The Eye and the Arm

by Andrew Q. Gordon

  For six days, Arritisa had blessed them with favorable conditions—he felt certain the Arlefors helped as well—but today the weather turned foul. With a fair wind, Nathan estimated they’d have made Dreth by midday. Tacking against a strong headwind as they had all day, they were pressing to make it by sunset. If not, they’d have to heave to and wait until morning.

  The roll of the ship forced him to twist. Behind him, he saw Teberus helping Cylinda to her feet. Checking to see he had the feel of the ship—or as best he could, given the conditions—he made his way to where the two wizards seemed engaged in conversation.

  “Can’t you do something to make this easier?” Miceral asked Cylinda. Turning toward Teberus, he noted the Arlefor’s brow was furrowed. He repeated the question mentally.

  “Even under the best of circumstances, a wizard shouldn’t meddle with the weather. But with Meglar searching for us, it is a risk we can’t take.”

  “What about—” He stopped when he saw Cylinda frown. “Sorry. I’m doing it again.”

  “My people are doing all we can to speed your journey, but when the sea is this angry, there is little we can do to settle her.”

  “Thank you for all you’ve done.” Miceral hoped he sounded as grateful as he felt. “Without you, we’d be leagues farther from Dreth.”

  “We’ll make it today or I’ll fly him to Honorus’s temple myself.” Cylinda’s voice had an edge that mirrored the determination she’d displayed since she arrived.

  “Cylinda…. Thank you.” The ship rolled, forcing them to struggle to stay upright. “I’ve been difficult since you’ve arrived, and I’ve never properly—”

  “Land ho!”

  Sailors across the deck peered up toward the lookout.

  “How far?” Emerson shouted.

  “Less than an hour, sir.”

  When Miceral looked away, he found himself alone. Twisting, he finally spied Cylinda and Teberus moving toward the bow. The two exchanged a look just before the Arlefor deftly leapt over the rail.

  “What…?” Miceral’s question was asked of the air. Cylinda sped past him, heading toward the wheelhouse.

  Following as best he could, Miceral marveled at the wizard’s sea legs.

  “Captain!” She paused until Nathan spared a glance in her direction. “Teberus and his people are going to redouble their efforts. He asks that you try not to fight them.”

  “And just how do you suggest I carry out such a precise instruction?” He grunted as he and another sailor struggled to control the wheel. “That—”

  “Would be them trying to aid you.”

  He opened his mouth, but before he spoke, the wheel turned again. “Mr. Emerson!”

  The first mate looked soaked and haggard when he appeared near Cylinda. “Aye, Captain?”

  “Our friends from the sea are trying to help us. Do the best you can to not work at cross winds to them.”

  When Emerson cocked his head, the captain pointed to the wheel moving on its own in ways even Miceral knew shouldn’t happen. “Aye, sir. I’ll see what we can do, but….”

  “Just try your best, Mr. Emerson.”

  The officer saluted and moved away. Cylinda turned to her right and sent a globe of blue energy across the water toward the corsair. She waited until the ball returned and landed in her hand. With an absent wave of her fingers, the globe dispersed.

  “We’ll make it before the harbor closes.” For the first time all day, her body seemed less rigid. “Teberus and his people will get us there in time.”

  Miceral nodded, leaving unasked what he really wanted to know. What then? Rather than harass the frazzled wizard, he left in search of Peter. Much as he wanted to go check on Farrell, he knew it would only frustrate him more. Farrell lay resting where he’d fallen, cut off from everyone by several layers of protection Teberus and Cylinda had spent the first two days creating.

  Being unable to touch his life partner’s skin fueled his rage and made him unreasonable. Though his mind knew Cylinda continued to do everything possible, his heart told him there had to be something else they could try. In the end his mind won the battle.

  MICERAL STEPPED on deck, followed by Peter, and immediately noticed the weather had cleared. The change left him wondering if outside forces influenced the shift, but the cloud cover behind them appeared consistent with normal weather patterns.

