by M. S. Verish
“That is not true,” Hale said.
Rourke held out his arms. “I’m still not getting’ it. Why’re we fightin’?”
“‘Ravenstone,’ is William’s code word for ‘Demon,’” Argamus told him. “You had not yet joined our party when Kariayla and I first crossed the Freelands. Our mysterious guide had forsaken us to pursue the party who had captured the White Demon. Once he had learned where the creature was to be taken, he rejoined us and reported his findings to William. William will find a way to obtain whatever he desires—even at the expense of innocent lives.”
“Listen to me,” Hale interrupted. “William had no such intentions. There are pieces to the puzzle you have not seen.”
“Of that I am certain,” Arcturus seethed. “You, for instance. Jaharo Halensa the cartographer becomes Hawkwing the guide—until the guide is revealed as a spy. But perhaps the spy is truly an actor, the Lord Sebastian Hale, authority of the Merchants’ Guild. What role can he not play? Why, he was even a back-tavern brawler named Talon, who for all we know, has killed a man or two in his prime days of drunken fist-slinging.”
Rourke looked apologetically at Hale, whose expression had grown pale and taut. “You speculate too far,” the tall man said in a low voice.
“Do I? There is only room for speculation when you do not care to share any answers,” Argamus said. “I believe there is integrity in honesty. You are a man shrouded in secrets, and I will no longer be part of this game we play.” He pointed back toward the camp. “There is an honest merchant trying to make his fortune, and we are playing him for a fool. Make no mistake that we are the scoundrels here. What care I if he wants to exploit the abilities of a former criminal? Let him have the cursed demon and any other thief he wishes to employ! It is not worth this deception, this degradation of my character.”
“Arcturus—”
“Do not interrupt me, James!” Argamus snapped. He rounded on Hale. “You give this young man a sword, pat him on the back, and wish him luck as he combats experienced fighters in a ‘friendly’ match. What if he had been seriously wounded—or even killed? How does that weigh upon your conscience—if even you have one?”
“There have been no easy decisions in this,” Hale said, lifting his voice to carry through the wind. “I am sorry you feel as you do, and your feelings are not unjust. Regardless of your thoughts of me, you must keep your faith in William. You consider him your friend. Now is not the time to doubt him. What use would he have for a demon?”
Argamus gripped Whitestar, as if it would better anchor him to the ground. “Even friends can fail to act responsibly. I do not know or care what his intentions are with that creature. It is a murderous villain, and it deserves justice for its crimes.”
“Is there nothing I can say to sway you?” Hale asked in desperation. “You have truly set your mind to believe as you do?” He turned to Rourke. “Do you—”
The wizard stepped in front of the brute, blocking Hale’s contact. “Do not even speak to him. You will not pressure or endanger him any further.”
Rourke stepped away. “Look, I’m really confused about all this,” he said to both of them. “I don’t think Hawkwing’s a bad guy, Arcturus. But I have no idea what the plan is anymore.” He moved toward the tall man, his hand held out toward Argamus. “Tell him—tell me—what’s goin’ on. Tell Arcturus all he said is wrong.”
“What would you have me say?” Hale returned. “The only real proof rests beneath the Demon’s cage—which is why we must see this through.”
Rourke bit his lip, and Argamus took his arm. “I think not,” he said to Hale. “This must come to an end now, and we will see it set right.” He started to march away, a reluctant Rourke beside him.
Hale closed the distance, gripping the wizard’s shoulder as though he would stop him. Argamus froze and challenged him with a stare. The tension on Hale’s face looked as though it would shatter him, but when Argamus turned his glare to Hale’s hand, the tall man immediately let go. Defeated, Hale watched the two of them head back to the awaiting encampment. They had reached the end of their journey.
25
Journey’s End
“My friend, you seem quite disconcerted,” Rashir said, inviting Argamus to sit beside him. He looked up to find Rourke lingering in the wizard’s wake. “Is there something the matter?”
“I must speak with you,” Argamus said, weighted by his grim tone and the somber lines of his face.
Rashir gave a nod and waited for Argamus to sit.
