“He arrived two weeks ago. Fortunately, he is a master of ancient Farvian protection enchantments. He has been forging spells of warding against the hel’onja.”
The human broke off his gaze as he muttered something to the smuggler. The coins were exchanged. The leather book vanished into his vest.
Jikun turned back to Esra.
“I bid you a good night,” she was finishing as she strode to the entryway. “May Epherphese find you worthy tomorrow.”
And without so much as a flicker of hesitation, she ducked out into the night, leaving the two shipwrecked males alone to enjoy a solitary night on the stony floor.
* * *
Navon swung to face the uncouth room. Someone in the midst of the smuggling scum belched and another man valiantly attempted to best it. Reflecting upon the termination of their once close friendship with these brutes, he was certain the Sel’vi had made a wise decision. Like any hero who had undergone arduous trials, Navon too was subject to misfortunes.
But for now, his displeasure was momentarily abated by the reappearance of Khatja, who brought them two wide cloaks, a dry, meager meal, and herbal bandages that emitted a questionable odor. Still, after a generous application of the remedy, Navon’s feet felt practically ready to dance.
Beneath his dirty sash, even Jikun’s wound was now exceptional. “Gods, that herbal oil reeks like shit,” the general balked, as though he had not just skirted the edge of Balior’s door.
His creaseless expression briefly faltered as he sank against the wall, and Navon was reminded of the caliber of his friend’s masks.
“After we receive aid and are escorted from the Makataj,” Jikun continued, recovering his command, “we will need to find honest work. I’m sure, with our skills, we can easily acquire such tasks in the human land. How far is Eraydon City from here?” The food had, at least, lifted his mood.
Navon could not resist a smile, even as he tilted his head in consideration. Eraydon City was the redeeming beacon of civilization on Ryekarayn. Not only was it the country’s cultured capital, but it was also the birthplace of many of Navon’s heroes. “At least a few weeks away… possibly more. But there are far more refined dwellings in the west—unlike Sevrigel, we will pass through a good number of settlements before we reach a major city. We may find opportunities for labor in any such place. All of the human lands have lords that claim certain regions—almost like… an elven councilmember, but only subordinate to King Joramon. Most of these men are free-reigning and very near kings themselves. True kings, may I stress, and not purely men who think themselves king—such powerful men will have much to offer.”
Jikun snorted once in disapproval. “One king was bad enough,” he huffed with a dismissive toss of his hand. “Where are you from? Is it nearby? Do you have connections there that we might find of use? Personally, I’d rather avoid the human lands. As much as I hate the Sel’vi, I imagine humans are even more loathsome.”
Navon’s pleasantry deflated and he stiffened. Before Tysis of Payne could rein him in, he uttered far too concisely, “No.”
Inwardly, he groaned. There was no escaping the general now.
Jikun’s eyes locked upon Navon’s with all the endless persistence of the frozen tundra. “No?” he repeated, narrowing his lids against Navon’s casual smile. “I suppose there is a story to this that somehow makes relations with the Helvari worse than serving humans?”
Navon attempted a dismissive shrug where it would have been preferable to lie. He was good at that. He likely could have woven a dozen historical stories together and Jikun would have been none the wiser.
But now his opportunity was lost. Jikun laughed and kicked out good-naturedly, catching Navon in the shin. “You nag the shit out of me like a lordling’s wet nurse every step of my life, and I ask you one personal question and you think you get to decline? ‘Jikun, is this your poetry? Jikun, how long will you be gone? Jikun, how do you feel? Jikun, don’t strike the king.’”
Navon rubbed his shin vigorously. Beneath the jest his friend did make an unfortunately valid point, but by Sel’ari, that was his role, was it not? He swallowed the discomfort rising in his belly as he struggled to reply nonchalantly. “It is not at all as exciting as your nagging seems to suggest. I was… I am a very… dull individual—there is nothing in my pages that would interest you, believe me, General.”
