Osric surveyed the familiar surroundings, happy to be back for a time. He approached the forge, certain that this was where he needed to be, just as the sky lit with a vibrant display of light.
“Wow!”
Osric looked up to see ‘Happy Birthday Pebble!’ written in colorful blue, red, purple, green, and yellow sparks in the distant sky. He smiled at the soft, youthful voice that had proclaimed its amusement. Pebble’s laughter accompanied his exclamation as the sky lit with several concussions of scattered fireworks to complement the first explosion. Every face on the grounds turned toward the shop, and Osric motioned them all to action. He watched as a few hundred people began to approach from every direction, shouting cheerful greetings to the elusive pup as they advanced.
Already, Osric heard Macgowan greeting Pebble loudly in the midst of the celebration. Osric wanted to round the corner and offer his own words of welcome, but he needed to make sure Gus didn’t chase him off again. Although Gus mostly just wanted his son back, the aged prairie dog’s curiosity about the unique wands Pebble had created was likely to override his desire for family ties. He truly hadn’t meant to terrify Pebble into running away, but Gus desperately wanted answers about how the pup had created his wands, and he wasn’t known for his tactful interrogation techniques. Osric caught sight of Gus perched on Kenneth’s shoulder as the Contege weaved his way through the forming crowd.
Osric rushed over to meet them to assess the mood of the old prairie dog before he spoke to the skittish child. Gus’s scowl indicated his displeasure at the implied mistrust.
“He’s my son,” he murmured under his breath. “I know how to approach him better than you.”
“I’m sure you do, but it is very important that you make this day all about him. We can learn about the wand another day,” Osric replied.
Gus made no motion to indicate that he had heard the words, and for a moment, Osric felt worried that it may all be for nothing. Then he noticed Gus’s paw trembling. He focused his Empath gift on the Wand-Maker and sensed the eager anticipation that was growing, mixed with fear and regret.
Reassured, Osric let Kenneth continue on, and he followed behind the two of them as they quickly approached Macgowan and Pebble, who was excitedly bouncing and clapping. Osric grinned and raised his voice in cheerful welcome as he blended into the crowd, making his way to the front with the others. The moment was all about celebrating a day that had brought someone special into their world. There would be no questions or chastisement, no lecturing the pup for worrying everyone, and no answers to the mysteries of Pebble’s wands—at least not on this day.
A great crowd of happy people pressed in around the small pup, vying to offer their birthday wishes next. Gus waited for every one of them to finish, including Osric, who was the last.
“Happy birthday, Pebble,” Osric said as he ruffled the fur atop the pup’s head.
“Unicorn!” Pebble jumped up into Osric’s arms. “Did you see the sparkles in the air?”
“Yes, I did,” he replied, noticing how much Pebble had grown since they had last played together.
“I got lotsa coins to help.” Pebble shrugged with uncertainty in his voice.
“No doubt you brought us some good coin with those wands of yours, but we can talk about wands and coin some other day.” Pebble’s eyes grew wide with fear, and Osric smiled to reassure him. “Don’t you know that it is against the rules to discuss work at a party? I’ll ask you to teach me some of your craft in a few days.”
“Sounds like fun.” Pebble giggled with relief as he scampered down to the ground.
“Don’t give him too many secrets,” said Gus, his gruff voice penetrating their conversation, causing Pebble to tense up. “You don’t want him stealing ideas from the two greatest Wand-Maker’s on all of Archana.”
“Is that a smile, Gus?” Eublin spoke after peering around a leg in the crowd.
“I’m not sure if you know,” Gus replied, “but it is required that we enjoy ourselves at parties.”
Pebble watched the exchange, standing solidly in place as Gus approached with a limp. Osric watched him closely as the distance closed, amazed to see that his eyes were watery and the smile was genuine. There was no fight in his posture, and Osric could see that it would stay that way, at least for the day.
“Hi, Pa,” Pebble said, his voice barely a whisper.
