They passed a patch of dirt sculpted into the form of a bear. Emaciated, brown stalks stood in a line, each bowed to the ground by a single, plump, orange fruit. But the significance of the magical harvest was lost on Larson. Open a place for her. What does that mean? Gaelinar believes we have to find a person of "Silme's means and bent willing to take her place in Hel. " But just how like Silme must her alternate be?
Oblivious to Larson's concerns, Ketel led his visitors through a stone archway. The view beyond jolted Larson from his thoughts. A two-story building lay before them, stately as an ancient castle. Cut blocks of white granite formed each wall. A portico set off the arched doorway.
A single, crenelated tower rose from the center of the ceiling. A sculpted dragon, lifelike in its clarity, curled about the base of the tower. Fangs jutted from its open mouth. Its tail hung over the building to merge with the stonework of the colonnade.
Larson stared in slack-mouthed awe. Since his arrival in Old Scandinavia, he had seen no architecture more complicated than an ivy-covered, decaying temple and the granite wall around the Dragonrank grounds. Yet this structure appeared flawless. Though smaller, it stood as grand as any palace in his own school textbooks. A pair of sentries, dressed like the spearmen at Larson's back, stood motionless as carvings before the wooden door.
Ketel brought Larson and Gaelinar directly to the portal. Without a word, one of the guardsmen opened the panel, and the three passed through into a hallway more splendid than the outside of the building. Shelves lined every wall, garishly covered with figurines of glass or pewter interrupted by stretches of leather-covered books. Between the shelves stood mute sentries, each with a spear and sword and a matched twin against the opposite wall. Lush, crimson carpet lined the parquet floor, and gold filigree wound like veins through the polished walls.
Gaelinar snorted and tossed a whispered comment to Larson. "Karrold's gaudy toys would make those spears unusable. Every guard's strike or dodge would cost fortunes of gold in trinkets."
Larson made no reply, too struck with the splendor to concern himself with a violence which would surely never occur. Only a fool would challenge a Dragonrank master on his own territory.
Ketel wandered through a maze of gilded hallways then stopped before a double set of doors emblazoned with the claw symbol of the Dragonrank mages. He tapped the rightmost panel with the bronze-rimmed base of his staff.
The door opened silently on oiled hinges. The room beyond contained so many books, Larson felt uncertain whether there were walls behind the shelves. The lower spine of each volume sported a tiny, white square of paper. For an instant, Larson thought he read an Arabic numerical figure on every tag. Then, distance blurred them to obscurity, and larger concerns drew his attention. A half dozen guardsmen stood, evenly spaced, around the room. They wore black tabards over their mail, emblazoned with the claw symbol stitched in crimson. Six pairs of blue eyes settled on Gaelinar and Larson, each man appearing grimly capable.
Beyond the soldiers, another man studied a tome opened on a table of pine and ivory. He appeared gaunt with age. The paper-thin skin of his hands revealed a network of veins. Folds of wrinkled flesh peeked from beneath a collar of scarlet brocade. White hair spilled to his neck, and long sideburns joined a stiff, silver beard. A dragonstaff leaned against one bookshelf; a diamond glimmered between its claws.
The sentry closest to the doorway rattled titles in a practiced monotone. "Introduce yourselves before Lord High Karrold, archmaster of the Dragonrank school, summoner of dragons, commander of the winds, controller of fire, sovereign over all magics of the earth, highest of all Dragonmages and most feared of the nine worlds' two diamond-rank sorcerers."
Tough act to follow. Larson watched Gaelinar for clues to the proper etiquette.
Without so much as a respectful nod, Gaelinar strode toward the schoolmaster. The guards' hands swept to their sword hilts. They closed on the Kensei, but he seemed oblivious. "Lord Karrold, I think you might wish to amend your title."
The elder glanced up from his book, his angular features lost beneath a mass of aged creases. His countenance echoed none of his guards' concern. "And why is that?"
"Was the other diamond-rank mage an evil-tempered, half-human creature called Bramin?''
Karrold's wrinkles deepened. "Some might describe him that way."
"He's dead now. I suppose that makes you the most feared of the nine worlds' only diamond-rank sorcerers."
