Sevarin and Milo slid off their seats and stood facing the magician. He looked more troubled than Milo had ever seen him—even more so than when he had showed Milo the hologram about the blightstore experiments back in the vault.
“What is it, Uncle Manny?” Milo said.
“It’s Oscar. Look out for him. Guide him in the right direction. Especially you, Sevarin. He feels a stronger bond with you because of your shared love of games and athleticism.”
Sevarin nodded. “I’ll make sure he’s all right—if I can just find the little bastard.”
“And you, nephew.” Emmanuel stared at Milo’s blind eye. “I’ll see what I can find out about your condition. But while I’m gone, spend some of your free time studying Mentalist magic. Use the academy’s archives to read journal entries written by the Psi’Acular monks of Arkkos Abbey. They used meditation techniques to strengthen their minds against invasive mental spells. That might help you fend off whoever’s targeting you.”
Milo wanted to curse his uncle for what sounded like empty, self-help advice. Meditation? Really? That was the cure to his problems? The Fountains of Joy sounded like a much better option—at least Milo had seen them work before.
Emmanuel clamped a hand around Milo’s shoulder. “Every problem has a solution. These fountains are not it. The solution lies here.” He tapped Milo’s forehead. “In here is both the root of the problem and the cure.”
Milo shrugged. “I’ll get to work then,” he said dispiritedly.
Emmanuel gave him a respectful nod. “I know you will because you’re my brother’s son, and there was nothing Max couldn’t do.”
Turning away, Emmanuel flicked his right hand over the bed, causing the packed bags to rise and hang hovering in the air. “I must go now. Remember what I said, and look after each other.”
“Yes, sir,” Sevarin said.
Milo kept quiet, annoyed with his uncle. This trip seemed more important to him than fixing Milo’s eyesight.
Milo took the afternoon off from classes. Sevarin joined him. They hung out in their dorm room and watched Theusian action movies on their Arabands. Emma, Lily, and the rest of their friends arrived just after the dinner bell with boxes of steaming food they had purchased at the train station. They understood, though no one acknowledged it, that Milo had no intention of setting foot inside the Hall of Champions for a while.
Milo ate and tried to act like nothing was wrong, but truthfully, he couldn’t shake a feeling of intense dread. It was as if the world were coming to an end and only he knew about it. He tossed and turned in bed all night, racking his brain for a possible solution to his problems.
The answer came to him in a dream. Blue light was everywhere, the soothing energy he craved. Smiling, he dipped his hands and face into the fountain.
And he was healed.
CHAPTER 30
Emmanuel had one last stop before he could leave the continent.
The Wingcab dropped him off at Theus Academy Library. He made his way quickly to the Restricted Section, nodding at those who recognized him as he passed. Fortunately, he was intimidating enough, and moving with enough urgency, to discourage anyone from trying to make conversation with him along the way.
Only professors and certain administrative officials could enter the restricted section. Two Sargonaut guards—academy staff, not wardens, thankfully—stood at attention on either side of the massive wooden doors blocking the ancient section of the library. They stiffened at Emmanuel’s approach, then dutifully opened the doors to let him through.
The enormous chamber resembled the inside of a cathedral. Stacks of old books and scrolls towered over him. Emmanuel knew the place by heart, though he hadn’t been inside in more decades than he cared to count. The scent of dusty old tomes brought him back to a peaceful time in his life, when research and grading exams were all that concerned him instead of battle and war. He resisted a powerful urge to browse and settled on brushing his fingers against the spines instead.
His destination was a darkened section where the books were distinctly more ancient and worn. The shelves were mostly empty here, coated in dust and a few draped in spiderwebs. A pang of anxiety hit him. What if the book wasn’t here? What if another professor had borrowed it for a class or a research paper? He would have to track the person down. It wouldn’t be difficult, thanks to the spells embedded in each volume that made the books impossible to steal, but he had no time for that sort of quest right now.
