“Really,” Tarion mused on the strange story of Hera Vora and the gaps in her family’s flight from the West. “Not that it’s any of my business, but I ran into a wondrous she-dragon the other day. She lives in an old castle only a few hours north of here.”
“Hera Vora, yes that is in actuality my sister Katherine, although she barely remembers that now. She was with our mother when Ostheim fell. Both were powerful druids, but Katherine survived by shape shifting into dragon form. Alas, there are times when spells take on the form of curses—this is one of those times.” He leaned over the counter, whispering to Tarion, “I need not ask the Praetorian to keep this secret. Queen Navernya has a long memory!”
“Not to worry,” Tarion said, “I understand what it’s like to have devils, demons and Destructor’s after you!”
“I imagine you would,” Alexandrus said. Then he motioned to the wares in his shop. “That is precisely why I opened this place. After the fall of Ostheim, I lost my keep in the north and my sister lost her lands. We sought refuge here, but adventuring has lost its spice, so to speak, so I settled here where I could study and teach at the academy.”
“You deal with adventurers then?”
“Every day,” Alexandrus replied.
“You wouldn’t know where I could have Gaurnothax made into a brigandine, would you?” Tarion said as he inspected the weapons rack with Alexandrus in tow.
The wizard answered quickly. “Jor is the man you need. He’s a gifted man with weapons and armor. He wasn’t always a smith. Once he traveled like you or me, so he knows the practical side of it, not just the art. I would be happy to supply some protection spells to it, for an appropriate fee of course.”
“That is perfectly understandable, I will leave it to you—” he stopped quite suddenly, because a gold leaf frame caught his eye. A glass plate protected the stained yellow parchment within. The red ink showed like dim fire. The words were radiant, damning and prophetic.
“Ragnarok, the fall of the Gods and the end of the world was to occur long ago. Yet the God Tyr took the doom onto himself and adjourned the cataclysm. The world is old, older than it was meant to be by the Father. He is impatient and drives all toward conclusion. So shall the Gods return and Tyr as well, for he is Ragnarok. Alas, Tyr has fallen into shadow, yet a splinter of light remains in the spirit of the Enduring Knight that once he was. Together they are the Twain. The struggle of Tyr the eternal and Tyr the mortal will decide Ragnarok. The eternal shall know mortal suffering and the mortal shall be eternal until the culmination. Three ages shall be set for culmination: a sword age, a wolf age and a storm age. At its conclusion, each age shall host a contest for dominion. That contest will decide whether the world will fall into eternal dominion or mortal rebirth. That fate is for the Twain to decide. For Ragnarok is their destiny.”
It struck Tarion physically and involuntarily, he asked, “What is this?”
Alexandrus smiled, and told him, “This is the Tenet of Plutarch the Seer, the original! Do you see the stain of wine on the parchment? Well, almost two thousand years ago Plutarch penned this as a wedding present for the elves Ancenar and Davanis.”
“I know Ancenar,” Tarion said. “We are ancient, ancient friends.”
“Plutarch was one of the mortal guests and proclaimed this prophecy to any that would listen. He presented it to Ancenar, a lore master of such things, but King Alfrodel thought it outrageous to stain an elven wedding so. He poured wine over the prophecy in contempt. At that moment the Godstar fell and the Gods fled hither.”
Tarion closed his eyes, remembering the sting of the Alfrodel’s arrogant act from the elves own memories. He smiled grimly and said, “For many years Alfrodel festered over that audience. But he never admitted its veracity until the last—when he too became a tool of prophecy, but not its instrument.”
“You are well versed in the tales of Ragnarok, Tarion. You have a rare grasp of history; it’s no wonder at the son of Tarius!”
“No, it is to be expected of such a far travelled adventurer and my husband,” said a female voice. Tarion turned in surprise and saw a tall flaxen haired woman of extremely pale complexion. While he wouldn’t call her beautiful, he could easily call her noble and above all haughty. She wore a cloak of bluish gray with richly embroidered silver gilt edging. A slim band of silver bound her hair. In its center was a blue stone of unusual brilliance. Tarion would have noticed her without any prodding because of her extraordinary appearance, but as she claimed to be married to him—Tarion of all people with his history of rejection—that made the encounter even more intriguing.