Larson winced, afraid Gaelinar might add some comment like "hardly a distinctive title anymore." He swiveled his attention from the eager guardsmen to the book shelves. Though still unreadable, the ink strokes on the spine tags seemed unsettlingly akin to Library of Congress call numbers.
"Ah." Karrold considered. "I suspected as much. That would explain why my tracking spells failed. I couldn't be sure. A Master can find ways around any magic, and Bramin often eluded me when engaged in his crudest deeds." Briskly, he returned to the matter at hand. "Who are you, soldier?"
"I am Kensei Gaelinar, and Lord Allerum is my student."
Karrold's gaze swept casually across the strangers. He squinted his watery, pale eyes and regarded Larson more carefully. "You're an elf."
And Gaelinar berates me for speaking the self-evident. Larson saw no reason to reply. But the schoolmaster seemed to expect a response, and Larson did not wish to antagonize him. "Yes," he said simply.
The schoolmaster fingered his beard, studying Larson for several seconds. Reluctantly, he returned his attention to Gaelinar. "And how do you know of Bramin's death?"
"We killed him."
Karrold's eyes shot wide open. He recovered his composure instantly, but a quaver in his ancient voice betrayed the discomfort he otherwise hid. "How did you accomplish such a thing?''
"Purer spirit and a more focused intent," Gaelinar explained blandly.
Larson wondered how much of the Kensei's reply had been spoken for his benefit.
Gaelinar continued. "We didn't come to speak of Bramin. He's not worthy of our time or effort. But Silme linked her soul to Bramin's and lost her life with his."
Sudden grief formed a knot in Larson's throat. He fought off remembrance of the battle before Hvergelmir's falls, but Silme's dying scream pierced his memory like a knife. His hands trembled. He lowered his head and clenched a clammy fist to his forehead. Dizziness enfolded his consciousness, driving him with the mystical force of the flashbacks he had thought conquered. Fearing for his sanity, he fixed his gaze on one of the guards with fanatical intensity. Reality sharpened into focus, and the roar of the waterfall became the fragile voice of the Dragonrank schoolmaster.
"… miracles even I cannot perform. I have no enchantments to raise the dead."
Gaelinar addressed Karrold, but his golden eyes probed Larson's questioningly. "We don't need your magic. We need only a mage who serves law. One of similar rank to Silme and willing to give his life for hers."
Karrold's face went as grim as his soldiers'. "You're asking my permission to kill one of my students? Are you mad?"
Gaelinar's rejoinder was an open challenge. "If we wished to slay one by force, we would have done so already."
Larson broke in, still feeling ill. "Can't you ask? Silme gave her life to rescue Midgard from utter destruction. Perhaps someone might be willing to sacrifice their life for her. I know I would if it was within my power." Now, standing before the Dragonrank schoolmaster, the suggestion seemed ludicrous. But we have to try.
Karrold knotted his gnarled fingers on the desktop. "Last I heard, there was only one diamond-rank, two sapphire, three emerald, and five jacinth. Of those, less than half still attend the school. Some serve gods or kings, some law, some chaos. But most serve only their own interests. I'm sorry. I cannot help you." He turned his attention back to his book, apparently considering the conversation finished.
Gaelinar did not change position, yet his attitude suddenly became deadly alert. "So be it, schoolmaster. We came peacefully, seeking
a willing replacement for Silme. You have denied us the simple courtesy of asking, but we will not be stayed. You leave us no choice but to slay every high ranking sorcerer we can find until we discover Silme's equal.''
The guardsmen's spears dropped to a rigid circle. Karrold's fist crashed against the table. "Fool! You'll never leave this room alive!"
Larson's nerves drew tight as bowstrings. He coiled up, prepared to dive beneath the readied spears.
Aside from a finger which tapped the katana's sheath, Gaelinar seemed unimpressed with the sentries' display. He met the sorcerer's query with sullen silence.
From the doorway, Ketel's voice broke the ensuing hush. "Master Karrold, may I speak now?"
The schoolmaster sat with hands tensely bridged. His gaze remained on Gaelinar, and he nodded his head curtly.
Ketel coughed nervously and continued. "I owe my life and my ruby to Silme. If I thought my rank high enough, I might give my life for her. Others may be equally grateful. If you would grant the Kensei and his student time within the grounds to speak with my peers, I will take full responsibility for their actions."
Larson held his breath.