Jikun was not dissuaded, nor—disappointingly—did he seem to catch the subtle jest at his diary. “Go on.” Despite their distance from the elven nation, the Darivalian had not lost his commanding nature.
Navon thrust his own emotions aside and wrested the strength of Tiras to play his champion. “I am from the Æntara, in the far north, where all the Helvari are birthed. The land is the same as every mountain range inhabited by elves: there is a cluster of dwarves who claimed they arrived first and thus every so often, we must pound them back into the stone. Outside our territory, there live only brigands, goblins, and the cross between, all still grasping for dominion over the land the elves abandoned after the last True Bloods left. And when we are left to our own devices, we practice necromancy.”
Jikun lurched forward, his eyes flickering intensely. “So did you ever kill one of these insolent dwarves? Hack a few goblins? Decapitate a throng of brigands?”
“…Many.”
Jikun was clearly satisfied with the bounty of killings. “Good gods, Navon. I am so tired of killing skinny, towering elves I would sell my soul to kneel down and drive a blade through a fat gut.”
“…Sometimes I question whether you are an elf at all.”
Jikun sniffed dismissively and briefly rubbed his nose with disappointment. “Sounds like an untamed land… but you certainly do not reflect that. What did your father and mother think of you choosing the dress over the sword?”
Navon regarded him flatly, but even as he devised an equally scathing response, an immense and barren room devoured his amusement. The light of a single log danced across old necromantic symbols worn free of potency by their fragmented lines. Cobwebs fluttered in the breeze from the open door. The house was empty but for the small, male child that stood at its center, willing the broken lines to reform just long enough to swallow him.
“Navon?”
Navon shook the memories from his head, forcing Tiras onward to dull his emotions. But his good humor was lost. “My father was obsessed with necromancy… and when my mother could not endure his obsession any longer, she took my sister and left. Some of the elders said she made it north, to the Hatore region. But I don’t believe she survived that long.
“Eventually, my father’s necromancy even compelled him to leave, and he did, one day, to Sevrigel. I was… raised by the community, as no individual wanted to take responsibility for me getting gutted by the enemy. I was often sent to scout alone and fought in nearly all the skirmishes—my service was dutiful payment for their care. Primarily, however, I stayed in the mountains and studied. It has been such a long time and I was young: I would not remember anyone now and believe me, in a culture with far more pressing concerns, no one would remember me. As you like to point out, I’m not at all interesting.”
Jikun’s observation intensified on Navon’s carefully composed expression in an attempt to infiltrate his captain’s walls. But the general would find them equal to his own. “So you did not go with him,” his companion clarified after a moment.
Navon felt his false smile falter. Tiras was not at all rising to his demands. “My father? No. He said he had to acquire Tiras’ necromantic writings to his apprentice—they were the only two texts Tiras ever wrote before he left the Ӕntara and set out with Eraydon… Before he disappeared. And they contain the rarest collection of necromantic spells on the mortal plane. But you know this from your visit with Murios, don’t you? And my father, like so many necromancers before him, lusted for both books. Ironically, years later, I heard that one of them was not far from our mountains in the possession of some great thane. Presumably, it i
s still in the king’s archives in Vise. But my father never came back for it. For anything.”
And before Navon had realized it, the image of the child before his eyes was collapsing, weighed down by the knowledge that all who he cherished in the world had left him there.
Navon grappled to return from the unwelcome vision. In all his years since he had left Ryekarayn, no one had ever questioned his origins—the Sel’vi just assumed that their world was that much greater.
And it was.
Of course it was Jikun, with his fervent love of family and homeland, who threatened Navon’s walls now. ‘Many great males had worse circumstances,’ he reminded the anguish, and quickly transferred his attention out across the room, searching for a distraction not only for himself, but for Jikun as well.
He found it in his single observer: Relstavum. The dark-skinned mercenary was gazing at them with striking intensity for a man that could not possibly hear across such distance. And still… Navon felt a sudden and unnatural tug toward the man.
