by Ember Lane
“But we’ll get our rings?” Merl asked, sounding hopeful.
“The rings cost a fortune, Merl. If I can scrape the coin up, I’ll buy you one. Or if we can get you a scholarship, then your benefactor might gift you one. Can’t give you mine, coz mine’s a thing called soulbound. Means it’s mine till I’m dead.”
Merl hadn’t quite understood all of that, but he got the enough of the gist to get a feel for the magical wizard city. “Not sure I’m gonna like Quintz no more. Sounds like its full of kingcoins.”
Kingcoins used to come to Morgan Mount every now and then and try and rob the folk of their money, saying it was for the King. Everyone found that request plain odd and told them to bugger off. They were strange folk, kingcoins, dour and with a tendency to start shouting and get all highfalutin and threaten to bring the King’s soldiers back with them. But most knew Morgan Mount wasn’t worth wearing the soles of the soldier’s boots out, so they just sent the kingcoin packing with a boot planted firmly up his ass. The wizards sounded like kingcoins to Merl. No one liked kingcoins.
Frank scoffed. “Oh, you’ll like Quintz good enough. A few rotten apples don’t matter if you don’t let them get to you.”
“I’ll just knock them over the bonce with me troll hammer,” Billy grunted.
“I doubt it,” Desmelda’s voice filled the room as she swept up the stairs. She yawned and stretched before announcing; “I could sleep all day.” Her absentminded words trailed away, and she paused as silence fell. When she had everyone’s attention, she snapped out of her melancholy and picked up her first thread. “I doubt they’ll be too concerned with you two, to start with. From what I’ve heard, they absolutely detest witches, so they’ll spend their time putting me down. And that’s not the only thing. I doubt they’ll take to a speaking mushroom, who spends the day standing in a bucket of giant shit too well either. Then there’s Gloomy Joe.”
Merl’s gut immediately tightened. “What’s up with Gloomy Joe?” he snapped and jumped off his stool, marching over to Gloomy who was laying across an armchair right by the fire’s hearth. The dune dog had hardly moved since they’d been rescued from the beach. It appeared Gloomy was averse to the freezing cold, and the weather hadn’t improved any, either. A storm still raged, winds so strong they whistled through the ship’s timber and stirred the sea to frenzy. Icicles clung to the rigging, trapping poor Farwatcher up in the crow’s nest, and even Starturner’s beard was naught but a frozen mass of curls. Although, the giants didn’t seem to mind the cold. Billy reckoned they had a furnace in their guts, but Merl knew the truth of it. The bigger you were, the worse things needed to be to worry you. For instance, if you hit a giant in the gut, it would have to be a mighty strike to even get them to wince. Merl reckoned it’d have to get a whole lot colder before the giants started shivering.
Gloomy, on the other hand, well, he was small and needed all the warmth he could get. Plus, Merl reckoned dune dogs needed more sleep that other animals, because ever since Gloomy had got back to the adventurers’ cabin, he’d done little else but warm his belly and snore.
Desmelda had obviously wished she hadn’t said what she had, because she was taking a mighty long time to answer. She walked up to the bar and asked Billy for an ale, before finally answering. “Well, he’s not your classic wizard familiar, is he?”
“Familiar? What’s one of them?” Merl asked. He glanced over at Gloomy and wondered if the dune dog was one.
Desmelda blew a long breath. “It’s an animal you have a deep bond with. Some say they can talk in your mind. I’m not sure, never had one. All I’m saying is, a dune dog hasn’t got quite the appeal of, say, a blue-haired wolf, or a jet-black crow.”
“High Wizard Fennister has a wyvern, or so it’s rumored. Never seen it myself.” Frank eased himself away from the bar. It was like talking about Quintz both pained him and filled him with wonder. “And if he did have one, I likely would have seen it. It’s not like Quintz is huge. I mean, it’s big for a castle, but not huge like, say, Alaria.”
Merl sat on the edge of Gloomy’s chair, careful not to disturb him. “I wouldn’t swap him for some stinking wyvern.”
“I would,” said Billy. “Wyverns can spit fire, and fly, and carry you on their backs. Wyvern for me any day.”
