Zedd’aki returned to the dining room after his brief reprieve of meditation, such as it was. As he entered the room, he was surprised at the turn out. In spite of their small numbers, it seemed as though everyone had heard the message and decided to attend to see what was going on. Zedd’aki thought about how pathetic is was that it always takes the death of a friend to get them all into a room together.
Zedd’aki was still standing in the entry when Ja’tar walked up beside him. He leaned over and mumbled, “I’m surprised. Nearly everyone is here.”
Ja’tar kept walking sitting down at the table in his customary spot. He reached for a small loaf of rye bread and a turkey thigh. The meat was steaming and the smell made his mouth water. Gretta, the senior chef had prepared a handsome feast. She had a knack for knowing when and what to prepare.
He smiled to himself. She had been cooking here at the Keep for almost two hundred years, her life extended by the time she spent here. Ja’tar saw her standing at the entrance to the kitchen and nodded in her direction. She briefly smiled and in a flash, was off to fill plates and attend to the rest of the room.
Zedd’aki joined his friend at the table, “Ceremonial robe’s a bit much don’t you think?”
Ja’tar just nodded, the corner of his mouth barely turned up. They ate in relative silence. The rest of the room, however, was bustling with conversation. Most of it revolved around the death of the watcher.
By now, everyone had heard about the incident, and most had stopped by the library to see for themselves. Tar’ac was well known to the Keep. Even though he was known, he kept little company and had few friends. He was consumed by his work. He would be sorely missed, and then again, he would not. Most of the other Mages had stopped by just to find out whom the Keeper was going to assign the task of watcher. It was not a task for which any would volunteer.
Ja’tar kept glancing over his shoulder in the direction of Dra’kor and his closest friends. They were deep in conversation but, as best he could tell, they were just discussing the happenings of the day. Good, he thought, maybe I have a chance of pulling this off.
After dinner, Ja’tar stood up. Putting his fist to his lips, he cleared his throat. As he did so, the room fell quiet. People adjusted their chairs and stools to face the Keeper.
Ja’tar looked out across the faces, familiar faces, all older than several hundred years. Faces he had lived with and studied with for hundreds of years. Too few were left, only a handful of those from the trials. The cabinet at the end of the room was full of mugs of fallen companions.
Ja’tar tried to think of something profound to say about Tar’ac, but in spite of all the years, he couldn’t latch on to a single memory of significance. A tear came to his eye. For hundreds of years they had worked side by side and still… he knew nothing about his friend. He sighed and fumbled with his robe before he reached down, grabbed his goblet and raised it.
In a hoarse voice he said, “To Tar’ac — may he rest in peace.”
The sound of goblets being clanked together and a series of toasts echoed across the room. One-by-one a series of ‘Aye’s’ came from each set of lips as goblets were held high. Once everyone held their goblets aloft, they all pulled them to their lips and drank as one. The room was eerily quiet.
Ja’tar made a quick series of intricate hand motions and a beautiful gold goblet materialized emblazoned with Tar’ac’s face, crest and name. With the sweep of his arm, it slowly floated across the room to the shelves that held the cups of the many other mages who had passed on and came to rest near the end of the hundredth shelf, each of which held a hundred mugs.
“It is time,” said Ja’tar quietly. The entire room stood and faced the newly conjured mug.
One by one the other mages in the room sent their favorite memories of Tar’ac into the chalice. The images played out in front of everyone, surrounding them, before swirling in a tight vortex and rushing into the mug with a bright-multicolored flash of light. Each made a loud bell like tone that resonated across the room as it entered the vessel after which everyone bowed their head.
Most were memories of the everyday, but a few were very personal and some even humorous, eliciting a number of chuckles from the group. Ja’tar found himself smiling at many of the memories. It always amazed him at how many wonderful memories had faded from his thoughts, but remained clear in others.
The ceremony quickly passed, for they were not so many in numbers any more. As each completed the ritual, they sat down, one by one.
