by Damien Lake
While they waited, he reviewed the details he had uncovered, each standing as a signpost in the road, marking a single step closer to the goal. His arrival at Kingshome. Learning Rail had last been seen leaving Spirratta to the north. Asking questions among a bare few northern towns, but discovering nothing. Studying scrying, convinced that no other course would bear answers. Briefly summoning his father’s image, proving that Rail Drakkson indeed lived, yet not where he might be found. Seen from this vantage, Marik supposed he had made progress of a sort after all.
At last, today, with the help of King Raymond’s court mages, he would find the truth. Today, he might finally take that last step off the road, or at least come within sight of his destination. Who cared what a bitch Celerity was if she could give him that?
Elation slowly filled him, the last emotion he expected to feel after receiving her summons. What might Rail be doing? How would he catch up to Rail once he knew where to find him?
The constant energy drain through the working’s link quickly used what he had drawn. This scrying effort was much tougher since the line he drew from infused him too quickly with raw power. Any tricks to regulate the flow into him remained beyond his capabilities, so he could not reduce the flow to match the rate of expenditure by the working. He spent the morning opening and closing the channel to the line. It rapidly exhausted him. With that and thoughts of Rail on his mind, time passed at a warped rate.
Much later he glanced up, noticing the position the serpent’s tail had shifted too. He could not recall where all that time had gone to, but…
“Huh?”
Celerity moved, spurred by his mild comment. “What is it?”
“Nothing, but…look at that.” He pointed at the serpent’s tail.
Tru was digging through his pouches. Celerity gazed at nothing. A moment later he felt a shift in the etheric energies when she performed a working at his side.
“It has shifted ninety degrees. Has it moved smoothly, or has there been a disturbance of any type?”
He had been lost in his own thoughts but he believed he would have noticed anything strange happening. “Smooth. Or, it hasn’t acted any differently than last time. Slow would be a better word.”
“That’s normal, I think,” Tru said, stepping closer. He held a pinch of sand between his fingers and muttered soft words that made no sense. Curious, Marik quickly focused his magesight in time to catch a faint stirring in the etheric mists around Tru when his spell tore the sand’s astral form away from its physical existence.
“You think?” Marik asked and switched mostly back to normal vision. He still used enough of his mage eyes to see the serpent’s short tail protruding from the mirror. The sand, destroyed, drifted away from the magician’s fingers in ashy residue.
“I’m a magician. I don’t use mage workings. But from what Celerity keeps telling me, I think that’s the normal rate of working for this working, if it’s working.”
“Rate for working for…work…what?”
“He means rate of progression,” Celerity snapped, exasperated. Tru glared at her. “Are you sure nothing different has occurred?”
“As sure as I am about anything.”
She stared at him before replying. “It means nothing. Your father might have moved since last you called his image months ago.”
“It has been a long time,” Marik allowed, sounding unconvinced.
“So let the working continue. Likely, he will turn up soon.”
Marik held his tongue on what he thought about that. If his father had been in Tullainia, but was there no longer, then only two or three possibilities remained. Rail would have to become a swimmer the likes of which the Arm of Galemar could only dream of to have left Tullainia to the south or west. North would take him into the sands of Perrisan, a kingdom noted for its harsh welcome of strangers.
East, then? Has he come back to Galemar? Well, as Celerity said, he would soon be found. Marik leaned back into his chair before changing his mind. He rose to claim Tru’s other water pitcher before sitting down to closely watch the mirror. If the magician wanted water, he could refill the one he originally offered to Marik.
The serpent’s tail continued its slow rotation while the morning progressed into afternoon. After it passed the northern compass point, Marik’s concerns both expanded and shrank. That the serpent had failed to find Rail in Tullainia or Perrisan meant that his father must be closer than ever! Yet at the same time, the longer the serpent sought his father without success, the tighter his nerves wound. A premonition that something had gone wrong persisted in his gut.
When the serpent passed the eastern mark then began toward the south, both Celerity and Tru exhibited increased attention to the working. Both began continually performing working after working and spell after spell, never bothering to explain what they did or why. Neither acted particularly pleased with whatever they learned.
Marik grew increasingly edgy. Fine. If he has come back to Galemar, he could as easily be south of Thoenar, right? If I had told the working to spin south instead of north, we would have found him candlemarks ago!
But the last of Marik’s faint hope vanished along with the etheric serpent when it reached its initial starting point. With no warning, it simply dissipated, having failed to find what it sought.
“This,” Celerity muttered, “raises all sorts of interesting questions.” She sounded like a person who disapproved of interesting questions.
“Might be dead,” Tru commented without much thought to the knife his words plunged into Marik’s heart. “Wouldn’t show up then, would he?”
“He’s not dead!” Marik snarled. When the other two looked at him, he hastily added, “Fine, so he didn’t look well when I saw him. But that doesn’t mean anything! Father isn’t one to die that easily! I must have done the working wrong,” he exclaimed, and perked up. “Of course I did! This is only my second time! I’ll start over.”