Then there was the revelation of Beath’s crystal ball; Rowena had something to do with the Horn of Heimdall. That was enough for Tarion to hold his tongue and find out what this was about.
“Rowena, I didn’t know you were in Trondheim!” Alexandrus exclaimed, his eyes wide with alarm.
Tarion smiled thinly, she would expect him to be suspicious of any claim of marriage. “I’m sorry, but I think Lady Freya would have warned me about you,” he smiled thinly. “She’s interrupted all of my other engagements; I don’t think she would overlook you.”
“Oh, so it’s the Lady Freya story again?” she laughed. Her expression turned sad. She shook her head. “My dear, don’t you realize how absurd it is to think that a Goddess would interfere with your nuptials? The next thing you know, you’ll be telling me you’re the Praetorian of Roma!” Her laugh grew louder.
Tarion dug into his tunic and glanced at his medallion. That made everything as clear as day to him. There it was, the Praetorian seal, but there was a sheen covering the medallion that made it look quite different. It was as if someone placed a stained glass window in front of the statue hoping that a person might not notice the statue behind. Tarion was well versed in magic—especially how it could be used against him. He saw through the ruse, but he was now curious. Who was Rowena? Was the Destructor behind her or someone else? He sighed, muttering, “Now isn’t that strange; I thought for certain this was the Praetorian seal, but it’s . . .”
“It’s alright luv,” she said softly, laying a long fingered hand on his shoulder. There was a ring for every finger and bracelets on her wrist. She jingled when she moved. He glanced up at her in false confusion. Her eyes sparkled and Tarion could feel the words sink into his mind. “Have you had one of your spells again?”
“One of my spells; what do you mean?”
“It’s all right. Come home with me. You must be weary with adventure from all I’ve heard. I’ll make things right for you. Come home with me!”
She spoke the last phrase so firmly that her eyes sparkled again.
It was a command and Tarion recognized the nature of it immediately. It assaulted his mind much more insidiously than the attack of the Idjar or dragonspell, but it was an assault, nonetheless. Still, Tarion turned to Alexandrus and said, “Excuse me; it seems I’m done shopping for the day.” He laid a handful of gold coins on the table. “Hold that parchment for me—I’ll be back for it.”
“Very well, Tarion,” Alexandrus said and he started to say something else, but a sharp glance from Rowena stopped him. She smiled coldly, took Tarion’s arm and walked him out of the shop.
#
When they were gone, Alexandrus shook his head and turned to Baer with a sigh. “I always told her that one day she’d run across her better,” he said. “Students never listen to their teachers until it’s too late. I hope she survives this lesson!”
Chapter 2 8: Everything Changes
Tarion allowed Rowena to lead him through the streets to the academy. The school itself was a haphazard array of halls, courts, dormitories and towers; but at the center was the original keep, now well repaired. Rowena led him into the lower level of the keep that now served as the entry hall. There were many students and faculty present, but they parted to allow Rowena through. Not a single wizard or witch dared to ask her business; her presence was that dominant.
Rowena took
Tarion down a long winding stair and led him through several passages before finally entering a catacomb. In answer to his obvious query, she laughed.
“I am taking you home, of course! Oh, don’t fret! This isn’t the first time you’ve gone forgetful on me. Adventuring has its dangers to be certain, but ever since your encounter with the Jin of Abakan, you’ve had this memory problem. Don’t worry, it always returns under my tender care!” She took out her wand and uttered a word of command. The tip began to glow, giving sufficient light for them to pass into the catacombs.
“This seems rather superfluous for a school.”