As the others all sat, Ja’tar was left standing alone. All eyes were upon him as they waited for him. Ja’tar conjured up his memories of the young lad during his testing. Ja’tar’s visions of the overconfident lad and the jovial, even trivial manner in which Tar’ac took the test to be a watcher streamed past. Tar’ac even made the grueling test appear as child’s play. It all played out for everyone to witness. He released the memory into the cup and the cup rang out for his and for every memory.
Now it was time to speak. Ja’tar thought he had been well prepared, but now that it came time to address everyone, he was nervous. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. He knew he was not a good speaker. He was glad he had on the long ceremonial robe; at least they wouldn’t be able to see his knees shaking. His hands were clammy and he fiddled with them and finally wiped them on the robe as he began to speak.
“T-t-today, we have lost a dear friend. Tar’ac will be missed. His contributions to the Keep as watcher were immeasurable. He has blessed us for over eleven hundred years. We must make sure that his death has meaning.” Ja’tar fumbled for the right words as his voice quaked. “His work is … was … flawless,” he added at the end, not knowing what else to say.
Ja’tar bowed his head. “I am saddened that he died in this manner … it was unfair that he had no possibility of surviving, for there was nothing he really could have done … to prepare better. He could not have known that a single small demon would be able to destroy so much or breach the orb. I think that given the way that he died, we must address the circumstances.” Ja’tar choked out, emphasizing the word ‘must’.
Ja’tar lifted his gaze and saw the looks of confusion on the faces of those surrounding him. Someone toward the back of the room shouted out, “didn’t he lose his ward?”
Ja’tar leaned over, placed his hands on the table to either side of his plate, and slowly shook his head. “No … no, he didn’t. Losing a ward makes you lose your mind, the orb takes over and the body becomes an empty shell, like Brad’ac upstairs.”
There were some blank stares around the room.
“Babel —” corrected Ja’tar, grimacing at his slip-up.
Nods and smiles formed around the room in recognition of the name.
“As I explained, the watcher just ceases to exist, but rarely is it fatal. Tar’ac’s death is different from that. Whatever killed him … killed him — how can I say this —” Ja’tar pondered for a split second. “… through the orb. Yes! Magically, through the orb,” Ja’tar nodded.
Murmurs filled the room and Ja’tar could see people shifting positions in their seats. He overheard the phase ‘through the orb?’ and ‘can that actually happen?’
Ja’tar looked at his friend Zedd’aki as he continued, “We are pretty sure that Tar’ac was killed by a demon of some notable strength. The exact spell used is not known at this time, but it must be very old or we would know of it.”
“How could that be?” came a question from the back.
“I think he must have been watching close to the source of the spell, or he was observing whomever the spell was directed at. Either way, the spell was strong enough to have lethal force through the orb. It even destroyed the Dragonbone chair, melted the rock on the back wall.”
Dra’kor stopped cleaning his nails and his head quickly snapped up. “Spells cannot go through the orb. The Zylliac prevents it. You must be mistaken.”
Zedd’aki started to stand. Ja’tar put his hand
on his friends shoulder and pushed him to his seat. It didn’t stop him from speaking.
“Dra’kor, have you looked at the room?”
“I have, although Ja’tar was quick to clean up all traces of what happened,” Dra’kor accused the Keeper.
Zedd’aki ignored the jab and continued asking Dra’kor, “The melted rock puddle is still there! Did you read the tome, or look into the orb? Replay the scene”
“No, I didn’t.”
Dra’kor had answered nonchalantly as he went back to cleaning his nails.
“Ah! Well, considering that you speak without any knowledge of the event at all, you speak out of ignorance and wishful conjecture. Once again, all bluster and no substance.”
“We aren’t allowed to touch the orbs. You know that,” Dra’kor said.
“Just the same …” Zedd’aki grunted.
