“Led you to what, exactly?”
“A girl. She was wounded, an arrow in the side, and slumped over her horse like a corpse. At first I thought it was just a chance meeting, but as soon as I moved to investigate it the magic surged again, and somehow I knew that it was her it wanted me to find - her, or something that she has in her bags,” Dormael explained.
“That’s…strange, indeed. It’s never happened to me, though I’ve read of similar cases at Ishamael when the Conclave was studying Infused artifacts or excavating ruins. Is there anything particularly strange about the girl? I mean, what has she told you?” D’Jenn mused.
“Nothing, she’s been fighting an infection since I found her, and she still hasn’t awakened as of yet. So far, all I know is that she’s a noble from south of here, but there’s something strange about that as well. When I found her, she was alone. There were no retainers or bodyguards, and I’ll tell you that she doesn’t look as if she needs them. She was wearing battle leathers, and carrying two finely made swords with her, magical unless I’m an idiot. She either stole them, which doesn’t seem likely, or she can wield them. Her horse was near death as well, and that can only mean that she was running from something.”
“You haven’t notified any magistrates or anything, have you?”
“Of course not,” Dormael snorted, “I don’t know what she’s done or who she’s fallen in with, but I thought it best to keep her a secret from anyone who might be looking for her.”
“Good. Well, have you found the source of the disturbance with your magic?” D’Jenn asked, taking a long pull from his pipe, which was fashioned expertly in the form of a dragon.
“No, she’s still unconscious, and I think that it’s in her belongings, whatever it is. Besides, I’d like to hear her story when she awakens. I’m staying with her kinsman, a man named Alton Dersham. He’s a good sort of fellow, and a rich sort too. He’s prepared a bed for you,” Dormael replied.
“Well, there we are, then. Hells, Dormael, I guess we’ve got to report this to the Mekai,” D’Jenn sighed, “Aren’t we ever going to get a vacation?”
“We’ll have to take an extended retreat when this is over, coz. I think, though, that the Mekai should know about this. He sort of likes to know when strange things are happening in the world, and this definitely qualifies.”
“Surely. Where does this Dersham you speak of make his home?” D’Jenn asked, getting up and gathering his packs once again. He gave his pipe three sharp taps against his boot to clear the bowl, and stowed it in his belt pouch once again.
“The Merchant’s District, in Ferolan.”
“Well then I guess I will be seeing you this evening,” D’Jenn grated, “I hope to Eindor this doesn’t take all winter. I’d like to get up into the northlands here in Alderak and do some hunting.”
“Indeed, coz, indeed. We’ll get there yet. In Ferolan, then.”
“In Ferolan,” D’Jenn nodded.
“And thanks, coz,” Dormael said, “You didn’t have to agree, and I’m glad you didn’t think I was losing control.”
“Whether or not you’re losing control is yet to be seen, coz. I’ve always thought you were a little off in the head, if you know what I mean,” replied D’Jenn, smirking at Dormael’s illusory self. Dormael gave a brief laugh and waved once at his cousin, who waved back with only the slightest bit of irritation showing on his face.
With that, Dormael’s form faded and he was flying once again over the trees back to that window where his body still stood, smiling into the sun. It would be good to have his cousin here to help him with this ordeal, even if his vacation would have to be cut short. He could feel hunger growing in his body back in Ferolan, and he decided it was time to get back and have a bite to eat. He did, however, do a few loops and barrel rolls on his way back.
****
Nightfall found Dormael enclosed in Alton’s study with him, both of them puffing contentedly on pipes and staring intently at a medium sized chess board set out between them. Alton, looking determined, reached down and moved his knight into position, then schooled his features into a look of complete indifference. Dormael snickered at him.
“You know,” said Dormael, “You’re not very good at hiding your emotions.” Alton laughed, abashed, and shrugged his shoulders while taking a short pull from his ivory carved pipe.
“Well I haven’t had much practice,” replied Alton, “It’s hard to find many people among the staff who would sit down and play the master of the house at chess. For that matter it’s hard to find anyone among the staff who even plays chess.”