The book was there, exactly where he had expected it to be, about six feet above his head and half-hidden behind a thick cobweb. Emmanuel breathed a sigh of relief. Using a luminether crystal and a quickly uttered spell, he floated up until he was within arm’s reach, then grabbed the heavy tome and let its weight pull him back down.
A History and Journals of the Cyrens, read the title, etched in a flowing, gold script across the leather surface. A Translation by Professor Altir Solon, Son of Ultimos, Son-Son of Jaeson of Quiknos.
Emmanuel smiled. He had known Professor Altir and his father and grandfather. He had even accompanied the legendary archivist and archeologist, Jaeson of Quiknos, on an expedition to the deadly Tomb of Trials, where the journals translated in this text had been stashed in secret for thousands of years. Those journals disappeared shortly after Jaeson’s death, and now all that remained was this book.
“Milo,” he said, “I hope this finds you at the right time.”
He opened the book to the first page, savoring the scent of its ancient paper, then pulled a pad of paper and a pen out of his pocket. He scribbled a note and tucked it inside. Then he closed the book and piled a few others on top of it, hiding it so no one else would find it so easily.
Tipping his head back, he called out in a loud voice. “Keygrath. Are you there, old friend?”
“Who summons me?” said a lisping voice from above.
Emmanuel searched the balconies for the man’s familiar, wrinkled face. “It’s me, Emmanuel. I’ve come to call on that favor you once said you owed me.”
A moment of silence followed. Then Keygrath answered in a trembling whisper, “By the gods… I knew this day would come.”
Emmanuel let a wistful smile cross his face as he stood, listening to the squeaking of the old man’s wheels coming down the ramp.
CHAPTER 31
“I miss you, Mom,” Oscar had said before closing his eyes to a world that had shunned him.
But he never jumped. As he stood at the edge of that twelve-story building in Theus, the face of a woman not his mother flashed in his mind—it was a girl, actually.
Calista was smiling at him, eyes bright as polished pennies. She seemed happy to see him, happy to know Oscar had not rejected her as the others had done.
You aren’t alone, he told her. You’ll never be alone.
Then find me, she said. Let’s be alone together…
His eyes snapped open. “What?” he said, suddenly hit with a frightening gust of wind that almost pushed him to his death. What was he doing? Had he lost his mind?
He took a step back. This wasn’t like him at all. He had never been a quitter. He just needed to be home, and home was…
Yes, home was nearby. He just had to get to it. Then he would feel better. Wiping his eyes, he turned to face eastward. Then he broke into a run, leaped across the street to the nearest rooftop, and kept going at full speed, until all the buildings were behind him and all he could see in front of him were tree trunks and leaves and piercing rays of light from above, and all he could hear was the trilling of birds welcoming him to the place in which he belonged.
The forest.
The forest was home, and no one could ever kick him out.
THE MUSIC of the forest lulled Oscar to sleep each night as if by magic.
It was the animals themselves, their presence, knowing they were watching him. Oscar would drift away listening to the tree frogs croak and the owls hoot low in their throats. Those sounds whisked him away to distant lands, wh
ere at times Calista met him with a wide smile on her pretty face.
When he woke up, he was always hungry. One morning he awoke with a hunger so powerful that he knew no amount of roots or berries could satisfy it. He wanted a hot meal. He wanted meat, broth, potatoes. He would have killed for a bowl of steaming-hot beef stew.
There was only one place to find it. The city.
With his stomach growling the entire way, Oscar ran westward until he entered a neighborhood in Theus that was clearly poorer than any other he’d visited. He found a shady tavern with a wooden sign hanging above the door that read TAILSPIN TAVERN. Beneath it hung another, smaller sign bearing the words Hot Food, Cold Drinks, Good Stories.
It was the “hot food” part that made Oscar slip inside without hesitation.
The place was humid and dark, filled with low voices and the weak glow of fire shards suspended in iron cages lining the walls. Ascher had used lights like these in the barns because they were cheap, never had to be turned off, and masked the less-than-appealing smells of the levathons.