Dra’kor put down the small paring knife he was using on his nails and stood up to face Zedd’aki, whose face was already turning red. Dra’kor wasn’t as big as Ja’tar was and not nearly as muscular, but his long black hair, chiseled jaw and trimmed beard made him appear somewhat regal, which he was. He never wore the common white robes of the Keep; he wore the dark blue, gilded robe of his father, a robe of royalty. His father was a King, and not just any King, the king that controlled most of the southern realm known as the Midlands. It was the wealthiest of the five near realms. Dra’kor never let anyone in the Keep forget that he was of noble blood.
While the argument ensued, Ja’tar called over one of the other Mages from a nearby table and whispered in his ear. The Mage nodded and immediately turned around and quickly exited the room. Nobody really paid any attention as Zedd’aki and Dra’kor parried each other.
All that Dra’kor could utter was a pathetic, “Did you?”
Zedd’aki stared right into Dra’kor’s face and whispered. “— Yes. Yes, I did! Moreover, if you had been diligent, had taken the time to investigate, you would not be mouthing off. You would be afraid — very afraid.”
Dra’kor stammered, but managed to grunt, “Ha! Afraid of what, old man?”
“Why, afraid of the demon that’s as big as the Keep,” Zedd’aki spat. “I know I am —”
“Bah!” Dra’kor said, waving him off. “You’re imagining things. I think you have been hitting the tor root again.”
Zedd’aki cringed. Just like Dra’kor to bring up that dark period in his life when he had turned to the tor for comfort. He had not used the root in centuries, but some things are never forgotten.
Chuckles and light laughter filled the room.
Men’ak slowly slid his chair back against the wall, trying not to have it creak or scrape loudly. He didn’t like all this arguing. Nothing ever came of it. As far as he knew, the only thing ever came of arguing was a good lashing. He absently rubbed his fingers across the ridges on his upper shoulder, recalling one of many beatings he had gotten from his father.
His father had been short of temper and had little patience to deal with Men’ak’s ailments and mental slowness. Men’ak bore the brunt of his father’s anger, and in spite of his mother’s attempts to shield him, often found himself on the wrong end of a whip or belt for reasons that were never clear to him. His father’s favorite was the whip he used to motivate the ox team that plowed the fields.
Ja’tar looked into Dra’kor’s eyes in disbelief before scanning the entire assembly. “Didn’t you see the wall, the remains of the chair?”
Not interested in ending the spat, Dra’kor nonchalantly replied, “And so ….”
Other’s stirred and a few nodded their agreement.
“Well, it is clear from the size and placement of the burn marks that the spell came from the orb. Either that or someone in the Keep killed Tar’ac. Either way we have a situation tha —”
Dra’kor interrupted, “Or so you would have us believe …”
Ja’tar spoke up, “What do you believe, Dra’kor? There are only two possibilities, the orb or someone here, unless you think that Tar’ac incinerated himself.”
“Ja’tar. No need to accuse anyone of any wrong doing here…we aren’t your enemies. We —”
“Really?” Ja’tar interrupted, “You’re right … we are not enemies, but you act as if we are! Understand me; it is eminently obvious that death came from the orb. You know it, and I know it. I thought you would be delighted with that. You are forever and a day preaching that we need to be better prepared.”
Dra’kor immediately made a face of disgust. He glanced over his shoulder and spoke to his friends. “Oh, so now you agree with us? All it took was another senseless death among us?”
He nodded and raised his hands out to the side to include a few select friends. There were a few grumbles from the room. Dra’kor moved back to the bench and sat down before turning to face slightly backwards and spoke in a clear hushed tone.
“If my father ran his realm the way you run the Keep, we’d have been stormed by the Norsemen years ago and we’d all be speaking Celt.”
Ja’tar heard the comment and spat back. “Your father is not here and as far as I know, you’ve never had a thing to say in ruling his realm, your brother and his son had that honor.”
Dra’kor growled back, knowing it was true. He was a wizard because as a second son, you had no chance of ruling. Being a mage was his only way to grasp at fame and notoriety.
