were in danger of becoming casualties of war.

  During a restroom break, he cornered Mattie near the kitchen and asked if he had heard from Mala or Allira. With a subservient politeness that made Val uncomfortable, as if Mattie were afraid of him, the corpulent chef denied having any knowledge of the two women since that night at the inn. Val believed him, though he also came away thinking that if Mattie knew where either woman was, the chef wouldn’t have told him.

  The night lingered. By the end of the meal, Val longed to accompany Adaira back to her lodging and take her in his arms. Instead he embraced Dida with a forearm clasp and kissed Adaira on the forehead, then walked away and instructed Gus to take him straight to the Sanctum.

  He had a meeting with Lord Alistair to attend.

  As the carriage delved into the heart of the Wizard District, the tip of a midnight-blue pyramid came into view, followed by the pair of colossi with giant swords crossed over their chests, guarding the columned entrance. Multidimensional wards protected the entrance to the Sanctum, and Val knew that each member of the Congregation bore a magical imprimatur somewhere on their bodies, the same multi-hued octopus carved into the rear of the building. The symbol of the Congregation.

  As Val stepped down from the carriage, since he had not yet received the mark, he gripped the colored disc Lord Alistair had given him to bypass the wards. Gus clicked his tongue to spur the horses, tipped his top hat, and headed off. When Val flew over the bridgeless moat and between the two colossi, one of the giants blinked, a torpid movement that almost caused Val to crash into the wall. The enormous beings existed in a different temporal state from humanity, though Val had no doubt they could spring to life when needed. With a shudder, he flew through the opaque doorway, the disc in his hand pulsing as he crossed the wards. He did not want to know would happen to an interloper who entered the headquarters of the Congregation unprotected.

  Since he had never been inside the Sanctum, he took a moment to gawk at his surroundings. Topped by a twenty-foot ceiling made of black marble, the ground level was a cavernous lounge area furnished with an array of stunning wizard art. Taxidermy of exotic beasts that felt real to the touch. Bronze planters containing bouquets from a boggling array of climate zones, no doubt maintained by a floramancer. Urns of living fire. Beautiful slivers of disembodied waterfalls that plunged through the floor. Freestanding sculptures combining shapes, colors, and metals at the limits of the imagination. Some even seemed to span dimensions, drawing Val’s gaze into a vortex of impossible shapes and hues that reminded him of his gazing journey with Alrick the phrenomancer.

  Plush divans, groups of high-backed chairs, and the occasional gemstone table dotted the room, encouraging private conversation. Alcoves recessed into the smooth amber walls sheltered displays of weapons, ceramics, and cultural artifacts from around the globe.

  Instead of stairs and hallways, a nest of wizard chutes bored into the ceiling and the floor, including a central chute with a wider circumference than the rest. Azantite-framed signs beside the wizard chutes provided direction. Administration. Gathering Room. Banquet Hall. War Room.

  Despite the late hour, a number of mages sat alone or in groups. A stern-faced majitsu Val had seen before, another of Lord Alistair’s personal attendants, approached Val and guided him into a chute in the floor that read Diplomacy.

  Ruby glow orbs lit the way down a fifty-foot obsidian tunnel that had to be reinforced with magic, since the water table in New Victoria was so low. The wizard chute branched in three directions. The majitsu chose a horizontal passage on the right. After another branch and another right turn, the majitsu stopped but told Val to keep going. His disc glowed again as he passed another ward and entered a large stone room that again caused him to stare in fascination.

  Rows of arched doorways with mirror-like faces were interspersed every five feet along the walls. He peered closer and realized they were not reflective surfaces, but silvery and opaque, almost molten. Names were carved into the granite floor at the base of each portal. Tikal. Tower of Londyn. Charlemagne Ci
ty. Carthage.

  “Welcome, Valjean,” Lord Alistair said.

  He turned to find the Chief Thaumaturge standing in front of a portal on the far right of the room, joined by a handful of familiar faces, and one unfamiliar one. Braden Shankstone, Kalyn Tern, and Professor Azara he had met before. The hulking, red-bearded man in the black majitsu robe was new to him.

  Val tipped his head in greeting. “Thank you.”

  As his eyes met Braden’s, Val caught a flicker of jealousy before the cuerpomancer smiled back at him.

  Lord Alistair’s right hand man is worried he’s being supplanted.

  And maybe he is.

  Kalyn afforded him her typical icy greeting, though he detected a note of grudging respect in her voice. Professor Azara was cool and unreadable as always, and Lord Alistair introduced the enormous bearded man as Kjeld Anarsson, First Don of the Order of Majitsu. Val had heard of the fierce leader of the warrior-mage sect. Reputed to have enough magical ability to become a full wizard, Kjeld preferred to specialize in physical combat instead. One of the most feared men in the Realm, his capacity for cruelty was as legendary as his battle tactics. Val wondered at his presence.

  “You must be quite confused,” Lord Alistair said, and Val had a brief stab of fear that they had all gathered to kill him. “I said we would meet to discuss the return of the Coffer, and that is true. But that meeting will not take place here, or even in the Realm. I’m sure you’ve gathered that this room houses diplomatic portals to various kingdoms and organizations around the world.” Dressed in a formal heraldic coat, wearing his silver azantite bracelet and bevy of rings, Lord Alistair beckoned to Val. “Step forward, please.”

  Still unsure whether to trust the situation but knowing indecision would be a sign of weakness, Val moved to stand beside the Chief Thaumaturge.