“No, no. The ring glimmers like the stones in the staff. It could be important.”
Please, don’t die. Azura… Creator… whoever is listening, please, save my friend, Marac prayed, lifting Laedron by his other arm. “Be careful with him, but we must hurry. To the headquarters. Jurgen will know what to do.”
They lugged Laedron’s seemingly lifeless body through the streets with little more than surprised looks from passersby. Buildings burned, illuminating the night sky, and the total chaos gave no one time to ask questions or share concerns. Marac and Brice ended the race across town at the door of the Shimmering Dawn headquarters.
Marac burst through the door and yelled, “Jurgen! Help!”
Without delay, Jurgen and Valyrie joined them at the door and helped carry Laedron the rest of the way into the room.
“What happened?” Valyrie asked.
“Greathis decided we would take Andolis and the palace tonight,” Marac said.
Jurgen’s face twisted with confusion. “What? He told us-”
“I know what he said. After Forane’s confession, he decided we had to act quickly. He’s dead, Jurgen, Greathis and many of his men, and Laedron’s not far behind. Help him!”
Jurgen led them to Laedron’s room, and they laid him on the bed. The priest examined his body. “A great deal of damage has been done. If you value your friend’s life, you’ll leave me to my work.”
“I can’t leave him,” Marac said. “Not in a time such as this.”
Jurgen pressed his hand firmly against Marac’s chest. “You must give me time and space to work. Now go!”
He breathes still. Marac glanced at Laedron one last time, then begrudgingly walked out, and Brice and Valyrie joined him at the long dining table.
“After all we’ve done for him, Jurgen had better fix this.”
“What if he can’t?” Brice asked.
“He better find a way. I’m not losing Laedron now. No, not now. We finally accomplish what we’ve come here to do, and he dies? No, I won’t have it.”
“He’s hurt pretty-”
“Not another word,” Marac snarled. “That is a possibility I will not accept. Do you not understand? He will survive.”
Every crackle of the fire grated on Marac’s nerves, his temper rising with each second that passed without news. Staring at the closed door to Laedron’s room, he pondered what might be happening on the other side. Does a longer wait mean they’re getting good results?Or does the delay mean my friend has taken a turn for the worst? The uncertainty had a dual effect on his mind. Until someone came out and told him, he didn’t know whether Laedron was alive or dead, and although he preferred the former, the passage of time kept him from finding out the latter, leaving him with hope.
Few more precious, abrasive moments went by before the door slowly creaked open. Standing, Marac studied Jurgen’s worried face.
Jurgen continued to wipe his hands on a scrap of cloth, and his head turned downward when he seemed to notice Marac watching him.
“I-” Jurgen began, then paused. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Marac asked, wanting a better explanation. “What do you mean, ‘sorry?’”
“I’ve done what I can. I don’t see him lasting the night.” Jurgen reached out to take Marac in an embrace, but Marac pushed away his hands.
“Sorry?” Marac shot past Jurgen and into the room, then looked at his friend lying on the mattress, his life draining away with every tick of the clock. Lae. It cannot be. It can’t end this way. No! He fell to his knees next to the bed, gripping Laedron’s cool hand. He could tell little life remained in the body. Tears rained from his eyes like a torrent of floodwater, and he wailed with desperation. Brice turned away, and Valyrie gasped.
He wondered how he could continue forward without his friend at his side. They had come so far together, yet Laedron lay dying. He fell further into the depths of despair when he tried to imagine telling Laedron’s mother what had passed, that her only son had died trying to save a people who hated his kind. Laren. Creator! How can I explain to his sister, my love, what has happened? How can I tell her that her brother will never come back?
Putting his head on Laedron’s belly, Marac felt the brush of a velvet cloth on his forehead. He sat up and noticed the black cloth bag still tied to Laedron’s belt. Marac remembered what had happened in Pilgrim’s Rest-Brice’s resurrection. If Laedron could bring Brice back, Jurgen can stop Laedron’s death, for priests are gifted with healing magic. The stones. Augmentation, as Forane put it. There is a way!