“You could always invite one of your merchant friends over for a friendly game,” offered Dormael, smirking slightly as he moved his bishop into position to take Alton’s knight.
“Ha! Now there’s a bunch of rat bastards for you,” scoffed Alton, “Mark me, they would be more interested in sneaking around my house, looking for a reason to start some ridiculous rumor to discredit me. Not that I haven’t had callers,” he held up his hands at Dormael’s questioning look, “They have come to the door, giving out their invitations to this party or that, and I have attended from time to time, if only to save face. However, as a general rule most nobles are either stupid hedonists or just plain boring, and they’re all constantly maneuvering for more power or money. Merchants are all maneuvering to join their ranks, so they can do even more scheming and plotting on one another. I prefer not to get mixed up in it all, and just run my business and retain my good name.”
“A worthy strategy, my friend,” Dormael consented. He knew full well Alton’s feelings about his neighbors and peers, Alton having told him so many times over the past week. He watched Alton move another piece on the board, and took a long pull from his own simply carved pipe. The grayish blue smoke rose slowly to the ceiling of the large square room, where it dissipated.
Alton’s study was a large room that was lined on three walls with dark stained bookshelves that contained many leather-bound volumes resting orderly in their place. Upon one wall there was a large brick fireplace which was currently the home of a bright fire that flickered contentedly, and filled the room with pleasant warmth and a low orange light. Above the fire hung a tapestry bearing the Dersham family coat of arms, a stag rearing on a field of green and gold.
The only furniture in the room was Alton’s large desk, which was positioned so that the room’s only window was at Alton’s back when he sat there. It was also treated with a dark stain, and was stacked neatly with parchments and a large ledger. There was Alton’s large comfortable chair behind it, and two chairs in front of it, which Alton and Dormael had procured for their chess game before the fireplace. The small table which held the stone chess board was brought up by a servant a couple of days ago just for the purpose of their nightly chess match.
“So tell me about your life, Dormael,” said Alton, moving another chess piece, “And not so vaguely this time. You have a gift for that, you know. Using a lot of words to say not much at all”
“Ah,” laughed Dormael, “well, there’s not really much to tell.”
“Rubbish,” replied Alton, looking slightly irritated at Dormael’s evasion. He fixed Dormael with an unwavering, questioning gaze and resumed his inquiry.
“For instance,” he began, sitting back and puffing a little on his pipe, “Where did you come by that finely made guitar you carry around? Surely that piece was quite expensive.”
“Very expensive,” agreed Dormael.
“So?”
“Yes?”
“Where did you get it?” asked Alton again, more intently this time. Dormael pretended to peer at the chess board, contemplating his next move.
“If you must know,” Dormael began, taking a rook from Alton, “my brother is a Gladiator back home. You have heard of the Gladiator’s Ring?” Alton nodded, “well, the prize is different every year, and he has been champion for the past three. The first year he won, he was gifted a bag full of gold coins and gems, and
he used part of his winnings to purchase that instrument for me.”
It was a lie, and Dormael didn’t like lying to Alton, who was fast becoming a friend to him, but the real story, that Dormael was gifted it by a wealthy noble from Lesmira for Infusing the ceiling of his dining hall to give a warning to him when someone was lying, was probably just too much for Alton to swallow. Most people here in the east didn’t like Sevenlanders to begin with, and though Alton had shown him that he didn’t have that particular prejudice, wizards were feared and sometimes hated all over Alderak. There were, in fact, Eastern wizards who were trained in Lesmira at Tauravon. Tauravon was the most wizard-friendly city in all of Alderak, but most of Alderak was afraid of Lesmira. Their close relationship with the Conclave in Ishamael caused most people to hate and fear them also, though not nearly as much as the Sevenlanders.