Billy had a glint in his eye. He wanted Merl to react; Merl knew that—he wasn’t as green as the day he’d marched into Frank’s hut with his dad.
“That’s good, then,” he said. “You have the wyvern, and I’ll stick with Gloomy. You try snugglin’ up to a stinkin’ dragon when you’re cold.”
“A wyvern isn’t a drag—” Desmelda threw her head back in frustration. “Doesn’t matter. What started this conversation, anyway?”
“Merl,” Frank said, passing an ale to Desmelda, “wanted to know if he could get a magic ring in Quintz.”
Desmelda rolled her eyes. “What on earth does he want one of those daft things for?”
Frank hesitated. It was like he sensed a trap but couldn’t stop himself walking into it. “Daft?”
“Daft,” Desmelda pronounced. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say that ring explains a lot.”
“A lot?” Frank said.
“Wizards are flawed. They are flawed because they think they’re so clever that their cleverness is nullified by the stupidity of the actions caused by their arrogance.”
Merl snuggled down with Gloomy. He instantly knew he had no place in the ongoing conversation, mostly because he only had a simple grasp of what was going on, and what else was going on. He was wise enough to know that two things were going on simultaneously, and also not daft enough to interfere either of them. There was the ongoing argument of who was better, witches or wizards. Desmelda always won that one. What else was also going on was a battle of wits between Frank and Desmelda. It was a little like the arguments that his dad used to have with Walinda Alepuller. His dad had always thought he won, but Merl knew he never did, and Frank was indeed walking into Desmelda’s trap just like he always did.
The thing was, Merl was sure Frank knew that Desmelda had him snared, or was about to, but he also knew that Frank couldn’t do anything about it. He almost felt sorry for the Wizard of Quintz, but only almost. Their exchanges were, after all, quite entertaining.
“So, wizards are flawed just because they can make, soul-charm, and weave void-spells on a ring to give them the ability to carry vast things around at no cost to themselves?” Frank harrumphed, crossed his arms, and nodded. He had the look of a man that thought he’d made quite the fist of his side’s opening gambit.
“No,” Desmelda said, the single word sounding like a delicate spoon striking a crystal goblet. It elicited instant silence. They all waited. Merl thought he saw Mushroom perk. “That is quite impressive.”
“What, then?” Frank asked, slumping to the counter. All his puff fled him as the realization of his inevitable defeat loomed.
Desmelda continued. “It is the mere arrogance of fashioning the item so they can display it to all and sundry. Tell me, am I right in thinking that a black spatial ring is the meagerest, and that Epic Wizard Ballufar has a platinum ring with a huge sunstone set in it, and that it has infinite storage and always has it on his middle finger? Am I right in thinking that when he greets someone it is finger first?”
“Yes…” Frank replied, suspiciously.
“Then answer me this. If wizards aren’t flawed by their own arrogance, why parade such an item where it can be stolen so easily?” Frank made to reply, but failed. Desmelda replied for him. “I’ll tell you. The rings are a way that wizards show off their station, and as such, they portray their dim arrogance. They have nothing but contempt for everyone else. Why else parade something so valuable and in easy reach of cutpurses and villains?”
Frank stiffened, as if a glimmer of hope had shone upon his bleak horizon. He sidled along the counter to stand before the Witch of Falling Glen. Setting his hands spread evenly up on it, he leaned forward. “But the
y’re soulbound. They can’t be stolen,” he said, like it was some kind of triumph, all be it, a potentially fragile one.
Desmelda closed on the unfortunate Wizard of Quintz as he stared at her with the glitter of wining in his eyes. She closed so that her nose nearly touched his. Then her hand struck, grabbing his and drawing his ring finger up. “Not if I chop off your bastard hand,” she hissed, and a long, thin blade appeared in her other hand. Its tip pricked the underside of his chin.
She’d won that contest.
Frank blurred. Merl shook his eyes to try and keep up. A Frank-colored shadow suddenly sprung upward. Desmelda’s blade shot across the bar. The Witch from Falling Glen jerked. Her head flew back as Frank’s legs wrapped around her neck. His body seemed to hang in the air until it blurred once more. Desmelda fell backwards, but she didn’t thump onto the floor, was more quickly eased on to it, and Frank slowed as he appeared, straddled over her. His hands pinned hers. His nose was close to hers. They locked eyes as they both breathed deeply.
