The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  Grit’s pupils grew and then he smiled back at Shar’ran, who laughed loudly, being quite amused at his response. The race of man was always so amusing. They had such quaint ideals.

  For a while, they ate in relative silence until Shar’ran brokered the subject of the Keep.

  “So you say that Ja’tar talks to the Guild all of the time?”

  “That’s what he tells us,” Grit said, taking another bite of the juicy meat. “He’s actually mildly frustrated with them.”

  “Frustrated, how so?”

  “Well, for one thing, no matter what he suggests or asks, the answer is no, now is not the time, or some other excuse. Like this quest we’re on, if the Guild knew ... Ja’tar would be exiled or worse. I’m sure of that.”

  Shar’ran popped another grape into his mouth and chewed reflectively. “I wonder why he would say such a thing?”

  “Such a thing, I don’t understand?”

  “Yes, that he talks to the Guild all the time,” Shar’ran repeated.

  Grit looked over, “Who knows! I don’t think he is lying. I think he believes that he has been discussing Keep business and getting orders. Every new moon he goes to the room of Aéden and spends hours there covering Guild business.”

  “True, the room Aéden was used for Guild business, but how can that possibly be if the Guild is no more?” Shar’ran asked, rubbing his chin.

  “Like I said, I don’t’ know. Maybe he is getting orders, but just not from the Guild as you know it,” Grit said, shaking his head.

  Shar’ran thought on that answer for a second before replying, “But then by who? Only the Guild members have the Mirrors of Tõõk. Mine has been black for over a thousand years.”

  “I can’t say,” Grit commented, “but I sure would like to know! The Ten maybe?”

  “Not the Ten. Ja’tar should know better. How could he be confused so much as think a misanthrope like Ironfist would participate. The king of the dwarves hasn’t spoken to anyone for centuries?”

  “Ironfist? The Dwarf King of Ror, alive?” Grit stammered in amazement. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  “The same,” Shar’ran confirmed. “Oh, he’s quite alive. That grumpy old dwarf is still holed up in the caverns of Trockrock, but he never comes out anymore. He’s content to live underground, mine the earth and create blades and armor of legend. Truth is, Ironfist doesn’t talk much, never did. Certainly didn’t have anything to say when we were in the Guild during the wars. I seriously doubt he would have much to say to Ja’tar now!”

  “Well I’ll be a wart boring grettle!” Grit swore.

  Shar’ran raised his brow, and then went quiet, thinking over their brief discussion, instead of answers, all it brought were more questions.

  “I find it curious that your wizards still rely on the medallions,” Shar’ran commented in passing.

  “You mentioned that before. Why do you find that so strange?” Grit asked, not understanding.

  “Well, and I’m not sure how to say this, but when you dried your clothes and healed yourself, X’all said he couldn’t feel you using magic. So, by inference, I would say that you are still using the medallion or Duvall’s magic of some sort that you harnessed in the Great War. Probably because you never relearned the ancient magic.”

  Grit just stared at him, “What do you mean Duvall’s magic and ancient magic. I thought magic was magic?”

  Shar’ran continued, “I remember back in the times of Ror, when the situation was desperate and we were being pushed back at the Wall of Woe, that the Ten had devised a way for young mages to master using magic from an unknown ethereal source they had discovered. Duvall and Vexell had figured out a way to circumvent years of training, they churned out mages at an extraordinary pace. It’s one of the things that allowed us to win the final battles against the Dark Ones.”

  “Go on,” Grit asked, completely enthralled with the history lesson.

  Shar’ran pointed a finger and poked Grit gently in his chest, “I think that you still use that magic and that the wizards have never gone back to learning the old ways ...”

  Grit thought long and hard about what the elf had said. He certainly had never been taught any other kind of magic other than control of the Zylliac. Of course, he had always assumed that other kinds of magic existed, otherwise, how could the battles have been fought in the days prior to the taming of the beast. His history of the battle of Ror was somewhat fuzzy. He had always assumed that the early battles were fought mostly using swords, dragons and such. Perhaps his assumptions were incorrect.