“I fear your judgment, but I fear more the consequence of this deception,” the wizard said.
“Deception?” Rashir asked, blinking.
“You have been deceived, but so have I, and so has my companion.” Argamus gestured to the anxious brute.
Rashir peered around him. “Where is your leader? Where is Lord Hale?”
“It is he who is responsible for this grand lie,” Argamus said. He looked down in shame. “I do not know why I allowed it to continue as long as I had, and I hope you will forgive us for our intrusion. Rourke and I will be parting from your company, to hinder you no further.”
“Argamus, what is this about?” Rashir asked, leaning forward in concern.
The wizard looked up to find some of the brothers had moved in to listen, and his face heated. “We are not representatives from the Merchants’ Guild. We were sent by a wizard who believed you had possession of an old and powerful cantalere from the time of the Cataclysm: the Ravenstone. I know now that the stone is merely folklore, and what the wizard truly wanted was the White Demon.” Argamus glimpsed Hale standing alone on the outskirts of the encampment, and Rashir followed his gaze.
“You mean to say,” the Priagent began slowly, “that you were sent to spy on me?”
“I…” Argamus sighed. “Yes, I suppose that is the truth of it.”
“But also to steal,” Rashir added.
“That is also true, though that is why I have come to you. I cannot be a participant in this anymore. Rourke came with me, though he shouldered no responsibility in this ridiculous scheme. We believe the sooner we leave you to your mission, the less obstructive we will be to your goal.”
The Priagent drew back and rubbed his chin. “This is all quite amazing.”
“I do not know if I would employ that word to describe it, but it is the truth.” Argamus looked pointedly at Hale.
“Join us, Lord Hale, for this revelation,” Rashir said, waving him over. The tall man moved to where two of the brothers opened the circle for him. “I am certain you heard what Medoriate Dunn had to say. Do you have anything to add to his disclosure?”
Hale said nothing, his face unreadable.
“Ah, never mind, for I have heard enough. Enough that I might make a confession of my own.” Rashir smiled. “I knew you were not who you claimed to be from the moment you set foot in my manor. This has all been a grand mystery—most entertaining from my vantage. And I will not lie in saying that I have very much appreciated and enjoyed your company, Argamus. If only your leader had been so pleasant… But we cannot all exhibit good manners, can we? Not when spying and thieving are intended.”
Argamus’s brow furrowed. “You have known since the beginning?”
“Well, I suspected,” Rashir said. “I may be foreign, but I am not an imbecile. There are still pieces to this puzzle that I should like to know. Who is this wizard who knows so much of my dealings?”
“He once dwelled in Mystland,” Argamus said, “but I know little about him. As for the breadth of his knowledge, he seems quite adept at employing personal spies.” He narrowed his eyes at Hale.
“Clearly some more professional than others,” Rashir said, and a few of the brothers chuckled. “If you are not a spy by trade, just who are you?”
Suddenly Argamus felt less than comfortable disclosing his identity. “Just an acquaintance of said wizard, as is…Rourke.” How would he begin to explain who they truly were?
“You were so
eager to speak,” Rashir said. “I have come to regard you as a friend. I should like to know who my friends are, that I might distinguish them from my enemies.”
The wizard’s lips parted, uncertain what to say.
“Your lack of trust wounds me.” Rashir turned and retrieved a bag from behind him. “I should think I would be the one offended by this betrayal. Why would anyone want to steal my demon? My personal source of elemental magic and chaos? It would be of little use to anyone but me, as I alone have complete control over the creature. No, there is a greater prize in my possession.” He dipped his hands into the bag and produced what looked like a dead and crumpled black bird, about the size of a Human skull.
Argamus’s jaw dropped.
“Not a myth, my friend,” Rashir said. “Merely forgotten by time. But not for much longer.” He lifted his chin and addressed the stone-faced Hale. “You must have had an inkling of what you were after. You are aware of its abilities?”
Hale maintained his silence.
“Of course you are.” Rashir nodded and gazed at the stone in his hands. “Let us see who you really are, shall we?” He raised the stone, and there was a flash of silver light.