“You’ve said that before. It’s interesting that you should have the same observation almost every time we come through here.” She turned left and then right, passed down another stair and crossed a wide hall filled with tables, chairs and bookcases—dark and deserted. “These are the catacombs of the castle. They extend well beyond the walls and into the hillside. Come, we’re almost home.”
“We don’t live down here, certainly!”
“Of course not, our home is in Grosthammr, but my gate is here,” she said. At the far end of the hall was a locked door. She opened it and they entered a long straight corridor. Dripping brick lined the interior. There were torches set in brackets every twenty feet or so along the wall. With a simple wave of her wand, Rowena lit the torches.
The flickering red light showed many empty arches upon either side, but Rowena passed a score of them before taking a left hand door. It led into a small nondescript chamber easily illuminated by her wand. The walls were smooth and wet with moisture. Rowena approached the far wall and passed her hand over its surface. A dim door formed. She beckoned Tarion and he followed her through.
There was a rushing in Tarion’s ears and it took him a moment to realize it was the sea. He was in a gray stone room bright with the winter sun. Light streamed through the tall windows revealing a sparkling wind-whipped sea. Tarion walked to the windows and peered out. To the west was a broad delta. A small village nestled on the banks of a river emptying into the sea.
“Yes, it’s a pretty sight; it must be the more so for you getting to see it for the first time every few months,” Rowena sighed, motioning him to follow her.
Tarion smiled mirthlessly, not believing a word of it. There was nothing specific in his doubt, but Rowena was not a good actress and her explanation was far too convenient for his liking. That alone would have been enough to prod his suspicions, but considering his past few days, it wasn’t so great an intuitive leap.
“So what do you usually do when I have one of my spells?” he asked innocently, looking around the room. He noted the door they came through. It had dozens of runes set about its stone trim. The rune for “T” was still glowing.
“I have any number of memory charms that usually work,” she answered evenly, leading him on through the castle. “When it’s a particularly bad time, we have to use a time portal, a gate to the previous day. You lose the experiences of the former day, but that has yet to fail.”
“It is an interesting affliction,” he said, going over her form with an exacting eye and looking for clues to reveal her motives. Rowena was perhaps thirty, lithe in frame and handsome. She was not especially beautiful in face or carriage but that was largely because she didn’t present herself in that manner. An expression of concentration permanently knit her brow over a pair of hard blue eyes, as if she looked for secrets, not pleasure. Her walk, while completely feminine, was aggressive and forceful. He could see himself admiring such a woman and respecting her, but, as far as attraction, there was no possibility whatsoever.
Rowena took him several levels below the gate. The rooms were well furnished, even elegant in an unsettling manner, but the last chamber they entered was strictly utilitarian. It was a large hall with a high ceiling supported by enormous timbers. Along the walls were shelf upon shelf of books and scrolls, instruments, bottles and everything else a well-to-do witch would have in her workroom. Tarion counted half a dozen cauldrons going at once. Each one had its own table with the requisite books, ingredients and scrolls for the particular activity.
“You keep yourself busy it seems,” Tarion mentioned. “How was it again that you heard I was in Trondheim?”
She gave him a sour glance, as if this were not the first time she had to deal with these suspicions. “Gaurnothax was the big clue, luv and not much mystery there. You know many other adventurers who go about strangling dragons?”
“Is that what I do?”
“That’s what you’ve always done, luv, in every incarnation I know about.”
“Every incarnation, what on Midgard do you mean by that?”
She gave him an almost human glance, as if she were amused—Tarion couldn’t tell whether she was amused with her own skill or his predicament.
“Luv, you’ve been through Limbo so many times Lord Death has given up on you.” She pulled a scroll out of its niche. The scroll rack itself was a wonder of organization and very telling of Rowena and her motives. Each of the hundreds of parchments was set in a shelf beneath the rune of a particular spell, incantation or charm. “You’ve worked for Gods, Kings, Praetorians, farmers, ladies—even a certain Destructor. You’ve made more gold than you could possibly spend, done deeds that draw the envy of the Gods and absconded with some curious things that you should never have been privy to; this is the result of one of the lesser items. Now where is that new scroll I made? Ah, here it is.”