  He could see Dumbarten’s capitol, Dreth, as the prow rose and fell in the still-choppy sea. Old even when Kel had left to found Yar-del, the ancient city sprawled in front of the ship dwarfed anything Miceral imagined existed. Boats packed the vast harbor. Easily twice the size of Belsport, Dreth housed dozens of ships, with many more creating chaos as they came and went.

  Beyond the piers and warehouses, the city rose, built all the way up the hills that framed the capitol. The palace, a huge complex in the heart of the urban center, had been built on a small rise overlooking the harbor. It alone was bigger than many lesser cities in the Seven Kingdoms.

  As they approached the chaotic port, Nathan barked orders to the crew and piloted the ship toward the southern side of the harbor. The warship, now flying Prince Peter’s personal flag, took up a position slightly to the north. Miceral received word from Teberus that his people would be leaving them, but that Cylinda could reach them should the need arise.

  The dockworkers appeared less than happy when the two ships arrived. Their grumbling continued until someone spotted Peter. The man turned his gaze up and his eyes went wide when he noted the flag on the warship. Word seemed to spread outward, and soon soldiers, merchants, and additional laborers filled the dock.

  “I’m going to find help,” Cylinda said before sailors could tie off the boat. “Stay on board until I return.”

  Before Miceral could protest, she disappeared. Frustrated, he clenched his jaw to refrain from yelling after her. Peter stood next to him and they silently stared into the city.

  Emerson appeared at Miceral’s side. “Where to next for you three… four?”

  “The Grand Temple of Honorus.” Miceral turned to his left, and when he noticed the confused look in the first mate’s eyes, he said, “Farrell needs help, and Cylinda believes that is where we’ll find it.”

  “Do you trust her?”

  “Of course.” He didn’t try to hide his annoyance. “How could you even ask that?”

  Emerson held up his hands and stepped back. “Whoa. I meant, do you trust her instincts? What happened to Farrell is beyond her ability to fix, so maybe a healers’ temple would be wiser.”

  Miceral shook his head and turned his gaze back toward the warehouses. “No. She understands the problem but needs a tome from somewhere to make sure she cures Farrell, not kills him.”

  The three stood silently at the rail as the crew moved around them. Miceral spared a glance to the bags at his feet. If he’d known where the temple was, he’d have left the moment Cylinda disappeared. But Farrell never discussed the city with him, and Miceral didn’t want to risk wandering around Dreth in the dark.

  “Dumbarten is my home, so I’m leaving the Rose to accompany you.” Emerson’s voice broke the silence.

  “You weren’t invited.” The harsh words conveyed almost as much as the stare Miceral fixed on the man. “What we do doesn’t concern you.”

  “If I’m right, what you do concerns all of Nendor.” He arched an eyebrow at Miceral.

  The comment, and the offhand manner in which it was spoken, sent a chill up Miceral’s back. How could Emerson know Farrell’s importance to the Six and the war? Keeping the man close made sense, but not with Farrell incapacitated. And he still needed to protect Peter.

  “Even if that were true—especially if that were true—the answer is still no.”

  The smirk on Emerson’s lips faltered slightly, but he didn’t back away. “Dreth is a big place and different from any city you’ve been to on Ardus. Not only am I able to guide you, I’ve got connections, important ones that reach all the way to the palace
and the king. You may not know it, but you need me.”

  “What’s in it for you?” Peter asked. “You don’t need us.”

  Miceral nodded in agreement. “Exactly.”

  “As I said, if I’m right, what you’re doing is going to have a profound impact on the world—my world. What’s in it for me, Prince Peter? Is not my survival a big enough stake?”

  “Who are you?” Miceral didn’t expect the truth, but he asked anyway.

  Emerson crossed his arms over his chest. “You first.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Emerson.” He turned his back on the officer.

  “As I expected.” The man turned and walked away.

  “I don’t trust him,” Peter said.

  Scanning the young man’s face, Miceral could see the fear he tried so hard to hide. “The funny thing is, I do.”

  “You do?”