A wave of nausea struck the wizard, and Argamus crumpled and gasped. When the feeling abated, he brought his hand to his head to rub his aching brow. But his hand was dark—a dark shade of red—and he knew that the illusion had fallen. Rourke had vanished, and in his place was the lean and scruffy thief who called himself Jinx. If the brute’s true form was diminished, then Hale’s was the opposite, for the taller, broader tracker remained, and from his stance, Hawkwing was no less affected by the display of the stone’s magic.
“You are not Human at all,” Rashir marveled, gaping at the Markanturian in a rare display of awe. “What are you, then?”
“I am a Markanturian,” Arcturus said, scrounging for his pride. “A ‘Blood Mage,’ to the ignorant.”
“I trust your ability to heal was no illusion,” Rashir said. “I do thank you for that gesture.” He scrutinized the others. “The Enforcer is a touch disappointing.” He turned to Arshod. “Did Nesif and I not tell you that the sword was the source of his magic? Give your brother what is owed him.”
Tight-faced, Arshod tossed a coin to Nesif, the giant catching the piece in mid-air.
Rashir shrugged. “They are hopeless gamblers, I am afraid. As for Lord Hale…what secrets does your leader harbor? Why was he at the helm of your little party?”
Arcturus said nothing. The Ravenstone was sitting in the Priagent’s lap. His confession was no longer logically sound.
“Wait,” Rashir said, a finger lifted. “He is the true spy. The experienced master of deception.” The finger tapped his head. “He has the answers.”
“It is possible he does,” Arcturus said. “Or I may be wrong. He may be a pawn to the wizard as well.” He could not wrest his eyes from the stone.
“But you had come to me so certain of his treachery,” Rashir said.
“I know.” Arcturus forced himself to regard the Priagent, who had remained as calm and collected as when they had chatted over politics. “I…I admit to being somewhat confused over the situation.”
“Shall I explain? It seems plain to me that the stone you believed was fiction is not fiction at all. That, perhaps, was where you and Lord Hale differed in your opinions. I imagine this—” Rashir lifted the Ravenstone—“has stirred much doubt in your mind.”
Again the crumpled bird consumed Arcturus’s vision. He felt his flesh grow cold, felt the sweat sticky beneath his palms as he clung to Whitestar. He swayed, dizzy from the fact that this terrible artifact was, in fact, sitting before him—a hole in his vision that had, in a single moment, upset all that he knew to be true. And it sickened him. He swallowed, the sound thundering in his ears.
Rashir’s voice surfaced once more, taunting him in its good-humored tone. “This could only be an act of desperation by your wizard employer, to force together so dysfunctional a party. I had wondered how best to end our business together, but you have solved my problem. You recall our conversation about leadership and what it takes to command respectful authority.” The Priagent swept his arm to present his brothers. “I learned this lesson long ago, and it has awarded me the most loyal of followers. Where trust is lacking, there cannot be unity.”
Rashir looked from Hawkwing back to Arcturus. “How, then, shall I proceed? Do I release those who have felt betrayed by their leader? Is it the true spy who should face the consequences of his poor leadership? Or will this group shoulder responsibility together?”
Hawkwing stepped forward, but Rashir waved him away. “No, no. I want the true leader to answer the question.” He smiled at Arcturus. “Please.”
“The one responsible is not here,” Arcturus said, seeing the fear in Jinx’s eyes. “When we spoke of leadership, did we not scorn the men of power who hid behind their soldiers and servants? A leader should be at the helm, ready to endure what is facing him. Will you have us answer for the wizard not present? You—a leader by his own right—who believes in such justice?”
“All valid points. However, you are here,” Rashir said, nodding at him. “The reality of your situation—of my situation—is that I may never meet this mysterious wizard. But I can certainly send him my regards.” He waved to Jinx. “Enforcer, tell me your name—your real name.”
Jinx looked at Arcturus, who could only stare back. The thief muttered his name, and Rashir cocked his head at the Markanturian. “Did he say ‘Jinx’? How tragically appropriate. Jinx, I bestow upon you your freedom. Take the demon and return to your master wizard. Be certain to tell him how he has failed as a leader. Asmat, assist the young man.”
