Mystic: A Book of Underrealm

by Garrett Robinson

  Loren said, “Even if Vivien seeks to betray you, she could bring no word to your family until long after we have left this place. And I think she means to stay and aid Wellmont in its siege against Dorsea.”

  “I hope that is true,” said Annis. “I would not spend one moment longer at her side than needed. Did you hear how she spoke of my family and breeding? She is a serpent disguised as a human.”

  “That I doubt,” said Xain, “for she is a mentalist and not a therianthrope.”

  Xain smiled, but Loren, Gem, and Annis looked at him blankly. His smile soured, catching their looks, and he rubbed his arms as though cold.

  “A jest for mages, I suppose. Some therianthropes—weremages, you call them—can take the form of a serpent. It was . . . it was only a jest.”

  Gem gave him a gentle pat on the arm and a condescending smile. “Leave the jests to those with quicker tongues, wizard. Stick to your magic—you seem skilled enough at that.”

  Xain shrugged off his arm and left the room.

  The children chirped with many questions about what had happened after their capture, and Loren recounted it all. They also wanted to know much about Jordel and Vivien, but for the most part Loren had no answers.

  Once exhausted by their queries, after Loren had spilt all she could, she went downstairs to find Xain in the common room. She brought a coin from Gem’s stolen purse to pay for another night’s stay and food for them all.

  Downstairs, she noticed two men in red cloaks by the front door. Their cowls hung low so that Loren could not spy their faces. She guessed these were the Mystics Jordel had left to guard against Xain’s escape. She gave each a long look, and one by one they turned away.

  Loren found the wizard deep in a bowl of questionable stew and halfway through a mug of dark ale. Another drained mug sat beside the first and an empty bowl next to the one he ate from. Loren motioned to the innkeeper for a cup of wine and sat in silence with Xain. He ate as if oblivious to her presence. Soon his bowl was empty, and he drained his remaining ale in a single long pull. Only then did he look up at Loren, wiping the foam from his scrub of beard.

  “You seem ravenous,” she said.

  “We ate poorly on the river.” It was true, but they had all sated their hunger long since, and Loren well knew it. “What do you want from me, girl? I cannot move the Mystic’s mind, and it seems he will hold council with none but myself.”

  He surprised her by getting right to the point. Loren set both elbows on the table and leaned forward.

  “But you could tell me after. I want to know of these great matters he purports to hold as a secret.”

  “It could be nothing. Some conspiracy by some lesser nobles to seize a throne in the outland kingdoms. Mystics are well known to place greater importance in things than they deserve.”

  Loren thought of Jordel’s icy blue eyes, of his stern mouth, so rarely turned in either smile or frown. “Jordel does not seem the kind of man who would call a thing important unless it truly were.”

  “Oh? And what do you know of him?” A serving woman came with Loren’s wine, and Xain motioned for another mug of ale. “You have known him less time than you have known me, and still I am mostly a mystery.”

  “It takes me hardly any time to take measure of a man. But you avoid the point. Whatever Jordel says in the morrow, be it of high import or low, I beg you to tell me.”

  Loren sipped her wine. She had not drunk much before and compared every cup to the first, shared with Damaris in Cabrus. That had been fine, sweet, and heady. What she drank now was swill by comparison, but still it brought a lightness to her thoughts that she rather enjoyed.

  Xain shrugged. “I will tell you whatever secrets the Mystic imparts upon me. Though I fear you will be disappointed.”

  “Do not be so sure,” said Loren, taking another sip. “Even small bits of knowledge can be useful if one can gather enough. Mennet once brought down a mighty king with the strength of a single whispered word.”

  Xain burst into laughter. His ale arrived, and he kept laughing as he drank deep, sending splashes to darken his coat. “Mennet? Now you talk of stories and legends.”

  “Not all legends are pure fancy,” said Loren.

  “Mennet’s are. Do not tell me you believe his tales to be true? It is likely no one named Mennet ever lived at all.”

  Loren’s ears burnt, and she glared at the wizard. “Of course he did. There are a thousand tales of him. How could they all be false?”

  “How could they all be true? You have lived a life of adventure for months. Have you done even one great deed worthy of a story? Have you had the chance? How could you have a thousand such chances in a lifetime?”

  “I am young yet.” The wizard’s words angered her, but she knew not why. Loren supposed she had known some of Mennet’s stories must be flights of fancy, but to doubt his existence? She had never considered that, and she did not like it. Then she remembered how she had escaped from her cell in Cabrus. “And besides, some of his tales are certainly true. I have already used one to escape prison.”

  Xain ignored Loren, silent and intent, studying her face as though seeing her for the first time. She found his gaze uncomfortable. His cheeks seemed even more hollow in the dim glow of the fireplace, and his hair had grown thin and stringy. She thought suddenly that he looked like a skull with its skin stretched too tight, a scrap of wig desperately clinging to the top. But as sallow as his face seemed, his eyes had lost none of their vigor. They gleamed brighter than ever and bore the tease of a glow though the man used no magic. A frightening visage, and Loren found herself wishing the wizard would look away.

