“Oh. Yes. Very unusual.” Hogarth spoke with a distant voice and vacant eyes.
“You can just tell, right?” said Laruna. “So after we dealt with the negotiations and I settled back into the Academy, I remembered Hogarth. And I thought, ‘Why not go talk to him?’ So I tracked him down.”
“Tracked me right down.” Hogarth shook his head slowly, his eyes transfixed on some past horror.
Laruna set a hand on the brawny man’s arm. “So I told him how I felt and what I wanted, and lo and behold, he agreed!”
“Couldn’t say no to that!” exclaimed Hogarth.
“It was very romantic,” said the mage. “Right, Hogarth?”
“Just… just couldn’t say no…” The barbarian sounded close to tears.
“I see,” said Heraldin, exchanging a sideways glance with Gaist.
“Brunt… have forms!” thundered the Ogre, clearly agitated.
“Is that Mr. Brunt?” asked Laruna, peering over the crowds. “I thought Gorm killed him.”
“Apparently not,” said Heraldin.
Laruna nodded. “Speaking of Gorm, have you heard from any of the others lately?”
“Just a couple of meals with Gorm, and Burt was there for one of them. I suspect you’ve had the same. I think they’re trying to keep track of all of us,” said Heraldin.
“Anyone else?” asked the mage, making a spectacular failure of trying to look indifferent.
“No, that’s about it for me,” said the bard, looking at Gaist. The weaponsmaster nodded in confirmation.
“I see,” said Laruna, clearly disappointed.
“And you?” Heraldin asked the mage. “Have you heard from anyone else since our last appearance with the king?”
“We had lunch with Gorm and Burt as well,” said Laruna. “But mostly I’ve just seen Kaitha. We try to get together every few days for tea.”
“And how is the Jade Wind doing?” asked Heraldin. “I’m sure she’s in demand for quests after our recent reinstatement.”
“Well, she would be if she was taking on new jobs,” said Laruna.
“Oh?” Heraldin raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps she’ll use her share of the undead loot to enjoy the simple pleasures of life?”
“Probably not,” said Laruna, shifting her weight uncomfortably.
“In triplicate!” rumbled Mr. Brunt. The one-eyed clerk serving him waved a packet of papers up at the Ogre.
Heraldin’s voice dropped when he turned back to Laruna. “It’s the Troll, then?”
“Yeah, Thane. She’s still not over it yet. I mean, I want him to come back too, but at the end of the day, it’s his decision, right?” The solamancer sighed. “I tried to tell her to move on, that she can’t waste her life looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found, but you know Elves. They’ve got nothing but time. And people do crazy things when they’re having a hard time letting go.”
The bard and weaponsmaster looked at Hogarth, and then at each other.
“Yes,” said Heraldin with careful diplomacy.
The line was beginning to move again, and Heraldin and Gaist needed to shuffle forward if they wanted to keep their place. “We should grab dinner up on the Pinnacle soon,” Heraldin told the solamancer.
“Agreed,” said Laruna. “I’ll send you a sprite when I look at my schedule.” And with that, they bade their farewells.
For a moment the bard and the weaponsmaster watched the solamancer and her hapless beau head for the doors. Hogarth intermittently turned back to stare at them with pleading eyes.
“Yeesh,” said Heraldin, scratching at his goatee. “I’ve seen my share of bounce-back relationships, but that one’s an Ogre among Goblins, if you know what I mean. It makes you worry.”
Gaist shrugged.
“Well, no, of course I’m not talking about Laruna. She’ll come to her senses soon enough and move on,” Heraldin said. “But she’s clearly in a dark place right now, and she was never that perceptive on matters of the heart to begin with. If the solamancer is concerned for Kaitha, you’ve got to wonder about the Elf.”
“It’s not crazy,” Kaitha whispered to herself as she walked through the long grass. The falling sun cast the world in warm hues, but the ground beneath her was washed in violet. She clutched the burlap bag a little closer and hurried onward.