  “Not enough to risk Farrell’s life or yours, but yes, I do.” He worried a piece of wood on the rail with his fingernail. “Go to battle with a man, fight together for your lives, and look him in the eye, and it’s hard not to trust him. Whoever he is, I don’t think his intentions are evil.”

  “So why not accept his offer?”

  “We don’t need him, and the fewer who know our business, the better.” Lanterns flared around the city; most had the telltale signs he’d come to recognize as wizard’s fire. Though they may have been helpful to those walking, they did little to dispel the general darkness descending on the city that matched his mood.

  Since Cylinda snuck off, Miceral didn’t know which direction to watch. With his focus to the east, he was surprised when she suddenly appeared from the north with a company of temple guards. She and an older priest led the soldiers up the plank.

  The priest wore a plain white robe cinched at the waist by a platinum link belt adorned with dozens of precious gems. Over the robe he wore a blue chasuble embroidered with gold, silver, and platinum threads. A solid white stole with silver tips completed his raiment. With each step the priest leaned on a solid gold crosier that curved in on itself at the top. Whomever Cylinda found, he had some rank within the priesthood.

  Before they set foot on deck, Emerson quickly walked over to intercept them. “What is the meaning—” The first officer drew up as if pulled by a string. “Holy Father?”

  The cleric raised a graying eyebrow, and Miceral noted how the priest shifted his position slightly. “Emerson?”

  After a deep bow, the officer stood at attention. “Yes, Holy Father. This was my current assignment.”

  “I see.” The man’s lips curled down slightly before he turned to Cylinda. “Where is he?”

  Cylinda motioned toward the makeshift shelter they’d erected on deck. Miceral had argued Farrell should be moved below deck but relented when Cylinda pointed out Teberus couldn’t get down the stairs.

  With a grace that belied his slightly portly build, the cleric made his way to Farrell’s side. He placed a hand on Farrell’s chest and closed his eyes. A pale blue nimbus surrounded the priest’s hand, then winked out when he opened his eyes. After a brief glance at Cylinda, he stood and snapped his fingers at his guards.

  “I want him taken to the temple.”

  “No!” Miceral moved between the soldiers and Farrell.

  “Miceral….” Cylinda’s shoulders slumped. “High Priest Gedrin came personally to make sure we could get Farrell to the temple as quickly as possible.”

  Miceral shook his head, his hand drifting to his sword. “No one moves him until I’m convinced it’s the right decision. He’s my life partner, not yours.”

  Gedrin laid a hand on Cylinda’s shoulder. “Let me.”

  He stared at her for a moment before her body relaxed and she nodded. Turning toward Miceral, the man’s face lacked any hostility.

  “My apologies, Miceral. You are of course correct.” He came closer and gave Miceral’s forearm a squeeze. The ornate robe jingled softly as he moved.

  Miceral stared into Gedrin’s gray eyes, looking for some hint of deceit. Finding none, he nodded. “So he stays here?”

  The wrinkles on the priest’s face deepened as he frowned slightly. “No, he will be safer if we move him. The Temple of Honorus is protected by powerful magic from prying eyes. More importantly, we have a vast library of magic that is second only to the Temple of Falcron in Bowient. Believe me when I say I understand what the Chosen means to Honorus and the world. If there were a better option, I would fully support taking him there.”

  “You can cure him?”

  “Not I, no. But we will bring together Dumbarten’s finest minds to undo this dark magic. You have my word.”

  Miceral felt his ears turn red. He hadn’t meant to doubt the word of a high priest—the high priest—of Honorus.

  “I never doubted you, Holy Father. I’m just—”

  “Concerned for your life partner, I know.” Gedrin smiled and gripped Miceral’s arm again. “But now that I’ve explained things, I’d like to move him to the temple, if you’ve no objection.”

  Closing his eyes, Miceral nodded. The temple might not have any answers, but it felt like a step forward. “Let’s go.”

  ALTHOUGH HE’D agreed to move Farrell, Miceral refused to let anyone else carry him. Several times guards offered to take over if he grew tired. He politely, or as politely as he could, declined their help.