The owner of this place had probably been thinking the same thing, for as soon as Oscar entered, he detected a musky odor emanating from the shabbily dressed men seated at the bar. Oscar knew at once that it was the smell of unwashed animal fur. This was a Feral bar.
The men—and the one female bartender, a young woman with hair down to her waist—all had orange eyes that blinked at Oscar as he took hesitant steps toward the bar. He took a seat on an empty stool at the less crowded end and cleared his throat.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked him. She studied the dirt and twigs and other debris still clinging to Oscar’s shirt, though she did so apparently without judgment. He wasn’t the first homeless person to come into the Tailspin.
“I don’t know,” Oscar said. “What do you recommend?”
She narrowed a pretty set of eyes at him. “Well, that depends on how much you got in your pocket. You talk funny, like a student from the academy. Maybe it’s your day off?”
Oscar picked a twig off his shoulder, trying to look as casual as someone who came often to places like this. “Actually, I’m a farmer.”
“That explains the dirt all over you. Sure, we see farmers in here from time to time. Usually they all get together at The Barnyard down the street, though. Don’t know why. The beer there tastes like deer piss.”
“Ha.” laughed one of the men. “You would know, Darlena.”
She made a scissoring motion with two fingers at the man. The others oohed as if in anticipation of a fight, while the man who had teased her simply drained his beer glass and demanded another.
“What does that mean?” Oscar asked, mimicking the motion.
“Oh, cubby, put those away.” Darlena pushed his hand back down. “It’s not polite. Unless the person you’re showing it too really does deserve to have their tail cut off, like that idiot back there.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at the man who had made fun of her.
“Ah, I understand,” Oscar said. It was sort of like flashing someone the middle finger in some human cultures.
His stomach rumbled, and he cleared his throat again and looked around for a menu. Meanwhile, Darlena smiled at him as if he were some cute little kid who had stumbled over to the adult section by accident.
“I’d like something to eat,” he said. “Meat, if you have it.”
“Can I get you a beer first?”
“Sure,” Oscar said, brightening. His father had never allowed him to drink except to taste a bit of wine at dinner, and that was only because wine had been such a luxury for his family. “But just a small cup.”
With a charismatic wink, Darlena plucked a clean mug from a row of hooks hanging above the bar. She flipped it from one hand to the other, dexterous even for a Feral, and within seconds had it filled without spilling a drop.
“Here you go,” she said, sliding it over.
Oscar took a sip. The beer was frothy and deliciously cold. He saw one of the men slap a few coins onto the bar and realized he hadn’t brought any cash.
“I only have my bank token,” he said and reached for his pocket.
“S’all right, cubby. This one’s on the house.”
Darlena winked at him again. She seemed to like Oscar immensely—maybe a little too much. She was at least twice his age, however, and Oscar had zero experience with women.
He guzzled down half the beer and burped into the crook of his arm.
“Thank you very much,” he said. “Miss, um—Darlena.”
Another wink. Was it a facial tic? “What’s your name, cubby?”
“Oscar.”
“You’re not from these parts, huh, Oscar? I can tell by your accent. You must be one of those traveling farmers.”
“Um…”
Oscar had no idea how to explain that he was from another world, or if he even should say such a thing. Most people in Astros thought the human realm was just another myth. Plus, Emmanuel had warned him and the others not to reveal that sort of information in case it brought “unwanted attention.”
“I’m from the South,” he said and took another sip of his beer.
“Ah,” Darlena said with a nod. “The Lis’Lia archipelagos. I thought so.”
One of the men drummed his fist against the bar impatiently. “Hey, Darlena, when you’re done flirting with the cub, get over here and pour me another drink. We miss you over on this side of town.”
“Yeah, what’s the deal?” another one shouted. “This beer ain’t gonna pour itself.”
Darlena rolled her eyes. “I’ll get you a menu,” she told Oscar before turning away to tend to the others.