Crazy was ignoring everything you’d seen and heard. Crazy was letting a chance at happiness pass you by just to return to the same mundane misery that you’d endured for years. Crazy was giving up before you’d given your all.
“It’s not crazy,” she repeated. “He’s out here. People saw him. A Troll was fighting the undead. And I know that rock didn’t fall. And that means he was here. So this is perfectly reasonable.”
Laruna had disagreed, as had Gorm, as had Kaitha’s accountant, for that matter. They did so with varying degrees of concern and understanding, but behind all their pleas she could see the same fear in their eyes; they thought she was losing her mind.
Glowmoths were dancing in the meadow atop the gentle knoll that Kaitha ascended, their graceful dancing occasionally punctuated by a crackle of energy as two lightning bugs encountered one another. Behind the Elf, the tiers of Andarun flickered with amber light. She could hear the burbling of the Tarapin River down by the bank. It was the perfect spot: picturesque, isolated, and high enough to afford her a good view of anyone approaching.
“It’s just something I need to do,” she said to herself, setting the bag down at the highest point of the small hill. Laruna was particularly insistent that she needed to let the past go, but Kaitha had already let go of a career, a reputation, and her salve habit. Right now, she needed something to hold on to. At least Thane was something good.
She set her bow down next to her and checked her Poor Man’s Quiver. Her wrists felt naked without her trademark jade bracers, and she rubbed her hands over the long, thin scars that crisscrossed her forearms. But those bracers had belonged to the Jade Wind, which meant they tied her to a past she couldn’t go back to. It also meant they were a part of Heroes’ Guild history, which was why a collector had paid a sizable sum for them at auction. The balance from their sale combined with her share of the undead army’s loot had given her just enough to finance her plan.
With a deep breath, Kaitha pulled the sack’s drawstring. The bag fell away, and the world turned various shades of purple.
Pure mauvium was, according to the salesperson at Luxury Imports of Andarun, mined during sorcerous expeditions to the Elemental Plane of Violet. Kaitha was fairly certain that was a falsehood spread by aggressive marketers; she’d heard the glowing nuggets were harvested from the spleens of subterranean Umbral Dread Spiders. Regardless of its source, mauvium was brutally expensive, both because it was scarce and because it was the most absolutely purple thing in existence. The presence of so much of it in one place bathed Kaitha and her surroundings in shades of eggplant and lilac; the hilltop shone like an amethyst lighthouse on a sea of summer grass and wildflowers.
She knelt next to the radiant purple, hands in her lap, eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. To the south she could see the dark edge of the Green Span. To the east, the Plains of Aberreth stretched as far as eye could see. Somewhere beyond the wood and the plains was the garden she’d danced in a lifetime ago. The summer evening was cool and dry and regrettably still.
At first she was alert, hopeful. As the evening wore on, she felt worry creasing her face, and her hands wrung at her tunic nervously. By the time the sun had completely set, despair was setting in.
“I’m sorry,” she shouted into the wind. “I… I didn’t realize what I was doing! And I don’t know what to do now.” The last words were sobbed as she rubbed tears from her eyes, her voice pleading and earnest. “I just miss you. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Yet the night remained still, and no reply came.
It was the silence that got Scribe Pathalan’s attention.
The High Scribe of Al’Matra
was accustomed to new scriptures arriving every night. The Goddess compelled him to write down her holy decrees, or at least her latest thoughts, in a steady stream of transcendental consciousness that usually started just before dinner and lasted until well after midnight. It was his custom to occupy himself with his left hand while his right hand worked away with quill and parchment, recording the Mad Goddess’ ranting. The scripture burning across his mind usually faded into the background, like the bustle of the city outside on a summer evening.
Pathalan was working through an acolyte’s reports when he noticed the silence. The All Mother’s scripture had cut off at some point while he read through a request to fund a contract with the Heroes’ Guild to clear the basement; apparently, the lowest chambers of the temple were overrun by Variegated Scargs from the dungeon below. The high scribe intended to suggest that they save gold by boarding off the lower basement instead, but as his left hand reached for the ink he noticed that his right appendage lay still and inert.