  “So you have this ancient magic?” Grit asked, taking a big bite of fresh flatbread.

  “We do,” Shar’ran agreed. “All the elves do, some dwarves too. All faerie creatures use the same magic as well.”

  “And you do not control any kind of ethereal being or magical creature?”

  “We do not,” he replied, shaking his head. “We use the live force of the heavens.”

  “So you can light a fire perhaps?” Grit asked, his eyebrows raised.

  Shar’ran casually reached over to a branch sitting next to the fire pit, lifted it in front of his face, and briefly concentrated. The branch smoldered and then burst into flames.

  Grit knew that he had used magic, but he could not sense that Shar’ran had issued any command to do so, just as X’all didn’t feel him doing any magic when he dried his clothes.

  “Curious!” Grit said, with a smile.

  “Indeed!” Shar’ran beamed.

  “Do all elves master control of magic?”

  “They do, although to different extents. Master is a relative term you know. Our magic is ... different, we use it to grow and harmonize with nature. There are only a few of us, known as battle-elves, we ... well, let’s say we can control the darker side of the art. The rest use it for song, food, love ...”

  Grit’s brows rose, “Love?”

  “It’s hard to explain. Perhaps later,” Shar’ran said, changing the subject again, knowing there was a good chance that Grit would find out for himself later that night.

  “So from what you are saying, all mages used to be able to control your kind of magic, this ancient magic?”

  “Not my kind, but ancient magic, yes! All magic is the same. There are no differences. Magic is magic, but you seem to control something that actually yields the magic, not the magic itself ...” Shar’ran explained.

  “So, you don’t need the medallion?”

  Shar’ran shook his head, “No, and since you do, you are putting yourself at great risk ...”

  Grit’s head shot up, “How so?”

  “I have heard rumors that the great totems in the forests control the magic and that they can be used to cut off the flow from this magic source of yours. If you have no magic of your own, then you would wither and die if that were to happen.”

  Grit lowered his head and rubbed his eyes, thinking long and hard on what Shar’ran had just said. It was exactly as Ja’tar had said.

  “Ja’tar had told us that it was a possibility.”

  Shar’ran saw the perplexed look on Grit’s face. “Do you have a question?”

  “So if the totems go off, can you still cross the boundaries and use magic?” Grit asked.

  “We do not notice the state of the totems; we have been able to wander all the realms. So, if there are realms that are, as you say, cut off, we have not been kept from entering them or using magic.” Shar’ran stated as a matter-of-factly.

  “Then what are the totems for?” Grit asked. “I thought they were to cut off the magic for any realm that uses too much or ...”

  Grit stopped mid sentence. The thought he just had scared him. If people who controlled this real magic could walk across the boundaries, who were the totems meant to control? The only people he knew that controlled the beast were mages.

  “The totems are meant to cut off mages from the magic,” he blurted out in a terrified voice.

  “It would seem so,” said Shar’ran
, glad that Grit had come to the same conclusion as he had many centuries ago.

  “Bu-but the Ten didn’t make the totems ... did they?” Grit pleaded.

  “Yes, No, we don’t know for sure. But they learned how to control them. Ever wonder why?” Shar’ran asked, leading Grit’s thoughts.

  “T-to control the wizards of the Keep?” Grit stuttered when a chill ran down his spine.

  “It would seem so,” said Shar’ran.

  “But why?” Grit said, searching for a reason that would make sense.

  Shar’ran shrugged, “Mayhap they were more afraid of the wizards of the Keep than they were of the demons of the underworld. After all, they created thousands of mages in the course of the Great War. After the war they would need to control them somehow.”

  “But, but that would mean that all of the mages we lost who were guarding the realms, fighting the demons, died because ...” Grit could continue no longer and he lowered his head into his hands and wept.

  Shar’ran came to Grit and laid an arm across his shoulder trying to console him. It was a bitter truth to swallow.