“There’s no need,” Celerity interrupted when he made to sit before the mirror and begin anew. Marik rounded on her, and she explained, “Tru is the adept at scrying, Marik. We only thought it might be easier to have you do it since, along with your blood, you are personally linked with the subject. Affinity between a subject and the scryer adds significantly to the working’s capabilities, especially when coupled with the affinity between the catalyst and the subject. You seemed like the easiest solution. Now we will let Tru do what we pay him to do.”
“I can do things,” the magician said. “I can find out if he’s dead or no. Do you have anything that belonged to him?”
“Not with me,” Marik replied bitterly. “I doubt the only thing I have of his would be much good to you anyway. Tollaf said I erased his astral signature with my own, or…I think he said that...”
“Oh well. Let’s get hair cuttings before you go, anyway. Every bit helps.”
Marik sat still while Tru used the knife to hack off the longer locks at his neck’s base. At least they would no longer catch in his mail. He also collected as many nail cuttings as he could trim away without shortening Marik’s fingers, but Marik starkly refused to urinate into a bottle.
Celerity seemed intent on getting rid of him since he had proven to be of no immediate use. He hardly felt like staying and made no protest. Still, while she escorted him down to the door, Marik asked, “If you find him, are you going to tell me?”
She had spent the short walk musing. With a mild smile, she said, “Yes, I will. It will take time, undoubtedly. Tru is good, but scrying is tediously slow work at the best of times. I will tell Tollaf about whatever we discover if you’ve already returned to your band.”
“Even if you don’t find your red-eyed man? What if you spend the next few months searching and it turns out father doesn’t have anything at all to do with him?”
“Then,” she replied, “I will still tell you whatever we find. There is no point to going through the effort and then not using the information we gather.”
; At the door, after Celerity told him the gate guards would let him out if he followed the same path back, Marik looked at her squarely. In the late-afternoon sun her gray hairs blurred into their darker neighbors, making her appear older than he thought she was. She also looked tired.
“Who is this man? Why is he so important?”
He hoped she would be taken aback by the question’s directness, except it did nothing to shake her. Despite his clumsy effort she answered with what sounded like the truth. “He may not be important at all, which will mean I have wasted a good deal of time on a dead end. Yet it is all the things he might be, or might be doing, that has me worried. If it turns out he is a danger, then I hope your father isn’t connected with him.” After a pause, she added as a farewell, “I truly do.”
Because then she would have to ‘deal with him’, he suddenly realized. If, in the end, Celerity was ordered to attack his father, what would he do? Try to face her down? The thought made him shudder. He forced his mind to other matters.
He walked back to the gates, wondering about the woman. She seemed less harsh with him there at the end. Celerity bore little liking for him. Marik felt certain about that. Unlike Tollaf, she tried to conceal it. The brusque manner by which she treated him earlier probably stemmed from her preoccupation with the red-eyed man and her need to see him with her own eyes. As that had not happened, her mind then shifted to the next step. Since he was no part of that, she had stopped beating him with a crop to get him moving.
So, he summed up, maybe she’s not all that terrifying. Just intensely focused on her duties. That made no change to the fact he planned to avoid her as much as possible.
Perhaps, despite the afternoon’s lateness, Hilliard still had yet to perform. He worked his way through the Inner Circle’s streets toward the festival grounds after the guards let him out. The streets were still strangely empty in spite of the people he could see moving about. Most were dressed in festive clothing and talking loudly with their compatriots. From what he gathered, a good number had come from today’s main event, only returning because the particular contender they cheered for had already finished.
With no heavy traffic to slow him he made it through the three walls and into the Outer City in half a mark. Once within the tents and stalls and dirt roadways that had quickly become known as Tourney Town, his progress slowed considerably. After a full mark, he passed through the northern fringe and into the track area where the horses had run the first day.
Horses were still running, though the track had been shortened to a half-mile. The opposite platform where the tournament officials had watched with their glasses was surrounded by a broad oval horse run. Anyone who demonstrated adequate horsemanship could enter the races, which were run every quarter-mark by the same horses the contenders had ridden.
Marik thought this contest might be worth the try, despite being one of the few with an entrance fee. After riding the dumbest horse in creation around eastern Galemar for half the previous summer in all types of weather and terrain, he thought he stood a good chance to win, at minimum, the two silvers for second place. Thinking of his current mount stabled at Paddy’s, he amended the thought to, the second dumbest horse in creation.
When he skirted the stand’s edge, he saw that the seat rows were filled with people watching the horses that were preparing for the next race. To the northwest he could see an impenetrable wall of bodies and understood why they had decided to abandon fighting the crowds. Too bad the same option was unavailable for him.
He walked behind the thickest crowd swells, following the line for half a mile to the southern ford across the Pinedock River. In the horse race this had been the ford where the contenders crossed the water to follow the four mile loop that led further upstream to the northern ford. Today, it served as the ending point where the nobles pulled their dripping bodies from the water. The first eight in every ten to swim the two miles would advance to the next trial five days hence.