He snatched the sack, stepped out of the room, and forcefully took hold of Jurgen’s arm.
Jurgen’s eyes were full of heartache and regret. “I’m sorry, Mar-”
“No, it cannot end this way.” Marac emptied the pouch into Jurgen’s hand, then held up a stone with an unnatural glimmer. “Take this. You shall undo this, Priest.”
“What?” Jurgen stared at the stone. “What do you mean? What is this?”
Marac tried to decide if he would lie or tell the truth. I can’t ask him to do this unless he knows full well what is involved. He must know the truth, but he will do what I ask just the same. “A soulstone, Jurgen. To instill full healing and restoration in his body, to bring him back from death’s door.”
“No. No, you cannot ask this of me.” Jurgen pushed Marac’s hand away. “Not even Azura would do as you ask. What you speak of is Necromancy, preventing a death that cannot be stopped.”
“I shall miss him as much as any of you,” Valyrie said. “But this isn’t right. No matter how much I want him to stay with us, what you ask is against everything Jurgen believes-what we all believe.”
“What I speak of is fairness!” Marac punched the nearby wall. “We’ve come hundreds-no, thousands-of miles because of a war your people started, and we stopped the murders of your militia, took care of the Drakars, and soon, we’ll end the war. Now, Vicar, it is time to repay your debt.”
“He was wrong to resurrect Brice,” Jurgen said, backing away. “Do you know what you ask? Meddling in the affairs of the Fates? Performing acts reserved for gods? He’s too far gone for me to prevent his passing, Marac Reven.”
“I care not. You owe everything to him, Jurgen. Take this stone.” Marac raised the onyx gem close to Jurgen’s face. “Keep him alive. Cast the spell, perform the miracle, whatever in the hells you want to call it, and repay him for everything he’s done for you.”
“And what soul might be contained within this gem?” Jurgen stared into it. “If there is a way to return that person to life, you would sacrifice this man or woman’s soul?”
“Do you suggest we find some empty vessels to house these souls? I know no other way to house a soul other than to find a body in which to place it.”
“Of course not.”
“Then, use this essence and return our friend. He doesn’t deserve to die here.”
“No, it cannot be-”
“Then, you shall receive no more help from us, Priest.” The sadness, the anger at Laedron’s impending death, and his newly formed contempt for Jurgen clouded his thoughts and heightened his anxiety. “You’ll be left to deal with the rest of this on your own.”
“We won’t help him?” Brice asked. “You can’t leave him to finish this on his own. None of this is his fault; he’s done nothing.”
“That’s precisely the point, Thimble,” Marac said. “His idleness is the problem. He can save Laedron here and now, but he refuses.”
“We still need your help,” Jurgen said. “We require the knowledge of your countrymen to secure a lasting peace.”
“Then, do what’s right. Make him better or see your country laid to waste. Those are your only choices.”
I can’t believe I’m threatening a priest. Marac kept his expression harsh, and in the condition and circumstance he was, he didn’t find it difficult to maintain his demeanor.
Valyrie ran to Jurgen’s side. “You can’t abandon Jurgen, not now. Laed
ron wouldn’t have wanted you to give up and leave. Please, stop this.”
Marac shook his head. “If he dies, Lae shall no longer be bothered with affairs such as these.” He looked at Jurgen. “Will you do as I ask?”
“I can’t do it,” Jurgen replied. “It could condemn my spirit for eternity.”
“Then let the act be of my will. I am the one who demands it be done, so the responsibility-for better or worse-is mine to bear. Do it, Jurgen.”
Jurgen seemed to contemplate the proposition for quite a while, then he said, “Very well. Give me the stone, but know this: I do this on your behalf, and when I have finished, never ask this of me again. None of you may speak of this to anyone else, not ever.”
Marac handed the soulstone to the priest, and Jurgen gave Marac a gaze that he would never forget, the priest’s eyes piercing and penetrating him to his very core.
Once inside the room, Jurgen examined Laedron, then he peered at the window. “We need to take him somewhere secluded.”