  Grit sobbed, “But we were trying to safeguard the realms ...”

  “I think that the Ten feared another uprising of Dark Mages or a coup so they devised a way to control the powerful mages they created,” Shar’ran said, with certainty.

  “By not teaching you the old ways, they were guaranteed safety because any uprising would cut the source of magic off from all of those involved, plus any collateral damage, of course. Since they ultimately control the ethereal being you use, they also control what kind of magic you can or can’t do. From what you say of your journey, I would say that after the war, they changed the magic too. Even the mages using Duvall’s magic could slay demons and beasts in my time. From what you have said, that no longer appears to be true.”

  “But that would leave the realms open to being controlled by the demons we fought!” Grit said, eyes red and raw.

  “It would seem that we have a dilemma on our hands. You and all the magi of the Keep are at great risk should the beast be sequestered away. None of you possess real magic,” Shar’ran said, nodding at Grit. “We must get you trained as quickly as possible, at least to the point where you can at least control your aging.”

  Grit understood Shar’ran’s position. It seemed that every step he took in this adventure was leading him down a spiraling path. He thought about Men’ak and Dra’kor and wished he could let them know what he had discovered. He missed Dra’kor’s wisdom. He was the smart one; he’d know what to do. He could only hope that they would discover the truth on their own and somehow manage to survive.

  “I think that Kyra would like to train you,” Shar’ran smiled.

  “Really?” Grit asked, in an astonished voice.

  “I think she likes you ...” Shar’ran said, giving Grit a wink, “and she is a very competent fighter.”

  Grit swallowed hard, wondering exactly what Shar’ran meant with that wink.

  Grit turned his attention to the new dancers in the center of the room. They pulsed and wove their dance wearing nearly invisible material, a material woven from the same metal used for the armor, but infused with lightly colored silk spun so fine that it disappeared in the light. Their near perfect bodies moved like the wind and the erotic rhythms and movements caught Grit unprepared. He took another big gulp of wine to settle his nerves and felt amazingly good considering all that he had been put through this day.

  He was so mesmerized by the dancers; he failed to notice the server next to him refill his glass with the elven elixir. The fruit and honey beverage was the finest he had ever tasted and it went down easy ... and quick. Before long, the room was gently swaying and bright lights and swirling colors were entertaining him as much as the seductive young women, who seemed bent on getting a rise from him. He giggled to himself. They were successful.

  “The dancers are very good tonight, don’t you think?” Shar’ran said quietly, in Grit’s ear.

  Grit’s unfocused eyes and big toothy smile let the elf know all he needed. He smiled and shook his head. Tomorrow’s training session was going to be a might unpleasant, given that Grit wasn’t accustomed to elven wine, laced with the potent earth herbs. Ah, he remembered the days himself.

  Grit was swaying to the music and humming to himself. He couldn’t recall enjoying himself more. He continued drinking from his glass not noticing that Shar’ran had waved the servers off. He knew he had drunk too much, but didn’t care. For tonight, he didn’t care.

  Kyra and two of the dancers helped Grit to his feet at the end of the evening and assisted him to his room. He stood there weaving while the group undressed him and sponged him off. He missed the admiring glances of some of the ladies, as the potent drink had numbed his senses. Having finished with his sponge bath, they put him to bed and joined him.

  He had dreams, dreams the likes of which he had never had before. He dreamt of fair maidens, faeries, soft lights, music and laughter ... pleasures. He moaned softly as the herbs and his companions brought him to a place he had never been before. He felt the kiss of butterflies and the caress of soft skin and silk. Before long, he slipped off into a place of contentment, not quite awake, and not quite asleep. He was vaguely aware of conversation in the room and thought he had heard giggling. The rest of the night was just a blur.

  It was early when he woke, his head pounding and his eyes unable to focus. He knew almost immediately that he was not alone. He could feel a soft body pressed up next to his. He turned over and was greeted by the sleeping form of one of the dancers he had been admiring the night before. He slowly rolled in the other direction, and to his surprise, was greeted by another, the serving woman who had been filling his glass all night. He rolled back to his back and stared petrified at the ceiling. He slowly slid his hand down under the sheets and confirmed that he was naked.