There was something that he could glimpse through those eyes…
Jikun’s words pulled him back into focus as he offered the rarest trait he had—empathy. “Your father strikes me as a bastard. But I don’t understand… how did you come so far east as Sevrigel? And into the army? Not that I am protesting that excellent decision.”
Navon knew far better than to respond with anything equally sentimental. “So,” he began stoically, “I went searching for Tiras’ book myself. Saved every coin. Crossed the channel. And then found that my father had been apprehended for practicing necromancy and was put to death years ago.” He paused briefly and elevated his chin, his face remaining smooth. “…But I suppose that’s what I should have expected.”
Jikun’s compassion had been exhausted. “Yes, you should have.” He blew out his cheeks. “And then, after you learned the truth, you naturally joined the military, where reports of your discrepancies were likely to have you executed on the spot.”
The male’s inability to appropriately address—or express—vulnerable emotions was astounding. “I joined the army after spending years trying to hunt the book down and expending everything to do so,” Navon replied patiently. “As a male who spent his entire life reading books and swinging a sword, not a great many talents present themselves as optional pathways for success.” And he had to admit, in a heavily warring culture like the Ӕntara Helvari, not much else had been likely to cross his mind. “All we ever heard on Ryekarayn was of Sevrigel’s ‘unrivaled peace and beauty.’ Peace and beauty. So the army seemed an ideal place to be paid for my skills while I studied. By the time the war with Saebellus intensified, I had already climbed the military chain—deserting did not really seem like an option.”
Jikun’s amused features relaxed into mild perplexity. “I’ve heard many motivations for why males join the army, but the belief of perpetual peace where you can bury your head in books is definitely new.”
“When you have no place else to go and no greater skills to boast, it seems a fine place to be. Many of the greatest heroes served in a military capacity at one time or another.”
“And that’s what you want to be? Someone who history remembers?”
Ephraim’s personality vied for a yes, but even Navon’s own nature had sense enough to know better. “…No… I am wise enough to recognize that I am not that male. But I hoped to serve someone who would be.”
Jikun was silent for a moment as Navon turned the focus of the conversation unexpectedly upon him. He cleared his throat gruffly. “So when you learned about Murios’ book… Did you consider deserting then?”
“Yes…” Navon trailed off, but as Jikun’s expression fell slightly, he smirked. “And then I realized, who would have wiped your ass?”
Jikun’s offense was stilled by the moment of personal sentiment. Quiet settled about the tavern—even the smugglers had just finished some crass tune about the flexibility of large-boned women.
In that silence, they should have been able to hear a grain of sand hit the floor. And yet, a shadow fell over them suddenly. “Pardon my interruption,” a smooth voice inquired beside them.
Navon jolted straight, caught off-guard by the abruptness of the human’s appearance and too dumbstruck by his imperceptible movement to respond.
But the feeling that accompanied the man. Up close, Navon was certain of it… the look in the man’s eyes—familiar. Similar. The pull he felt was that of two souls reaching out across a sea of indistinguishable whispers, both tattered and worn but uniquely distinct amongst the waves. Navon had felt this sensation many times amongst his own kind.
‘He’s a necromancer,’ he realized.
Relstavum crouched down a foot away and smiled reassuringly, as though he knew the same about Navon. “I apologize for intruding. I would not normally involve myself with the Eph’vi and their customs, but I could not help but observe the severity of your state and overhear the grueling task you will face in the morning.”
Navon saw Jikun give a short, blank nod—still too equally surprised by his own deficiency to speak.
“The struggles of the unfortunate involve me as well; I have been channeling Farvian warding to protect Dahel,” Relstavum continued with a respectful incline of his head, as though he was a partner to their trial. “While the Eph’vi have done little to fully pay me for my efforts, still here I remain.”