“The chapel downstairs should suffice,” Valyrie said.
Without another word, Brice and Marac took Laedron’s body down the stairwell at the end of the hall. They lay him on the shoddy stone altar, then backed away.
“Leave us,” Jurgen said solemnly, clasping his hands together. “I need privacy for this.”
Marac followed Valyrie to the door, then he nudged Brice because he seemed enraptured by the sight of Laedron upon the altar. “Come along. We’ve done all we can.”
On the stairs, Brice said, “I just never could have imagined Laedron like that. He’s not much older than we are, Marac.”
“I know. Worry not, though.” Marac took a seat at the long table once again, and he could only guess how long it might take. Minutes? Hours? Until morning?Whatever it may be, it shall be worth the price to see my friend once more. To hear his voice, his encouragements. I’d settle for a tongue-lashing if only it meant he were here with me.
After an hour had passed, he heard the sound of footsteps against stone, then Jurgen entered from the hall. After a long pause, Marac said, “Well?”
“It is done.” Jurgen folded his arms. “Your friend will live, but he has not awakened.”
Marac stood. “What can we expect?”
“I cannot say how long Laedron will be asleep, but we mustn’t wait for him. We must find and speak to the Sorbian commander posthaste, as early as we can go in the morning.”
“I understand,” Marac said, nodding. “We shall aid you in that task.”
“So long as you don’t threaten me again.”
Marac gazed at the floor, unwilling to look Jurgen in the eyes. “I can only offer my deepest apologies for my… outburst. Please, forgive me, Vicar. I only-”
“You don’t have to offer up excuses. I’ve become tired of seeing so much death of late. I must remind you, however, that I will not perform a miracle with a soulstone again. To do so would be against what little of my principles I have left. I shall go to the consuls tomorrow and raise the question of negotiating, and hopefully, we will be able to leave the city by noon.”
“I won’t ask it of you again.” Marac paused. “Thank you for what you’ve done, and I will go with you to meet my countrymen and negotiate for peace.”
Jurgen went into his quarters and closed the door.
“Will this insanity ever cease?” Valyrie asked.
Marac bobbed his head. “For a time, it shall, but not forever.”
“Goodnight.” Valyrie glanced at him. “I suppose we will go and meet the Sorbians tomorrow.”
“No,” Marac said, stopping her. “You must stay here.”
“For what? To protect me from the ravages of war?”
“To watch over my friend while I’m away. To care for Laedron. I don’t trust his welfare to just anyone.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Thank you.”
“Goodnight.” She disappeared into her room and closed the door.
“What would you have me do, Marac?” Brice asked.
Marac smiled and wrapped his arm around Brice’s shoulders. “You’ll be at my side for this. We’ll need our best people for the time ahead.”
Brice grinned. “I’d better get some sleep, then. Morning’ll come faster than we know it.”
“Yes, get some rest. We’ll talk over breakfast.”
14
An Exchange of Blood
Early the next morning, Marac met Brice and Jurgen in the common room. Caleb and Piers had prepared a great feast-sausages, eggs, flat cakes, and fresh juice. While they ate, Marac eyed Jurgen, receiving only a dead stare in response.
“We’ll be going into the city today, Caleb and me,” Piers said, taking his cloak. “To check a few things out and make sure no more of those mages show up unexpectedly.”
“Good, yes,” Jurgen said, watching them leave.
“You think they’ll agree to peace?” Brice asked, eagerly helping himself to heaping portions of food.
Jurgen had barely touched his meal, but he drank plenty of the juice. “Who can say? The only thing we can do is ask.”
“I doubt they have much of a choice in the matter,” Marac said. “We have quite a story to tell, and the Drakars-the whole reason for the fighting-have been done away with.”
“No guarantee they’ll agree to our terms, though.” Jurgen leaned forward. “After their successes at Balfan, they may yet yearn to devour the entire country.”
Jurgen stood and walked toward the door. “Coming?”