  Father Gedrin talked the entire way to the temple, pointing out places and buildings like a tour guide. Although the priest clearly meant for it to be a distraction from the serious situation at hand, Miceral found it annoying. But he had paid enough attention to learn a few things about Dreth and Dumbarten.

  The original walls, built to protect Dreth when Kentar warred with the other kingdoms of Dumbarten, now formed the boundary to the royal compound. Over the centuries, as Kentar united the island under its rule, the city quickly outgrew the walls. Now the bureaucracy needed to rule the kingdom required all the space in the old city and then some. Only the temples escaped eviction as the kings of Dumbarten expanded beyond the original palace.

  As they moved closer to the palace compound, Miceral noticed how the homes became larger and more lavishly adorned. Private guards, dressed in the colors of the house they served, stood watch before gated walls. Most appeared bored, paying little attention until they noticed the high priest and his guards. Twice the king’s soldiers approached to inquire if the Holy Father needed help. Both times the captain of his guard dismissed them without explanation.

  The palace guards waved them through when they reached the thick wall of the old city. Gedrin nodded to the soldiers as he passed, then continued his commentary.

  The temples of the gods occupied a broad avenue that ran north from the gate. Like at Trellham, Honorus’s temple had been built in the center, with His Sisters to the left and His Brothers to the right. Here too, the space between Honorus’s and Khron’s temples held no trace of the structure that Neldin’s house once occupied. In its place a barren, empty space, bound by a tall iron fence, extended from the temples on either side.

  Constructed using different colors of polished marble, Honorus’s temple sparkled in the artificial lights that adorned the front. Massive, befitting its status as the central temple of the patron deity of Dumbarten, the temple caused Miceral to stare for an instant. Streaks of bright blue and green ran up and down thick columns that lined the front portico running the length of the temple. Two massive doors, hewn from a rich and highly polished pure white marble, were guarded by two pairs of temple guards.

  Gedrin avoided the main entrance, led them to the side of the temple, and touched his staff to what appeared to be a blank wall. The outline of a door appeared, and Miceral heard a faint click. The guard closest to the door grasped a ring and pulled it open.

  Lights flared the instant the high priest stepped into the corridor.

  “We’ll take him to the examining rooms at the end of the hall,” Gedrin said to the guard who had opened the door. The soldi
er nodded and led the way.

  Emerson drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Miceral had forgotten the man had come with them.

  “Something wrong?” Miceral asked.

  “No.” Emerson shook his head quickly, his eyes darting toward the high priest. “It’s just been a while since I’ve been inside this part of the temple.”

  The smile the officer gave him felt forced, but before Miceral could inquire further, a globe of light drifted closer, illuminating Farrell’s pale skin. Miceral noted the gentle rise and fall of his partner’s chest—the only sign of life for nearly a week. Emerson would need to face his demons inside the temple on his own.

  Chapter 16

  MICERAL FELT the gentle push of the healer moving him back. “Lord Miceral, please step away from the table.”

  He knew he couldn’t help, but keeping his distance while others put their hands on Farrell went against his every instinct. How could they expect him to stand against the wall and just watch?

  “A word, Holy Father?”

  Cylinda’s request, spoken in barely more than a whisper, would have gone unnoticed but for Miceral’s enhanced hearing. The terse, almost angry tone alerted him to something important. Pretending to watch the healers, Miceral sat against the wall and strained to hear.

  “Yes, Master Cylinda?”

  “I fear that your healers won’t be able to help him.”

  “These are cleric healers.” Gedrin kept his voice down, but the hint of annoyance still came through. “They might succeed where you failed.”

  “Father Gedrin, listen to me. I recognized the spell. It’s one Kel devised.”

  Before he could stop himself, Miceral turned toward the pair. Cylinda had never told him she knew for sure what happened to Farrell. He noted the skepticism on the priest’s face before he returned to his feigned indifference.

  “And you know this how?”

  “In the royal library at Yar-del, there was a book of magic. This spell was found on those pages.”