The enmity that the Conclave of Wizards had earned during the Second Great War had never worn off here, and Dormael grudgingly admitted that it was understandable. Whole armies destroyed with magic, thousands of men and women dead at the hands of Conclave wizards, and no one with the power to stop it. It had been the backlash to the Dannon Army’s burning of Orm, a holy Sevenlander temple that had stood for centuries. It was the first and last time that magic was ever used in war. Even though the Conclave had used magic to help rebuild cities and put things right all over the east, the damage had been done, and in most minds of the easterners, the Sevenlanders were all savage murderers.
Dormael being a Sevenlander, Alton may be able to deal with, but he wasn’t ready to tell Alton yet that he was a Wizard of the Conclave. So, every story that Dormael had that contained the use of magic, which were most, was glossed over or lied about completely. Dormael hated it, but it was necessary.
“So,” Alton mused, “You mean to tell me that your brother is Champion of the Gladiator’s Ring in Tept?”
“Yes,” Dormael replied. That much, at least, was true.
Laughter issued up from Alton’s belly, and Alton took his pipe from his mouth and held his stomach against his mirth. Dormael looked at him, momentarily dumbfounded by this unexpected reaction, and then began to laugh quietly with him.
“Come now, Dormael,” chuckled Alton disbelievingly, “that’s a likely story. Ah well, if you don’t want to say where you came by that guitar, for whatever reason, that’s fine with me.” Dormael laughed lightly at Alton’s reaction, the tension leaving his body slowly, and made his last move on the board.
“Checkmate,” Dormael said cheerfully, reclining back in his chair. Alton’s laughing stopped abruptly as he surveyed the chessboard, examining it to see if there was some way he could save his doomed king.
“Evmir’s Hammer,” he cursed quietly, shaking his head, “That’s your second win tonight.”
“One does what one can,” said Dormael, smiling and inclining his head. At this comment there was a slight knock at the door, and a young blonde maid poked her head through the hallway door and bowed slightly at the neck.
“There is someone at the gate, My Lord,” she said, shooting Dormael a sideways glance, “he says you are expecting him. His name is Jenn.”
“D’Jenn,” corrected Dormael politely, “he is my cousin.”
“My Lord?” asked the young lady, turning back to Alton.
“Show him in, Lyssa. Nan should have prepared him a room. She will know where to put him. When you’ve shown him to his room bring us up three tankards of ale,” replied Alton then he stood from his chair and turned in search of an ash tray to empty the bowl of his pipe.
“As My Lord wishes,” replied Lyssa, curtsying. On her way out, she flashed Dormael a smile and a quick wink which he returned with a smile of his own and then she was out the door quickly. Alton turned just in time to see this little exchange, and then fixed Dormael with a quick glance, and watched Lyssa walk back down the hall.
“Did you…with Lyssa?” asked Alton, peering incredulously after Lyssa as she left and turning to Dormael with a questioning expression and a thumb jabbed in the direction of Lyssa’s retreating back.
“Her? No,” replied Dormael, making a dismissing gesture with his hand and standing up next to Alton.
“You’re sure?”
“Well, not yet,” smiled Dormael, winking conspiratorially at Alton. Alton shook his head, laughing under his breath at the Sevenlander’s antics.
“You know, there’s just something improper about you playing around with my servants,” said Alton.
“Is she your sister? Cousin, maybe?” asked Dormael, pretending to be scandalized.
“Well, no Dormael. She’s just a maid.”
“Then according to Sevenlander customs, there’s nothing improper at all about it. Have you…played…around with her?” Dormael poked at Alton.
“Absolutely not!”
“You should…its quite fun.”
“But I thought you said you didn’t…you know…”
“I haven’t. Well…we’ve necked around a bit, you know. But we haven’t gotten that far. Yet,” Dormael said sneakily.
Alton just shook his head at him, and tapped the remains of his pipe bowl into the ash tray and offered it to Dormael. He couldn’t help but smile when Dormael laughed and clapped him on the back, taking the ash tray to empty his own pipe bowl. Together, they waited there for D’Jenn to be settled and brought up to them to share a tankard.