Marac joined him, and Brice was still shoveling handfuls of meat and eggs into his mouth even after they had passed the golden chalice in the square. Jurgen confidently led the way to the consulship chamber, and they were among the first to appear-behind only the chamberlains and the militia. Garnering a few odd glances from the arriving consuls, Marac took a seat at Jurgen’s side and tried to keep a low profile.
Jurgen stood once the chamber had filled. “Vicars, we have been victimized. We have been tricked, and we have been defrauded. We were led to believe that a Lasoronian had ascended to our highest office, but in fact, a Zyvdredi plotted his way to the Vicariate Palace, assuming the title and rank of Grand Vicar.”
Amidst the roars from the gallery, Jurgen continued, “We must undo what the Zyvdredi have done. We must go to the Sorbians and make peace.”
“What proof have you, Jurgen? Where is Tristan?” one of the vicars asked.
“Tristan is dead, along with Dalton Greathis and a number of our militia.”
Sergeant Wilkans stood. “It’s true, all of it. I was there, and I didn’t want to believe it myself. When men in black emerged from the palace and flung spells at us, I saw nothing other than the truth of it.”
“Vicars, we must send an emissary to sue for peace, and I shall volunteer to go.”
Vicar Griffinwold stood and joined Jurgen. “Surely, Vicar Jurgen, we can select someone other than you to send forth. Such a task is very dangerous, and I couldn’t bear anything unfortunate befalling you.”
“You are kind, but the responsibility sits upon my shoulders. I should have been stronger. I failed to serve this body once by indifference and lack of action, but I won’t fail again. Begging the vicar’s pardon, I remain a choice for this mission.”
“As you see fit.” Griffinwold bowed and withdrew to the gallery.
“Then, the question shall be, shall we send Vicar Jurgen to meet with the Sorbians to negotiate peace? If it pleases the chamberlain, I would ask for a vote by live voice.” Receiving a nod from the chamberlain, Jurgen asked, “All in favor?”
In unison, seemingly everyone said, ‘Yes.’
“And in opposition?”
His question met with silence. “Good. We will take some horses from the Vicariate Palace stables.”
“We, Jurgen?” Carrenhold asked.
“Yes, my friends here. I will not be taking a complement of militia on this journey. Should we fail, every man will be needed to guar
d the capital. I suggest, in my absence, that you continue the initiatives we have put forth. I would also advise we appoint a new militia commander.”
“I offer up Sergeant Wilkans for the position,” Griffinwold said, standing. “He has always been at Greathis’s right hand, and he knows the responsibilities well.”
Jurgen nodded. “All in favor?”
A resounding echo of ‘yes’ confirmed Wilkans as the new commander of the guard.
“I only promise that I’ll do my best. Many thanks.” Wilkans bowed before the consuls, then exited the room.
Jurgen turned to Marac and Brice. “Are you prepared to leave now?”
Although Marac was concerned for Laedron and wanted to stay, he knew his friend was in good hands. “We are.”
Jurgen led them out the smaller rear exit, then to the side of the Vicariate Palace. Marac considered the stables to be like most others he’d seen until Jurgen called for the horses. Catching a glimpse of the snow-white geldings, Marac remained still until the horses were in full view. The horses, probably bred carefully for the solitary purpose of conveying a Grand Vicar, were groomed with an exquisite attention to detail. Beads of gold and silver were braided through their manes, their tails had likely been brushed every day, and the hooves seemed perfect-no chips, cracks, or marks of wear. He then beheld a coach near the stable’s entrance, a white carriage adorned with gold filigrees and engravings.
Taking a quick peek through the window, Marac saw that the sitting benches were upholstered with velvet and dyed a shiny gold, and he imagined that any who rode within would take great comfort from the seats.
Jurgen tapped him on the shoulder. “You can see the sights later. For now, we must endeavor to locate the Sorbian army.”
* * *
As they rode, Marac recounted what had happened during the fight with Andolis Drakar. They kept a moderate gait so they could talk over the beating of hooves. The day waned into afternoon, the heat from the sun reaching its apex.
Brice slowed to a halt when he crested a hill, and Jurgen asked, “Why are we stopping?”
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