“Hey, kid. I didn’t mean to scare you off. You should stick around. Heh, get it? Stick around.” Gus scratched at the dirt awkwardly with his paw and stared at the ground. Pebble waited for a moment to see if Gus was actually angry, and Osric sensed the relief wash over the small pup when he realized his dad would not be yelling at him. The tiny ball of fur scampered over to his father and wrapped his small arms around Gus’s belly. Gus sniffled quietly and returned his son’s embrace.
Osric felt a pull from his Portentist gift at the base of his neck and turned to see Serha staring at him from the door of the barracks. She raised her hand for him to follow her as she turned and headed inside.
When Osric stepped inside, he found Serha sitting in a chair just inside the door. With the authority that only comes with age, she motioned Osric to sit beside her on a bench. He took his place next to her, and she studied his face intently.
“How many soldiers do you have within this place?”
“Just over two-hundred. Why?” Osric was caught off guard. He looked into Serha’s hard eyes for answers but sensed nothing but confidence.
“How well are they trained in the new magics you have discovered over the last year?” asked Serha.
“They have been drilled in dual wielding since they joined, and the first books we transferred into visible writing went to them. I dare say that they should know them as well as I do by now.”
“How well would they fare against an army that is much larger?” she asked, pressing him further.
“Well,” Osric pondered the answer. “As a group, they could hold out for a time, depending on the number of opponents they were facing and the land where the battle took place.”
Serha nodded as she listened.
“Individually,” Osric continued, “they are about the same as any group of fighters. Some stand out exceptionally while others are merely competent. But with dual wielding and spoken spells at their command, I would put one of our competent men against almost any of another army’s exceptional men.”
“And what do they call themselves?” asked Serha.
“What?”
“What do the men call themselves as a group?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Osric asked, confused.
“Every winning force that has ever existed has had a name to fight for. I would suspect that means it has a great deal of importance. Wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not sure why it would matter.”
“Come now. You were the Vigile Contege at one point, were you not?” Serha placed her hand on his leg, comforting his nerves.
“Yes.” He nodded.
“Did the Vigile title or the Contege title matter?”
“For my ego. But we are not fighting for pride; we are fighting for our world’s safety,” Osric replied matter-of-factly.
“Are you sure it didn’t have more importance than that?” Serha asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Think. When someone needed help, did they say, ‘Go get those men who are responsible for keeping us safe. You know, the ones who know how to fight well. The force that has that guy who has the Portentist gift as their leader?’”
“Well, no.” An incredulous look crossed his face.
“So, you see the importance. Good.” She slapped his leg and brandished a wide smile.
“Do you think we should call them Vigiles?” Osric asked, spitting out the first name that came to his mind.
“Absolutely. I have traveled my whole life, crossed land and sea until prophecy led me to your door so we could fix an improperly translated prophecy, to steal the name of one force and
give it to another.” She held a hand up to stop Osric’s retort. “Or, we could give it the name that prophecy has already dictated for it?”
Osric sat up and then looked down at the floor, searching his memory. Had prophecy already named the group? He traced every line of the first prophecy in his mind and found nothing. Then, as the second prophecy came to an end in his thoughts—the one that had haunted him over the last several months—he found it.
“Aranthians?” Osric looked up to see Serha’s expectant face transitioning into a wide smile.
“Pebble’s birthday has brought us the birth of the Aranthians.” She took a deep, appreciative breath. “Now, if you tell the members outside, I believe you will have two things to celebrate.”
18 – The Well of Strands
As the door to her cell slowly opened, causing bands of light and dark to parade across the floor, Bridgett attempted to come to terms with her seeming ability to see strands. She could not understand how it was possible, but after witnessing the rapid development of dozens of gifts in Osric, she could not deny that it could happen. She just wished she could explain it—or, even better, control it. The cold stone at her back felt like an anchor in reality, forcing her to acknowledge that she was still a captive in the Irua Realm. Though her mind wanted to delve into herself, examining and experimenting with the possibilities of the gift, she forced her attention across the tiny room and onto her captors.