“Warrior first, wizard second.”
She’d lost the war.
Desmelda let her breaths ebb, holding Frank’s gaze. A smile teased her lips, and she began laughing. “Oh my, my Wizard of Quintz, how big and strong you are.”
Frank rolled off her, banging his fist on the floor in frustration.
“Damnit, woman, you’re infuriating.”
“I never said you were arrogant, Frank. I said wizards were, and you barely qualify as one of them.”
And she’d won the peace.
It was Frank’s turn to laugh, and when he did it was the type of wholesome laugh that infected everyone with its mirth. Though he laughed along with them, Merl had never been so confused about men and women as he was at that particular point in time, but he did realize he’d been confused about it all for a long while. Billy reckoned it was because he had no mother, or brothers, or sisters, but neither did Billy and he seemed to understand the world’s workings. Merl thought it was probably because he lived far up in the hills, and that his dad had never let him go down into Morgan Mount for much of his early life. Not that Merl had been lonely. He’d had his sheep.
“Where were we?” Frank asked, jumping up off the floor.
“Nowhere important,” Desmelda said, and for the life of him, Merl couldn’t remember, and so apparently it didn’t matter.
“When will we get to Quintz?” Merl asked.
“When we travel there,” Desmelda replied, but her words weren’t that simple. They had something extra packed into them.
“We’re headed there,” Frank said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
“We might have been, but we’re taking a little detour. I’m worried about Merl, and I want to make sure we truly understand what’s going on between his ears.”
“What have you done?” Frank asked, but his ask was more like the rumble of rocks grinding.
“We will drop anchor within the bounds of the Hidden Eyes in four days. Stormsurfer has informed me that it will stretch our journey to Quintz by a mere few more.”
Frank looked like he was about to explode. His lips creased. His eyes bulged. “We haven’t got a few days.”
Desmelda sprang to her feet. It was like she’d suddenly become all roguish. First a knife had appeared in her hand—and next she’d flipped up from laying. Merl wondered what had happened to her. She rubbed her hands together as if she was warming up for another fight with Frank.
“Where’d the knife come from?” Billy suddenly asked, stamping his feet and demanding attention. “You haven’t got a ring, so where’d the knife come from, Witchy?”
All eyes fell on him.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve been kinda followin’ the conversation an’ that, an’ couldn’t help but observe that you think Frank’s ring is daft. You haven’t got one, and yet you could magic a knife under Frank’s chin just like that. You been lyin’ to us.”
Desmelda’s head stretched back as if Billy smelled, or she was about to strike. Merl suspected which one. Desmelda shoved her nose in the air. “I most certainly haven’t.”
“Yes you ‘ave,” Billy insisted. “You’re good with a blade, but you’ve never helped when we’ve been in strife. You packed all yer stuff, includin’ yer bed, in Frank’s ring, when you’ve got yer own somethin’ or tha other. It’s as good as lyin’, not sharin’ the truth. Good as.”
“Nonsense. You forget yourself, Billy Muckspreader. With regards to the blade, sure, I can look after myself, but I’m more finesse than fight. Zombays aren’t my forte. Most of my magic is more about… grasping people’s minds. With regards to my spatial sack, it’s full—full of my stuff. I couldn’t fit my cauldron and bed in it, could I?”
“Show us?”
“What?” If possible, Desmelda drew back more. Merl wondered if Billy was brave or stupid. He suspected the latter.
“Show us yer sack, an’ we’ll decide what’s better, Frank’s ring or your sack,” Bill announced.
Desmelda sighed, but then let out a long, drawn-out groan that slowly grew before shutting off with a crack. She shuffled in her tunic and brought out her sack, dumping it on the counter. “There.”
Merl shot up off Gloomy’s chair and darted over. His wonder-filled eyes soon fell to disappointment when he saw an old, cloth bag just lying there. It was about the size of his hand, and had a hole gnawed from its corner. It was filthy dirty, and as empty as Gloomy Joe’s head. In short, it was vastly disappointing.
“That it?” Billy asked, nudging it with his finger like he was unsure if it would bite. “It’s empty.”