Anxious murmurs broke out among the sentries, swiftly silenced by Karrold's glare. "Very well." The schoolmaster addressed Ketel, but his words were obviously intended for Gaelinar. "But if they take a single, unwilling life, they will have to deal with me and the entire school. And I want them gone by nightfall."
As one, the spear butts slapped to the tiled floor.
Gaelinar whirled and followed Ketel back into the hallway.
Karrold called after them. "Ketel?"
The ruby-rank sorcerer turned.
"Don't let me regret my decision."
Ketel mumbled. "Yes, master." He shuffled down the gaudy corridor.
Larson felt obligated to say something. "Good day." He used a friendly tone; but after the tension which had nearly turned to violence, his words sounded like a mockery. He trotted behind Ketel and Gaelinar, relaxing only after they stepped out the main door and into the afternoon sunlight.
As they threaded through the gardens outside Karrold's holding, Larson caught Ketel's arm. "Thank you."
Ketel shook free of Larson's grip. "Please. I didn't do it for you. I did it for Silme." He cocked his head toward Larson as he walked. "After years of competition, most of our higher rank mages become reclusive or actively hostile. Some dedicate their lives to destroying other Dragonrank." He added as an afterthought, "Outside the school, of course."
Ketel led Larson and Gaelinar around a bed of multi-hued flowers. "Silme wasn't like that. She was unexcelled as a teacher, always willing to give lower rank mages the benefits of her labors and mistakes. It comes as no surprise she died for Midgard's innocents. She left the school expecting such a fate."
Larson changed the subject, avoiding his aching memories of Silme's death. "Where are you taking us?"
Ketel marched around a line of fountains. "There is a sapphire-rank sorceress who owes Silme more than any other."
Hope spiraled through Larson. "Who is she?"
"Her name is Bengta. Her dragonmark appeared when she was in her mid twenties. When ten-year-old Silme arrived a decade later, Bengta had made garnet-rank." Ketel waved to a pair of men on a stone bench as they passed. "Shy and timid, Bengta caused a stir among the higher ranking mages. Here, promotion is achieved by boldness; a sorcerer reckless enough to practice spells until his life aura is nearly drained either dies or advances quickly. Only one sorcerer can advance to garnet each year, and there was concern that Bengta had been chosen over jade-ranks more committed and deserving."
Ketel paused to unlatch a gate. He, Larson, and Gaelinar filed through it, onto a dirt and gravel street between the dwellings. "As gossip and contempt ran rampant, Bengta became despondent. She spent less time working spells and more time mumbling about leaving. Then came her apprentice, Silme." A strange smile curled Ketel's lips. "Silme and her brother advanced through the ranks as if magic had been created for them. At first, we blamed youthful exuberance. We thought they were too ignorant of death to fear it; surely they would both die as children. But as they climbed the mountain of success, leaving most of us behind, there was no doubt they had an unusually fine grasp of their own limits."
Ketel stopped to lean against a blocked archway into another garden. "Silme's enthusiasm inspired Bengta.
They became as close as mother and daughter. Though, sometimes, it was difficult to tell who was which. Bengta had age and maturity, Silme knowledge and ability. They shared freely with each other. Bengta owes her rank to Silme. And I have yet to meet a mother unwilling to sacrifice her life for her only child."
Excitement thrilled through Larson, but a vague queas-iness accompanied it. Something felt wrong.
Gaelinar worked a cramp from his hand. "Where can we find her?"
Ketel waggled his finger toward the arched entryway then stepped through it. Suddenly, a loud crack echoed between the walls. Light flared, bathing the garden an eerie blue. Instinctively, Larson backpedaled behind the wall and dropped to his stomach.
Several seconds passed in silence.
"Lord Allerum?" Ketel sounded more curious than concerned.
Larson rose to a crouch, hugged the wall stones, and peeked through the archway. Around Gaelinar and Ketel's legs, he saw symmetrical beds of flowers, each giant petal a deep, natural indigo. At the farthest end, seated on a wooden bench, an elderly woman regarded them quizzically. She clasped a sapphire dragonstaff between her knees.
Feeling foolish, Larson sidled up to his companions. "What was that?" He tried to sound casual.
"Warding spell." Ketel raised a hand in welcome to the woman. "Bengta's way of announcing company."