“So we were told,” Jikun finally replied, and Navon could hear the instinctual caution and defense rise in his general.
‘There is certainly no possibility that a polite and kind human is bearing any good,’ Navon thought sarcastically. But after a moment he was certain: despite Jikun’s sensitivity toward all mentions of necromancy and his instinctual pessimism toward the man, he was clueless as to Relstavum’s use of the much-hated magic.
Relstavum reached within his vest and for half a heartbeat, Navon expected the leather-bound book. Instead, the man extended his hand and dropped a charm to dangle from a silver chain at his fingertips. The round, intricate design was beyond Jikun’s understanding—as it should be. But there was something that struck Navon with familiarity. Relief. Something in its composition was not unlike those in the ancient necromantic tomes he had studied. But it was certainly Farvian in origin—the elven race that had long since been obliterated from the face of Aersadore. Navon, with his massive knowledge of manuscripts, could at least recognize the similarities to their dead language. “A Farvian ward of protection. This is the last one I have, but assuming it does its job, you can deliver it to me upon returning from your trial.”
Navon could see Jikun look skeptically upon the gently swinging medallion. “If Farvian warding was so effective, why are there no Faravi left alive to testify to this?”
Navon flinched. Why did he have to keep such rude company? He bent apologetically and reached out to take the charm. ‘From one necromancer to another…’ “Thank you.”
Relstavum returned the same soft smile, then stood. There were no further words or exchanged expressions; Navon watched as he vanished from the inn, the ornate rug flapping gently in the icy breeze. He stared intently at the rippling fabric for a short time, irrationally hoping that the fellow necromancer would reappear to offer some semblance of comfort in the foreign land. But when it moved again, a new figure swept through, his face fully concealed deep beneath a drawn hood. Even with his body hidden beneath ample folds of similarly dirty, white silk, it was clear to Navon that he was leaner than Relstavum.
He sighed.
“It’s all yours,” Jikun spoke sharply, his words snapping Navon into focus. The Darivalian’s eyes had narrowed, his usual cynicism fixating critically upon the charm.
Navon draped it around his neck and tucked it beneath his cloak, pressing a palm to the silver for that brief tie of solidarity. The acceptance of necromancy…? This was one side of Ryekarayn… one side of home he had missed. “It can’t hurt,” he smirked.
Beneath his coarse blanket
, Jikun settled down across the sandy tiles. “Well I don’t know enough about magic to get specific, but I’m guessing that statement is incorrect. I’m going to sleep. If our current misfortunes are any indication, we’ll be facing the hel’onja in the morning. And I think sleep will do me more good than some old jewelry.” He tugged at his blanket once. “On another note, the versatility of their same fabrics—rugs… curtains… doors… blankets… is admirable.”
Navon chuckled and rested a few feet away, clutching the amulet as he closed his eyes beneath cloak and rug. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes… if one of these charming smugglers doesn’t slit our throats while we sleep.”
“…May dawn rise for you, Jikun.”
CHAPTER NINE
Mist coiled in from the west, twisting through the bay as the old ships creaked and groaned. Not far to the east, a tumult of voices could be gleaned from the ruckus at the grimy human tavern, but here, only the gentle lap of water and the shifting suits of armor broke the night’s silence.
A figure dropped from the rooftop and into the darkness. No sooner had he landed than mist rushed inward once more to bathe him in the shadows, concealing him from the Night’s Watch. Only four males of the city guard were prowling about the Port of Targados that night. A sliver of moonlight penetrated the clouds and illuminated their presence in a flash of polished steel. For several minutes they patrolled up and down the length of the port.
And then, for only the span of a breath, the opportune moment presented itself: all eyes were cast away from the water, a weighty cloud masked the struggling moon, and a billow of heavy mist plumed between the bobbing ships. The figure leapt from concealment in a soundless sprint, crossing the cobblestones to leap with unrivaled grace onto the jutting stern of The Black Queen.
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