“And it’s got a hole in it. Won’t everything fall out of the hole?” Merl asked.
“If you saw it in the road, would you pick it up?” Desmelda asked. “If I left it there, would you bother stealing it? It’s thief proof, that’s what it is.”
“It’s thief proof because it’s worthless,” Billy pointed out, picking it up between his thumb and forefinger.
Desmelda held out her hand, and a strange, golden object appeared in it. It had four or five tubes arranged around a central axis, all on wheels and axles. Each tube had a piece of glass like the surface of an eye stuck in its ends, and brass fans spread with arcs of engraved numbers and lines. The central axis consisted of a stem that had arms seemingly rotating of their own accord, and each had golden spheres hanging off it.
It was the most beautiful thing Merl had ever seen, apart from Portius and Desmelda, and his mother, and Melody too. Apart from all of them. “What is it?” he asked.
“Some kind of sextant?” Frank asked, drawing closer.
“Close, but not quite. The witches of Wormloe…” She heaved a sigh. “I…think that the old lord’s magic wasn’t evenly spread around the world. It was far more concentrated in some places, then dotted all around. I think it gives off auras that reflect up. If you watch the sky really carefully, if you study the horizon, sometimes you see pops of it. I track them using this.”
Frank reached out, but his hand hovered just a little away from the tool. “And…”
“And that is how I found The Hidden Eyes, and once I’d found them, I knew it worked. I had plenty of time to study the auras and sky-lights while I was stuck in Falling Glen. All of them pointed to distinct places. It’s how I found Merl. Now, Starturner’s charts have confirmed my suspicions. Something big is happening.”
“That does all that?” Frank said, pointing. “What’s it called?”
Desmelda shrugged. “I dunno. I just crafted it, and if I point each lens toward a disturbance, an aura, or a shooting star, and I allow the balls to draw the rod around, it’ll point and tell us which way to go. All of which I spent the whole of last night doing and now we’re headed for The Hidden Eyes.”
“Where?” Merl asked. A feeling of doom washed over him. “What are the Hidden Eyes?”
“It is where the seers live,” Desmelda said, simply. “If anyone can see inside your mind, it is them and if they can’t,
we can use the pretense to see what they’re up to.”
Merl pulled himself up onto the counter. He swiveled himself around, sitting next to the strange, golden instrument. “But me and Frank and Billy are unravelling what’s inside me bonce already.”
Desmelda stared down at him. She had this way of gazing at him that made Merl feel like the most important person in the land. “Not that, Merl. It is the business of The Powers that we are gradually solving. I’m talking about the other thing. But you must remember, you are Merl Sheepherder from Morgan Mount, and you always will be. Please, don’t ever think otherwise. But there is more to you than just that. We must find out who else you are.”
“Why?” Merl asked.
“Because, if we don’t know who you are, how are we to protect you?” She reached out and held his hands. “Daemon Mercer knows you live. I think he infected these lands in a desperate attempt to eradicate you. I think he was willing to slaughter thousands just on the off chance that you might die along with them, and I think he sent dreadnail to turn the fae races against you. It is my view that he knows you exist, and he knows what you are, but I don’t think he knows who you are. We know who you are, but what you are is closed to us, as is the one called The Origin, or Quaiyl.”
“And the seers can unravel me bonce?” Merl asked.
Billy blurted a laugh. “Wouldn’t get your hopes up there, Merl.”
“Shut up,” Merl spat, hating Billy for a tap or two.
“They can try. We can try. If they nothing comes of it, if we don’t find out what powers are gathering, all we’ve lost is a few days,” Desmelda said.
Merl took a breath. His heart was racing, and it didn’t help that it was instantly torn in two again. He wanted to find out, of course he did, ever since Melody had seeded the tale of Arthur14579 in him. But at the same time, he’d been clinging to Morgan Mount—to his real life—to solid ground that he had walked on, sat on, fallen on, and scraped his knuckles on. To a father that had nurtured him and reared him. To a father that had carried him for hundreds of miles to hide him in a valley at the ass end of nowhere, and once there, to keep him aloof and alone. In fact, if it wasn’t for Billy Muckspreader clearing up the sheep muck, he’d probably have never met anyone, or got up to any mischief.