  The dancer felt him stir and casually threw a leg over his stomach. Try as he might, there was no way for him to control himself. The dancer let out a soft purr and crawled on top of him. Grit was almost paralyzed with fear, as he felt her velvety soft skin rub up and down his frame. Her lips softly caressed his and the fear quickly faded as he was consumed with lust. Then, he was lost in the moment.

  They had no sooner finished than a loud rap came from the door.

  A voice from the other side bellowed, “Grit! Time to begin training and morning ritual.”

  Grit didn’t recognize the voice but he shouted back, “I’ll be right there. Give me five minutes.”

  He looked over back at the bed and saw the beautiful young dancer half tangled in the silky sheet. He sighed heavily, just his luck. Seemed to him he hadn’t had more than a single opportunity like this over the centuries, and he had to be summoned to training. He shook his head and grinned to himself, for it also dawned on him that this was not the first time that drink had sabotaged his night either.

  He looked around for his robe, but couldn’t find it. In its place, he saw a fine linen robe like those he had seen many of the elves wearing when he had arrived. He slipped it on and tied it at the waist. It was short for his liking and the cool air wafting under caused him to shiver. He slipped on his boots and stepped out the door.

  Shar’ran and Kyra were outside waiting for him as were several other elves he failed to recognize. Grit stumbled down the hall, eliciting a big grin from Shar’ran. He was quite a sight with his elven robe, black knee-high work boots and white knobby knees.

  “You seemed to have enjoyed yourself last night ...” Shar’ran snickered, thinking back to days long past when he shared the bed with the young dancers.

  “I don’t remember that much after dinner. What was in the wine?” Grit asked, rubbing his aching head.

  “Ahh! First time with elven wine? Then your head must beat with the drums of Avenoor ... we’ll get you a drink that should help a little,” Shar’ran said, knowingly. He snapped his fingers and a servant bowed deeply before running off to
fulfill the request.

  “A little,” Grit moaned. ‘I feel like I’ve been clubbed all night, my eyes won’t focus.”

  Kyra muttered a scoff that caught Shar’ran by surprise. He gave her a puzzled look and she returned a smug aloof shrug. Shar’ran rolled his eyes. His daughter could be very selfish and had a temper. Very unbecoming in an elf.

  They waited for Grit to get ready, which didn’t take long. He gulped down the bitter drink that the servant had retrieved.

  “What in Halla is in that?” he groaned, puckered his lips and frowned. He bent over at the waist as his stomach churned.

  “It’s a root called bingeweed. It’ll help, I promise.”

  Grit drained the rest of the cup and wondered if the cure wasn’t worse than the disease.

  When they exited the building, it was still mostly dark. “We have ritual before breakfast,” Kyra said, relishing the fact that Grit was going to suffer.

  There weren’t many things in this world that made you feel more miserable than a hangover from fine elven wine. The effects from the strong brew were legendary, and in moderation were quite pleasant. However, moderation was a slippery slope. The effects seldom fully presented themselves until you had already slipped well over the edge. She smirked to herself. It wasn’t that she enjoyed seeing him suffer, it was more that ... well, she had thought she was going to share his bed last night, until that pushy elf, Tia-lee pulled Grit away. Well, if he was too drunk to see which of them was clearly superior, then he deserved to suffer, she thought to herself. And to top things off, Vhara was in his bed this morning too. How she had gotten there, Kyra had no idea, but it was just too much for her to handle.

  “Ritual?” Grit asked, unable to focus his eyes.

  “It’s a lot like dance, but with stretches and chants,” she said, leaning in his direction. She knew that what she said wasn’t entirely true, but didn’t see the point in elaborating further. He would find out for himself in just minutes.

  “Oh!” Grit mumbled somewhat incoherently.

  “I see you found your robe,” Shar’ran said. “Did you also find your bakree?”