Pathalan frowned. He’d grown so used to Al’Matra’s mad screeds that the absence of divine inspiration was more noteworthy that the arrival of it. Curious, he looked at the scripture.
It was mostly a list of olives of every imaginable variety, as well as several hundred unimaginable ones. Scribe Pathalan was familiar with olives; the fourth through sixteenth chapters of the Second Book of Pathalan was almost entirely dedicated to different classifications of the fruit. Right after the list of Daellish Sweet Olives, however, the scripture suddenly changed in substance and tone.
I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what I was doing. And I don’t know what to do now. I just miss you. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
“Very strange,” murmured Pathalan, leaning in for a closer look. It wasn’t just the near-coherence of the statements; they were also written in the vernacular, whereas the Goddess’ scriptures tended to use formal language from the Fifth Age no matter how ridiculous the subject matter. And moreover—
“Looks interesting,” said a voice from the door, nearly startling the high scribe from his chair.
“What are you doing here?” Pathalan half-hissed, half-whimpered.
“I’ve come to see if ye’ve treated the Books of Niln proper,” said Gorm Ingerson, leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms and a face caught between a scowl and a smile.
“I… uh… yes! Yes!” Pathalan fumbled in the drawers of his desk. “The scribes copied them seven times. A copy has been sealed away in the vaults with all of the other scriptures. And I’ve personally taken care of the originals you gave me.” The scribe pulled the leather-bound book from his desk and offered it to the intruder with shaking hands.
Gorm strode into the room and took the book. He flipped through the pages slowly, inspecting them as a merchant looks over imported fruits.
The silence was long and awkward. It was broken only by a low and pained groan from down the hall.
“Did you… did you assault the temple guards?” Pathalan asked.
“They had explicit orders not to let me pass.” Gorm shrugged without looking up from the book. “Someone in here must really hate the poor bastards.”
Pathalan could feel the blood rising in his cheeks. “I could have you arrested for that!”
“Ye could try, certainly,” said the Dwarf, unconcerned. He snapped the book shut. “This all seems to be in order. Good work. Thank ye.”
“Wait! Is that it?” Pathalan asked, stumbling after the retreating Dwarf.
“I’ll be back if I need anything,” the Dwarf said over his shoulder. “Do your guards a favor and tell ‘em to let me pass next time.”
“You just come in here, beat my guards, take your book, and then you think you’ll just walk out of here?” sputtered the high scribe.
Gorm paused at the door and shot the priest an infernal grin. “Well, I plan to visit the sanctuary for a bit.”
“T-the sanctuary is closed to the public after dark!” snapped Pathalan.
“Good!” called the Dwarf, already headed down the hall. “I was hopin’ for some privacy.” With that, Gorm left Pathalan gawking in the doorway to his study.
“The nerve! Who does this sort of thing? And at this hour!” Rathwyne grumbled as he stumbled out of bed. “I was halfway to sleep!”
“He was very insistent, sir,” said Marcius. The young initiate of the Fane Amada stood near the door of his master’s chambers, holding a decanter of water in one hand and Rathwyne’s robes in the other. “Started demanding to see you as soon as he arrived.”
“We are the Fane Amada, keepers of the deepest secrets! Whisperers of the most hidden names!” snarled Rathwyne, snatching his robes from the young mage. “One does not make demands of us!”
“That’s what we told him, sir,” said Marcius.
“And yet somehow he still convinced you to open the gate.” Rathwyne struggled to pull the robe over his head.
“Oh no, sir,” said the initiate. “That was when he destroyed the gate.”
The leader of the Fane Amada paused with his head still buried in gray fabric. “He what?”
“Blew the door clear off its hinges, sir,” said Marcius. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear the explosion.”
“Well, of course I heard it!” Rathwyne finished dressing as he stalked out of the corridor. “I assumed it was another one of Pender’s experiments gone bad. Gods! I can’t come running every time there’s an explosion around here! How would I get anything done? You need to tell me about these things!”
“It’s only my second week, sir.” Marcius sounded hurt. “And I did come to fetch you straight away.”