After about fifteen minutes, D’Jenn’s tired and road-worn form stepped through the threshold into the study. Without looking at Dormael, he turned purposefully to Alton and fixed his bright blue eyes on his face. He planted his right fist over his heart, and bowed to Alton in the same formal greeting he had offered Dormael earlier that morning. Alton duplicated the movement awkwardly, and then smiled at D’Jenn, shrugging his ignorance of the custom.
“Well, Dormael here greeted me the same way when we first met, but as of yet he has not explained this Sevenlander custom to me. Alton Dersham, of House Dersham at your service,” Alton greeted D’Jenn.
“D’Jenn Pike,” replied D’Jenn, the air of formality leaving his body as he now finally turned and took his cousin’s outstretched hand in friendship. “I would think he would have told you what it meant, but no matter. I will explain if you want to know.” At this point Lyssa returned with three frothy tankards of golden ale, and curtsying to Alton, turned and left the room. “Now that’s a proper greeting,” smiled D’Jenn, who looked parched, “cheers!”
“Cheers!” Alton and Dormael replied, and the three men took long drinks from the tankards. Alton took his own comfortable chair, and offered the now empty chair he had occupied earlier to D’Jenn.
“The bow,” began D’Jenn, “is used for strangers meeting each other for the first time, or for people meeting each other after a long absence. The right hand is considered the hand of violence in our homeland, and placing it just so,” he demonstrated the gesture he had made earlier, balling his fist over his own heart, “demonstrates that you mean the other person no harm or ill will, and that you mean to restrain yourself from doing any violence to them, at least for this meeting. There are of course other greetings for close family or even greetings for enemies. If you ever meet a Sevenlander who does not offer you this bow when you meet him, it means that you cannot trust him. He probably means to do you violence or steal something from you and is hoping your ignorance of our customs will disguise his true intentions. On that note, if you ever meet a Sevenlander who bows with his arms outstretched, or gives you an enthusiastic hug the first time, he probably finds you attractive and wants to invite you into his bed.”
At this, Dormael choked on a bit of ale he had been drinking, and spluttered it onto the floor as he began to laugh. D’Jenn just smiled wryly and took another long pull from his tankard. Alton, though momentarily taken aback by this sudden humor on the tail of a long and serious explanation, laughed heartily and shook his head.
“I should’ve known you would share your cousin’s gift for a quick wit,�
�� Alton said, inclining his head to D’Jenn.
“Pardon my cousin, My Lord,” Dormael jibbed sarcastically, “he knows not thy saintly disposition and incredible awe-inspiring nobility. Shall you have him flogged?”
“Will you throw something at him, D’Jenn?” Alton said, exasperatedly.
“Over the years I’ve learned to tune him out,” D’Jenn said jokingly, “many long days and nights on the road with him have numbed me to his little sarcasms.” The three of them shared a good-natured laugh, and continued to drink for a few moments in silence as the tension leaked out of D’Jenn’s body and Alton grew more accustomed to him.
“So,” Dormael said, smiling at Alton, “Two savages in your house, and in the same day I must add. What will the neighbors say? I hope we don’t start any inconvenient rumors for you.”
“Undoubtedly you will, but it’s no matter what that goat-kissing lot has to say anyway. I don’t place too much importance on them,” Alton replied, making a rude gesture out the window.
“Did you see the young blonde serving girl on your way in, coz?” asked Dormael conversationally.
“Aye, pretty one. Tell me you haven’t had time to get up her skirts already,” D’Jenn said. He shook his head at Dormael’s answering wink and took another drink. “You always were one to dandy the girls a bit Dormael. One day that’s going to come back and bite you. Or stab you or get you beat up by a small army of older brothers looking to avenge their sisters’ besmirched honor.”
“Well, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think, coz? I mean, I don’t leave them any children or anything. It’s just a bit of fun, that’s all,” Dormael implored, only half sarcastic this time. D’Jenn just shook his head and grinned at his cousin, and the conversation turned to more serious matters.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 4