Three figures stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the glowing light behind them. The two on the sides were shorter than the one in the middle, and they both pointed their wands at Bridgett where she sat on the meager mattress. The third figure stood taller and significantly straighter than the other two, as if the tons of stone above them did not weigh on his posture as it did on that of his companions. The irua on the right stepped into the cell and approached Bridgett, shuffling awkwardly on lanky limbs. As he moved to the center of the small cell, he lit the tip of his wand to light her face, giving her a clearer look at all three of them.
The irua in her cell was not so short as she had first believed, but he stood stooped and gnarled as if from a long life of brutal labor. His skin was a sickly, pale shade of white, almost tinged with a green hue like that of mold on old bread. He scuffed his bare feet along the dirt floor. They were so dirty that they were barely distinguishable from the small clouds of dust they stirred up. He wore only a tattered cloth at his waist, and he was so skinny that his ribs looked like long fingers gripping his torso. He barked a command in an unfamiliar tongue, which sounded like a mix between a cough and a raspy question, and thrust his empty hand toward her. She thought he might be telling her to stand up, but since both wands were pointed in her direction, she feared acting on an. He repeated the phrase and the movement urgently, but Bridgett remained seated against the wall and she began to tremble.
The tall irua in the doorway spoke in the same language, a passionless yet authoritative string of syllables, and immediately the first irua shrank back from her, cowering against the wall next to the cell door. He still held his wand aloft, casting light throughout the small space, but he ducked his head and would not look in her direction. As he moved, Bridgett was able to get a good look at the other two irua.
The one with his wand trained on her greatly resembled the first one, though he was slightly less gnarled and hunchbacked. The third one, however, bore almost no resemblance to the other two at all, outside of skin tone and general build. He was much taller, with long, lanky limbs and nearly white skin. Yet, he wore well-tooled leather boots, and an elaborate robe draped his frame. The cloth of his robe was a rich tan, nearly an identical shade to the sand she had trudged through on the surface, but the sleeves, hem, and neckline were trimmed in intricately worked geometrical patterns in gold thread. His light-brown hair was pulled back into a tight tail, leaving the bony angles of his face rigid and sharp. Bridgett suspected that if he were to crouch in the sand, no one would notice him with an unaided eye. A shiver ran up her spine as he moved closer to her, leaving the second guard in the tunnel beyond. His voice held a higher pitch when he spoke the common language, but his tone was less threatening than his appearance.
“Please, do excuse the manners of my servants. They are unaccustomed to the presence of, well, anyone really.”
“Why have I been held in this cell?” Bridgett held her knees to her chest, unconsciously attempting to increase the distance between herself and her captor. “I showed no signs of aggression or ill will at the gate.”
“We have reason to question your motives for traveling to our city. Your imprisonment was a necessary precaution.”
“I came here on a diplomatic mission. Is there someone I can speak to about being freed?” Bridgett steadied her voice, in spite of her anxiety. She could sense the fear and awe rolling off of the two servants as they awaited commands from the third irua. His emotions were less transparent, but he seemed to be feeling an equal mix of amusement and distrust. Obviously, he suspected her of being an enemy to the irua, and he had no concerns about her being a threat to him, or she wouldn’t amuse him so. His confidence unsettled her even further.
“Oh, you will not be freed. However, there is someone who would like to speak with you.” He extended his arm in a courtly offer to assist her to her feet, but she glared at his hand as though it would bite her. She pushed herself up into a standing position, recognizing that she had no choice but to go with him, and hoping that her cooperation may eventually lead to her being able to escape. Sharp teeth peeked through his narrow grin as he watched her rise to her feet unaided. He pulled his wand from a pocket of his robes and held it lightly in his bony grasp. “Hold out your hands, if you wouldn’t mind.” Though his words were polite, Bridgett sensed the underlying threat. She complied, lifting her hands out before her.