Oscar nodded and sipped his beer, already starting to feel light-headed. It was if a cloud had entered his mind—a pleasant one that could make him float right off his seat, all his problems left behind. And yet, despite this fogginess, he thought it was odd that Darlena hadn’t brought up the coloring of his eyes. It was as if Oscar, apart from his age and background, was no different than the others. Studying the slumped figures at the bar, he understood why.
All of them lacked something. One man was missing an arm, the stump hidden inside a sleeve that had been tied into a knot. Another was missing the entire left side of his face, with only a hole where his ear had been and a slab of scar tissue over his left eye and cheek. He had been badly burned at some point, probably during a battle.
Across the room, a crude wooden door swung open and a man hobbled out, accompanied by a toilet smell. The limp was caused by a stiff metal rod where his right leg should have been. His tail ended abruptly at the level of his knees, probably sheared off by a blade. This wasn’t just a Feral bar. It was a gathering hole for war veterans.
Oscar sipped his beer and set his mug on the bar a bit harder than he had intended. Darlena raised her eyebrows at him.
“Oh, you too, huh? I might as well be a walking beer tap.”
Worrying he had hurt her feelings, Oscar said the first thing that came to mind.
“A very pretty one.”
This brought a wide smile to her face. She came over and set about refilling the mug.
“Nice save. You can have this one on the house, too, but only because I like ya’.”
“Thanks. Excuse me, Darlena, but what war did these men fight in?”
“Oh, cubby,” she said, setting the mug in front of him, “these men have fought in every war of the past thirty years. But I wouldn’t ask too many questions about it.” She leaned forward and hushed her voice to a whisper. “Most of them just want to be left alone.”
Oscar dug out his token and slid it across the bar. Darlena frowned at it.
“I’ll pay for their drinks,” Oscar said, “if they can tell me stories like the sign says outside.”
“Are you sure? Our drinks aren’t as cheap as the place looks.”
Oscar responded with a firm nod. “I have money.”
Darlena’s face split into a grin. “Well, why didn’t
you say so, cubby? Here, let me get you something a little tastier.”
She made his mug disappear, the bitterbrew splashing into a sink beneath the bar, and came back with a large brown bottle marked MOUNT SINESTER ALE. (The off-putting name reminded Oscar a little too much of the English word ‘sinister,’ which he had learned recently.) Then she ducked down beneath the bar and came up with a frosted mug that spun off trails of cold mist.
“This is the good stuff,” she said as she poured the golden-brown liquid.
Oscar found it bitter and harsh, but not bad after the first few sips. He didn’t plan on drinking much more, however. The alcohol had a dulling effect on his mind that he didn’t much like.
“One of these for everyone,” he ordered.
Darlene winked at him, then belted the announcement. “Hey, fellas, we got a generous one here, probably the son of a rich merchant from the archipelagos. Says he’s buying rounds all afternoon for anyone with a war story to tell. Name’s Oscar.”
“And food, too,” Oscar said.
“And he’s buying steaks.”
The men at the bar glanced at Oscar in disbelief. He lifted the mug as if to make a toast. One by one, the men pushed their mugs forward, and Darlena went about upgrading their drinks as she had done with Oscar’s.
The two veterans closest to him leaned toward Oscar to begin a conversation.
“Nice to meetcha, Oscar, old boy. If you got an hour, I’ll tell ya’ all about the Battle of Eager March,” said one of the men.
“Okay,” Oscar said. He took a small sip to hide his excitement.
“No, no, no,” the other man said. “He doesn’t want to hear that tired old tale. How about this? I’ll tell you how I lost my leg in Lanzer Pan fighting a horde of barbarian Sargonauts.”
“That also sounds good,” Oscar said.
When a stocky man in an apron emerged from the kitchen area in back, wiping his hands on a towel, Selena ordered him to bring everyone a cut of the best tenderloin steak they had. The man was pleasantly surprised when Selena told him to get one for himself, and he disappeared into the kitchen faster than Oscar was comfortable with. How much money was in his account, exactly? He had never even checked.
Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series Page 67