Men’ak hated confrontation, stood up, walked to the back of the dining room and paced nervously at the rear wall. He was a simple farmer’s son, short, somewhat frail with a scraggly beard that reached to the middle of his chest.
He reached for a slab of meat and knocked over a glass that rolled off the table and exploded in a thousand shards as it hit the stone floor. Dra’kor’s head whipped around and he glowered at the diminutive mage. Men’ak saw his expression and quickly cast his eyes to the floor.
Dra’kor often joked about how much Men’ak ate, because he always seemed to be hungry. Men’ak couldn’t have been much more than eight stones in weight and barely five foot tall, but he consumed twice as much as any other mage in the Keep.
He stood there red-faced holding a hefty slab of roast beef on a fork, prepared for Dra’kor to belittle him in front of everyone. He could tell that Dra’kor was less than amused now, could see it clearly in his eyes. Men’ak had broken his thought and caused the room to lose focus; he had ruined the moment. He winced, knowing he would hear about it later.
Grit motioned harshly for Men’ak to return to the table.
Men’ak shook his head.
Grit glared. Grit could be intimidating; his head was always shaved clean, and clearly displayed the sailor tattoo on the left side, but it was the intensity of his black-eyed glare that made Men’ak act.
Grit mouthed, “Now!”
Men’ak reluctantly decided to join the others, but whispered in Grit’s ear that if it came to fisticuffs, he was running for the halls. Men’ak adjusted his chair adjacent to Grit’s at the long table, but avoided looking him in the face.
Grit was more than a little bit scary; he shaved his entire face, which exposed a deep jagged scar that ran from his eye to his chin. Men’ak just couldn’t understand; why shave off what the gods obviously intended to grow?
Dra’kor had stopped talking mid-sentence, losing his line of reasoning, while he focused on Men’ak. Ja’tar seized the advantage and interrupted.
“I’m just pointing out that you, of all people, should be able to see that there was more at work here than an old man who lowered his guard. The orb doesn’t work that way.” Ja’tar explained loathingly.
One of Dra’kor’s friends, the thin twitchy one called Brag’it yelled out, “So why tell us this now?”
Ja’tar was getting irritated. His hands shook as he pointed a finger in the direction of To’paz’s realm. “B-b-because whatever did this is still out there, we don’t know where and I believe we need to hold a Closing to be sure it doesn’t kill more of us.”
Dra
’kor yelled out as he jumped to his feet. “A Closing? Are you mad?”
Someone in the back of the room blurted out, “Closings are too dangerous. It’s been thousands of years …”
“Not as dangerous as having a beast with the kind of power as this roaming the realms,” countered Ja’tar.
Someone to the side asked, “Can we have a partial closing? Can that be done?”
Rua’tor stood and replied to the group, “As Floormaster, I am not aware of a partial Closing.”
Ja’tar responded, “No, Rua’tor is right, it’s either a full Closing or we rely on the Querd totems. Those are the only choices we have.”
“But why?” someone yelled.
Ja’tar turned red in the face.
“To make sure whatever did this cannot harm others. Can’t you see…?”
Dra’kor mocked Ja’tar, “And what makes you think that whatever did this is still around, waiting for you and your Closing?”
Ja’tar blurted, “The totems should have locked down the realm. The demon should be there. I know it, and you know it. Magic of that size should have triggered the wards near instantaneously. The demon should be trapped … no escape. But —”
“Therefore, the situation is handled. No reason to disrupt everyone for a Closing,” nodded Dra’kor, as he spoke with smug look on his face.
“— But. This demon’s magic is different, old, very old magic. I do not know if the wards and totems will work,” Ja’tar blurted out. “If it doesn’t hold, I’m afraid …”
“We can always wait and see,” Dra’kor calmly stated. “You might be making a big issue out of nothing.”
“So we bury our heads in the sand and ignore the problem? And what …? What happens when the wards dissolve in a few years? We lose more lives?”
Dra’kor maintained his calm demeanor.
“We still have a few years. We can afford to study the situation.”
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 01 - Eyes of the Keep Page 15