She caught a glimmer of the strands that comprised the spell as a band of light coiled around her wrists and knotted more securely than any rope ever could. She was startled once again by the appearance of the ability to see the strands of magic, but her frustration with being further restrained in a foreign place far from any friendly help overrode her surprise. She looked up at the irua after he cast the spell—her eyes were only level with his chest—and awaited further instructions. He smiled more genuinely as she indicated that she would cooperate, and Bridgett wondered if he was an Empath as well. The thought actually improved her expectations of what would become of her. She meant no harm to the irua at all; she only wanted to prevent a war that they did not initiate. If she could just speak before an Empath—or, even better, a Trust—she could convince the irua of her good intentions and survive the whole ordeal. She followed him out the door into the intimidating confines of the tunnel system with a much lighter heart.
The small irua who had remained outside of her cell led the procession, with the cowering servant bringing up the rear. Bridgett was keenly aware that his wand was trained on her, but she kept her posture erect and stared straight ahead at the golden-laced robe of their master. She couldn’t help but ponder how similar her own bonds were to the situation the two decrepit servants had found themselves in. While they may not be in magical chains, they were obviously terrified of the figure who had issued their orders. Fear could be just as strong a restraint as any physical form of captivity.
Though she tried to follow their progress through the tunnels, attempting to familiarize herself with the layout, Bridgett soon found herself disoriented and unable to fix any points of reference in her mind. The time that she had spent confined in the cell with no food had left her weak and nauseous, and her entire body was trembling with fatigue before they reached their destination. Through the haze of exhaustion in her mind, Bridgett wondered if she had truly been there for long enough to feel as she did. She suspected that the irua that was following her could have put a spell on her, but even something so sinister was too elusive for her to grasp onto. Her focus wavered in and out. The walls of the tunnels seemed to pulse around her,
and the figure of the irua she was following swam in her vision. He stopped and turned to face her, as she vaguely noticed the tunnel walls had fallen away to reveal a large chamber. Strangely, she still seemed to be in a tunnel as a dark vignette framed the minimal area she could see before her. As the darkness impeded her vision, gradually closing in, she felt herself falling backward. Tiny spots of bright light pierced the black curtain before her eyes as her head hit the stone and she lost consciousness.
Bridgett came to slowly, first only aware of the pain of her heartbeat as it throbbed against her skull, but soon she was able to discern a variety of voices nearby. She attempted to open her eyes, cringing as the light exasperated the pain in her head. When she was able to focus her vision, she saw the distant curve of a vaulted stone ceiling far above her. Rigid wooden planks pressed into her flesh, causing her to wonder how she got from the stone floor where she fell to the wood surface she now lay upon. She instinctively moved to cradle her aching head in her hands, but she was unable to raise her arms. She glanced down to see iron clamps shut firmly over her wrists and ankles. Turning her head to the side caused the excruciating pain to blossom anew at the back of her skull, and bursts of hot light danced across her vision. She moved slowly, cautious to prevent more pain, though she could barely lift her head and she feared that she would not be able to lower it gently back to the wooden boards.
Finally, she was able to assess one side of her peripheral vision. She saw dozens of armed irua standing in a crescent along the far wall of the spherical chamber. Between herself and the guards, a raised dais held a grand throne of stone draped in plush fabric and pillows. A golden scepter was standing erect before the elaborate chair, held in the withered grasp of the irua who sat upon the throne. His fingers retained so little flesh that they resembled winter’s twigs, his skin like white bark near to sloughing from the bones. The skin that sagged from his narrow face held the same wrinkled appearance, like the wraith of a dried fruit stored to ward off famine. Yet, his eyes were keen and focused. He noticed she roused even as she noticed he existed.
The Well of Strands (Osric's Wand, Book Three) Page 22