He debated whether the people or the noise would be the tougher element to deal with. Once he judged he had reached the southern ford, he took his life in his hands and plowed through the crowd. Several people expressed their indignation with this. His toughened features and the large sword hilt over his shoulder he occasionally allowed to thump into a protestor’s head eventually won the day. The cityguard maintaining the line needed convincing that he possessed a legitimate right to enter the contestant area. Finally through, he searched for Dietrik.
Marik quickly found all four, as most bodyguards departed with the body they were guarding after completing the swim. Hilliard must have only then finished his, to judge by the enormous towel he currently twisted into his ear.
“Well a’day,” Dietrik exclaimed when he noticed Marik advancing. “You have survived the morning. And without a singed eyebrow to show for it.”
“I’ve had better days. I’ll tell you about it later. How did it go?”
Hilliard responded. “I very nearly lagged too far! I came in eighth. I should have been practicing every day between the riding and the swim!”
“Next is archery, right? I think Landon can help you with that, and Walsh will be happy to lend us his backyard.”
“That tiny area? There cannot be thirty yards of unobstructed space, and only ten between the back wall and the inn proper!” Obviously the young man had regained enough of his composure around Marik to begin arguing points with force.
Landon shrugged when Marik asked his opinion. “He has a point. I could correct an error or two by judging his stance, but there’s little we would accomplish there. We need a larger space.”
“Well…I suppose we can find a place. I want to avoid the official training facilities, though. At worst, we could go to District Thirty-Seven and shoot at the thugs running around the alleys from the rooftops.”
Before anyone could reply, a vaguely familiar young man walked over to them. From his bearing he must be a noble, despite being clad only in a loincloth and carrying a towel to match Hilliard’s. Before Marik’s mind could place him, Hilliard stiffened to face to the newcomer.
“Lord Ferdinand,” he greeted respectfully, and bowed his head.
“Lord Hilliard,” the other young man smiled back. “I’m glad to see you made it through. I was worried Padmoor and Cuert were going to pass you there, for a moment. I do so enjoy watching another baron beating a pair of earls.” He laughed openly.
Hilliard reddened. “I’m not a baron yet.”
“Neither am I, but we will be. Speaking of which, I’m hosting a reception the night after tomorrow. Strictly ‘barons only’, who are still in the tournament after the first two trials. Or future barons, if you prefer,” he added when Hilliard made to protest.
Baron Sestion’s son clearly struck them as a man who rarely accepted the word ‘no’, so Marik, still in a fatalistic mood after the day’s emotional tides, shrugged when Hilliard glanced sideways at him.
“That sounds most inviting,” Hilliard replied to Ferdinand, deepening to a darker shade of crimson. “I will assuredly be there.”
“Fantastic! Be at our home in the Inner Circle by the first evening bell. Keegan said he’d rather ride the first race again, naked and backwards on the saddle pommel, but he’ll show up!” With a wink, he strode away, followed by his three silent guards.
“What was that all about?” Marik asked. “And why are you so red? You’re both barons.”
Hilliard jerked. “His father is a baron of the court.”
“So he has a title, but no land. Sounds like you’re the one better off.”
“Society,” Dietrik cut in, “never follows the rules of common sense as you and I know them. I would say that while a baron of the court is not landed in the traditional sense, he might wield greater political power than a baron outside Thoenar. Is that the truth of it?”
Hilliard nodded.
“So Baron Sestion would be equal to, say, an earl outside the court,” Dietrik concluded.
; “But so what?” Marik asked. “I thought titles didn’t put you off your feed.”
“They do not,” Hilliard affirmed, straightening as he said so. “But proper respect is due where is has been earned.”
“If he’s earned it,” Landon chimed. “I won’t comment until I learn more of the man.”
“His son seems decent enough,” Marik mused aloud.
“And an excellent swimmer as well! Come on, Marik old friend,” Kerwin announced jovially and threw an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s start back to the inn for the biggest dinner Walsh’s kitchen can concoct. I’ll tell you about the fabulous race you missed! Keegan was making a good showing, but Ferdinand was only letting him taste the lead before leaving him in his wake! I tell you, those two have some sort of rivalry between them! It should make the betting very interesting! Once they reached the halfway point…”
Chapter 14
“Whose bright idea was this?” Marik tugged at the collar on the stiff shirt he wore, fighting to adjust the blasted thing to a point where it would stop feeling like a noose.
“What does it matter?” responded Dietrik, probably, Marik thought, in an effort to distract him from the fact it had been Dietrik who insisted on purchasing new clothing. He, too, adjusted his new pine needle-green shirt, the tight weave doing little to conceal the peculiar bulges of his mail beneath. “We needed new clothing in any event. Did you truly wish to show up in your normal tunic? The sweat stains under the arms look like patches!”
“New clothing, maybe. But how am I supposed to fight in this?” Marik threw an arm out sideways in a slashing motion, stopped short when the wrist cuff’s tightened at the movement.
“With great care,” Kerwin advised while smiling broadly. He had dug into his packs and donned the leather vest and shirt he’d taken to wearing when traveling the nearby towns around Kingshome. “And you haven’t corded your sword yet.”