For some of the spells there were dozens of scrolls ready-made, as if it were an oft-used recipe, but the scroll Rowena pulled for Tarion was the only one of its kind and there were no spaces for more.
“Have a seat, luv, over there in the comfy chair. This should only take a moment and we’ll have you back to your old self again.”
Tarion followed her directions, but only out of curiosity. With the pathological organization of the room, it was impossible that Rowena should have to look for her scroll—especially one she used so often. He was still more interested than concerned. He couldn’t identify the reason for his calm and passive manner. Was it confidence or something more subtle and less wholesome? He relaxed and allowed his senses to search for nothing in particular—except anything peculiar.
He noticed that the droning of the sea was still in his ears, yet they were now far beyond the sounds of wave and wind. It washed upon his mind like the soothing beat of the sea swell rhythmically caressing his psyche. The sound was like a wisp of fog, but once he knew it was there, he could seize it and dissect the words. There they were faint and hard to hear, but he caught them, nonetheless: “Follow me, trust me, believe in me and obey me.” She repeated them over and over again under her breath and even between the words of her conversation, so that he was never without them. Their intent was plain even if her purpose was not. Tarion smiled, stretching out in the chair; he was happy to have found something that made his suspicions tangible.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“I believe so,” he said.
“Good. Empty your mind and listen to my words.”
Tarion closed his eyes, supremely aware of all about him. She began the incantation. It was short but extraordinarily complicated, as if there were many twists and turns to it. Her voice rose and fell with the power of her spell. It struck him as very strange for a simple memory charm. He felt a great wave of energy rushing toward him and to his mind’s eye, he saw himself standing on the walls of a mighty fortress—the fortress of his will. In the distance, across a green alpine landscape, a mighty wall of water swept toward his bastion. He watched with fascination as the tsunami broke upon his walls and swept around his fortress. The water sucked at the foundations of his will. It probed for any weakness, but there were no breeches in his defenses. The only noticeable affect was the swirling of the air around him; it tried to suck him over the walls. That gave away the intent of the attack. It was subtle and not what he expected. In actuality, Rowena had already accomplished what s
he wished. He looked out to the flood beyond his walls and saw a vortex form. Slowly it approached his walls.
Tarion’s eyes snapped open and he saw the gate forming in front of him—black like oil, with flames licking at the borders—just the same as Loki’s gate. Tendrils of flame already surrounded him, holding him, pulling him toward the gate. The chair scraped across the floor. He sprang up and out of the way. The chair disappeared into the vortex. Rowena glared at him and turned the portal toward him.
Angry now, Tarion came after her.
“Where is it you were trying to send me, Rowena?”
The witch looked indecisive. She could not control the gate and face Tarion at the same time. Tarion’s advance settled the matter. She let go of the gate and it stopped, hanging there in the acrid air, pulsing with light and shadow. Her wand moved with a speed too swift for the eye to follow and pulses of color flashed before Tarion’s eyes.
Tarion rushed through the cloud. Hungry tentacles of electricity reached out for him, but his flesh tingled where she intended it should burn and he burst through with no ill effect. Rowena was difficult to see through the cloud, but he saw her all the same. He leapt after her and clutched at her robes. She gave a cry as he grabbed a handful of cloth and she shouted a command: “Draconis Incinerus!”
Rowena was gone and in her place was the intimidating form of a red dragon. It seemed terribly real, or so she intended it to look. Yet to Tarion’s trained eyes, the dragon, although perfect to the last detail, was slightly transparent.
Beneath the façade, Rowena was still visible in her mortal shape, miming the actions of her perceived beast. She opened her finely made lips, as if to breathe and the dragon breathed. Knowing the illusion for what it was, Tarion strode forward and ignored the flames. She bit at him. As her dragon’s head rushed down upon him, Tarion reached up and caught the jaws in mid gape. He held them fast and Rowena came to a sudden halt.
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