Jinx merely stood there, frozen.
“If you value your life, then go!” Rashir commanded.
Arcturus gave the slightest nod, and Jinx walked toward the covered wagon, where the Demon was kept. Asmat produced the key and opened the cage. Jinx stepped away nervously.
“What is the delay?” Rashir asked. “Is the creature unwilling to leave? Perhaps it knows its master. Go then, Enforcer Jinx. Flee to the mighty and mysterious wizard.”
Asmat took hold of Jinx’s shoulder and gave him a hard shove. The thief stumbled forward and nearly fell. Asmat was close behind him, ushering him to the edge of the camp, where he gave Jinx a final push. Jinx set off at a jog, disappearing from sight as he headed for the river.
“There. The young man has been spared,” Rashir said.
“You are not who I thought you were,” Arcturus said, a tremor in his voice.
“Hardly an accusation to be made by you.” The Priagent shook his head.
“Do you intend to torture us? Put us through some unnecessary end?” Arcturus asked, his voice raising. “For what purpose? In its finality, all we had done was travel in your company.”
“Now you contradict yourself. You came to me speaking of deceit and unknown consequence. I allow your underling to flee, and you accuse me of the torture to come. Do not lecture me, Markanturian, on the transgressions to be had. You have placed yourself in my company, and now you will understand what I am about.” Rashir stood, but his eyes had left Arcturus—fixed, instead, upon Whitestar.
“What are you about?” Arcturus asked, trying to delay whatever was to come.
“I am about to confiscate your staff,” Rashir said. “Why trouble with catching an Ilangien when a cantalere will suffice?”
Arcturus backed away and struggled to his feet, clutching the staff to his chest. He spun to see Nesif and Hesun standing as a wall behind him. He took a breath and thumped the butt of the staff into the ground. “I am the only one who can wield Whitestar. All it would take is a thought to raze this site. If my life is already of little consequence, then I have nothing to lose in destroying all of you.” He raised his chin and stared down at the slight man who steadily approached him.
Rashir paused. “I am willing to call your bluff, Markanturian, but do not think fo
r a moment that you are of little consequence. I have a use for you.” He held out his hand. “I will give you time to collect your thoughts and utter those magic words of destruction.”
Arcturus stood, trembling, as the Priagent resumed his slow advance. “Three, two, and one.” Rashir stepped up to him and pulled Whitestar from his grasp with his free hand. He lifted the Ravenstone with the other. “You seem rather concerned about this. I promise I will be quick—for your sake as well as the sake of my journey.”
*
It was not until the icy water splashed around his knees that Jinx stopped running. His lungs were fit to burst, and his head felt light, his vision swimming. He gasped for air and stood in the ford, his hands braced upon his knees. He was safe—free! The Priagent had actually let him go. He had never been so terrified—not even when Farmer Grissly’s hounds were after him for snatching a few eggs from the chicken coop. Terror—yes, that was it. And it had surged through him like a river, coursing with each echoing beat of his racing heart. It had fueled his legs with speed unknown to him, and it had propelled him forward with one single and lasting thought: escape.
Yet as his heart began to slow, and the cold touch of the water reached him, he started to wonder just how scared he really was. The fear had been undeniable, but maybe it had not been quite so reasonable. There had been no knife to his throat. In fact, other than being winded, he had no physical complaints.
His gaze fell to the sword at his side, and a different ache hit him. He had never drawn it. He had never even thought about drawing it. A magic sword to help him fight—a useless blade at his waist as he fled to save his own skin. “What’m I doing?”
Jinx straightened and looked back in the direction from which he had come. “By Lorth, what’s wrong with me?” He had left Arcturus and Hawkwing behind. They could be tortured. They could be dead! He ran a hand through his hair. But if I go back, they’ll do the same to me.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Coward. I’m a coward. Yellow dog,” he mourned. “No, I can’t do it. I can’t just leave ‘em. They wouldn’t leave me.” He waded out of the ford and started up the hill, gathering his nerve. I gotta play this right. I gotta be careful, or I’ll be as worthless as the sword….