Bengta returned Ketel's greeting.
Larson grumbled. "Sort of a magical doorbell."
Ketel's brow furrowed. "Magical what?" He looked askance at Gaelinar.
More accustomed to Larson's unrecognizable English phrases, Gaelinar shrugged it off. "I don't understand half of what he says." He added scornfully, "In return, he doesn't listen to half of what I say."
Larson rattled off a vulgar American phrase accompanied by a gesture he was glad Gaelinar could not recognize. "Let's get this over with."
Ketel motioned to Larson and Gaelinar to remain, then trotted off to converse with Bengta.
Larson paced like an expectant father. He pictured Silme as she had appeared at their first meeting: her smile mischievous in a face pale as new-fallen snow, her slender curves accentuated by her gray cloak, and gold-white hair glowing in a halo of magics. All the desire he had felt reemerged, strengthened by the love he had come to know over time. But Silme is dead. Somehow, Larson's mind which had come to accept a Scandinavia centuries prior to his birth, magic, swords, and gods could not concede rebirth from death. The concept had reawakened the once conquered madness which had nearly overtaken him in Karrold's palace. Larson harbored no desire to surrender to the conscience-searing flashbacks again.
Ketel returned, his expression somber. "Come with me." He led Larson and Gaelinar to Bengta.
The woman rose as they approached. Despite a rotund figure, she moved with regal grace. Her neatly-coiffed hair was an odd mixture of brown, gold, and gray which shaded sorrowful blue eyes and a grimly-lined visage. She leaned her dragonstaff against the bench and spoke in a resigned soprano. "Ketel has explained your need. I'll do it."
Gaelinar regarded Ketel with arched brows, as if to confirm Bengta's willingness.
Ketel gave a slow nod. "When you leave, make certain you follow the same path. I'll be waiting to escort you from the school grounds." Without explaining further, he turned and shuffled from the garden.
Larson pinched his lips between his fingers. He knew he should feel ecstatic. Silme will live again. But the realization brought only a racking wave of nausea. He tried to read emotion in Bengta's eyes. "Do you understand what you agreed to do?"
The sapphire-rank sorceress av
oided Larson's gaze. "I've traded an elderly life for one younger. I've traced Silme's passage since she left the Dragonrank school. She and the Kensei rescued the world, though the world may never realize it. And you helped, too, lord elf. I would give my life and more for her.''
The woman's words seemed heartfelt, yet Larson felt plagued by restlessness. "You're certain?"
"My life is yours, Kensei. Just let me…"
Her pause seemed unnatural to Larson.
"… go…in my world." Bengta made a sweeping gesture to indicate the garden.
Bengta's use of a euphemism fueled Larson's discomfort. People who have accepted death, as she claims she has, speak freely of it.
Gaelinar's katana skimmed silently from its sheath.
For an instant, Bengta's glance met Larson's. Her eyes went wide with a sheer terror which crashed against Larson's conscience, hurling him violently into the past. He stood in a night gone strangely dark and silent. Wind ruffled the trees, their swish forming a muffled chorus with the creak of concertina wire from the Fire Support Base at his back. His orders echoed like song through his mind. "Anything enters the perimeter, shoot it." Larson let the M-16 in his right hand sag to his side. He dug through a pocket with his left, searching for a cigarette.
A crackling of brush froze him in position. As the sound grew louder and more persistent, Larson eased to a crouch. Quietly, he freed his hand, raised the gun, and switched it to automatic. A lone figure emerged from the brush. Carefully, Larson aimed. Even as his finger tightened on the trigger, a distant flare slashed the darkness. Larson caught a glimpse of a heavily-wrinkled female face.
She had seen him, too. The panic in her eyes was permanently inscribed into Larson's memory. A thousand years of guilt tore through him before his own bullets ripped through her chest and left her, dead and bleeding, on the dirt.
Larson had waited in the sudden, jarring silence, then crept toward the corpse cautiously. Yellow-white, bloodless skin felt thin as ash beneath his fingers. Desperately, he sought a weapon tucked in some fold of flesh or clothing. But he found nothing to justify the woman's death. She was a peasant searching for something: an herb to cure an ill relative, a wandering grandchild. Larson cursed her with every vile word he knew, not realizing in his rage that he was really damning himself.
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