“Next time lead with ‘we’re under attack and the gate has fallen,’ instead of ‘oh, a wizard wants to see you!’” Rathwyne pushed past the initiate and stalked down the hall. “It’s like telling me I have a guest for tea if the thrice-cursed Dragon of Wynspar landed on top of the tower.”
“Well, he did ask to see you!” insisted Marcius. “And he’s not actually attacking anyone. He’s just standing in the courtyard waiting to duel you.”
“Well, I’m sure he—wait, what did you say?” Rathwyne stopped halfway to the keep’s door.
“He’s in the courtyard, sir,” said Marcius.
“About the duel, idiot!” snarled Rathwyne.
“He wants to duel you,” said Marcius. “I feel like that one’s fairly self-explanatory.”
“As in, to the death?” said Rathwyne.
Marcius shrugged. “I could see it going either way, honestly.”
“That’s clearly a critical detail!” Rathwyne’s snarl was half-hearted, though, as his mind drifted back to the gate. He had fortified the doorway with the best wards he could muster. If the mage at the door could destroy them and still have energy for a duel…
“Did he say why he wants to duel me?” he asked Marcius, trying not to let his voice tremble.
Marcius looked helpless. “Well, no, sir. What he said was to fetch you, which is also what you said I should do if any issues arise, so I did it.”
“Maybe so, but people don’t just go wandering around challenging other people to magic fights,” said Rathwyne. “There must be some motivation behind it.”
The initiate shrugged. “I assumed it was to take leadership of the Fane Amada. You know, advancement through duels, trial by combat.”
“Ah, see, that’s how the Academy does it!” said Rathwyne, grasping at a thread of hope. “Battling for hierarchy may be well and good for the orders of mages, but we are the Fane Amada! We are not wizards—”
The door to the keep blew open with a blast of icy wind. A figure in ornate gray robes stepped into the chambers, flanked by the curious omnimancers of the Fane Amada. His left hand was covered in a black leather glove, and he held a staff with a dragon’s claw clutching a large gem at the top.
“Perhaps not, but you will be,” said Jynn Ur’Mayan, leveling his staff at Rathwyne. “With my teachings, you will all be wizards and mages.”
Rathwyne gulped.
“Ah, ye should have seen the look on his face,” Gorm laughed.
The statue of Niln was silent, as was the rest of the sanctuary of Al’Matra. But after a year on the road with Gaist, Gorm was used to one-sided conversations.
The Dwarf once heard that the Sten believed statues could press on the veil between the living and the dead. For the Dwarf, it was enough just to see the scribe’s face again, and to have a chance to say what needed to be said.
“Ah, but Pathalan took care of the books, at least. Your scripture is copied and safe in the temple vault.” He waved his copy of the Books of Niln at the author’s likeness. “And I still ain’t sayin’ I believe any of this seventh hero nonsense, but I will say this… your words brought me back from the edge, back to the fight. They reminded me of ye and Tib’rin and all the others who died fightin’ for somethin’ bigger and better than them. Your words saved the world, Niln. You’re a hero, true as any.”
Niln’s likeness was unflinchingly inanimate, but Gorm felt a sense of satisfaction. He was content to imagine that the high priest shared it.
Gorm stood and gave the statue a hearty pat. “I don’t know if good Goblins wind up in the same place as the best Al’Matrans, but if they do, tell Tib’rin I said ‘gleebek.’”
With a final wave, the berserker left the Al’Matran sanctuary and headed out the front door. He was halfway down the steps when a small figure detached itself from the shadows and scuttled over to Gorm.
“Took you long enough,” said Burt.
“Had to have a chat with the guards,” said Gorm, cracking his knuckles. “Ye settled on a place?”
“Yeah, come on,” said the Kobold.
Burt led Gorm a couple tiers down to a familiar establishment; the Giant Rat was a bar visited by almost every young hero in Andarun at least once. Gorm remembered his own frequent nights in the Rat decades ago, back when he was still trying to make it into the guild. The clientele seeming younger and more foolish to him now, but the tavern was otherwise unchanged.
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