  Quietly he said, “I feel I understand you at last. That day I found you in the woods, you not only sought escape from your home. You meant to find a life of adventure, some mighty quest to lead you across the nine lands in search of fame and glory. You meant to become Mennet.”

  Loren scowled and took another sip. “Do not be ridiculous. Mennet had a cloak of shadows and the blessings of the darkness itself. How could I hope to become that?”

  Xain laughed again, and this time it left him harsh and scornful. “You prove yourself out. You have already gained for yourself a cloak of deep black and call yourself the Nightblade. Oh, this is rich. You seek to live the fairytale life of a man who never drew breath.”

  Loren wanted to strike the wizard and flee from the table. “Because they tell tales of him does not mean he did not live! People tell tales of the Wizard Kings. Do you think they, too, were flights of fancy?”

  “You compare our sun to the moons. We still feel the echoes of the Wizard Kings’ power today. Laws exist, written in ancient texts from the days of their dark rule.”

  “And a story of Mennet helped me bend bars of steel using only cloth,” said Loren triumphantly.

  Xain’s mood darkened further, but he waved a hand in dismissal. “Very well. Believe what you wish, only stop trying to pull me down your mad path of fancy. I would discuss with you another matter.”

  It was a poor victory but a victory nonetheless, and Loren let it go. “Very well. What plagues you, wizard?”

  Xain leaned forward, and his eyes grew hungry. “After I speak to Jordel, I do not mean to go along with his plan. This you know.”

  “Of course,” said Loren, nodding. “Though he may convince you.”

  “He will not,” Xain insisted. “I may pledge myself to him anyway—we must escape the city, after all. But he may suspect a trick and so refuse my service.”

  Loren knew that for the truth. Xain’s tongue was clumsy as a drunk merchant. “And if he does? What then?”

  “I have another plan for escape. But for it to work, I will need another magestone.”

  Loren felt her heart skip and did not know why. “Tell me your plan,” she said, not sure how to refuse the wizard outright.

  “With the power of a single stone, I could blast a hole in the city wall. Nothing dangerous—just large enough for one to slip through
at a time—but enough for the four of us to flee. It would be over in a moment, before the guards could react.”

  “And then the armies of Dorsea would widen that crack and come pouring through to kill everyone here.”

  Xain blinked. “I had not thought of that. But no, we could do it on the northern side. The Dorseans would have to cross the river to reach it and could not do so before Wellmont sealed the wall behind us.”

  “Leaving it weak and ripe for sapping. And you have forgotten that a second army approaches from the north even now. Besides, the guards could easily shoot us with arrows.”

  “Very well,” said Xain quickly. “I could use wind to lift us over the wall, flying away like birds.”

  “And they would shoot us down, just the same,” said Loren, shaking her head. “No, Xain, our best and safest route of escape is still to purchase our way upon a wagon. What we stole yesterday should be enough.”

  Xain slammed a hand on the table. “I am telling you, we must use another—”

  He caught himself at the last minute, and looking around, Loren saw that all eyes in the common room had turned to him—including the Mystics by the door. He glared at them until they both looked away, and then he leaned in to whisper.

  “A magestone,” he said. “’Tis the only way to be sure.”

  Loren steeled herself. “No, Xain. I will not. We agreed that you would receive your half when we reached your contact in Dorsea.”

  “But it is my share, is it not? Or do you mean to cheat me out of what is mine?”

  “Of course not. But I will not have you squander it all before we arrive. You must save some for your son’s rescue. Or have you forgotten him?”

  She had pushed the wizard too far and knew it before the words left her mouth. Xain snarled, and his hand clenched on the table. He winced and lifted his hand—the motion had driven a splinter deep into his flesh. Xain stared at his palm as though woken from a dream.

  His eyes rose to Loren. “I . . . you are right. We shall escape with Jordel. That is safest.”

  Something had changed in Xain’s eyes, and for a moment the wizard looked as he had when Loren first spied him in the Birchwood.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I am . . . I will be fine. I should go. It seems I have much to learn in the morrow.”

  He stood and left the table. Loren watched him go, somehow more frightened than before.

  twenty-four

  LOREN ROSE BEFORE DAWN THE next morning to find that the wizard had already left. Annis rose soon after, but Gem snored on and on as if he might never stop.

  “Xain is gone?” said Annis. “Do you think he will try to run?”

  “I do not know,” said Loren, “but I would wager not. Jordel posted guards downstairs, and Xain could not have escaped them without some commotion—enough to wake us here, I think.”

  Together, they decided to enter the city. To leave with Jordel, they would need supplies and provisions. Loren would rather not be beholden to the Mystic since she planned to part his company the moment she could, and besides they had enough coin within their stolen purse.

  Loren led Annis downstairs, where to her surprise she still saw one figure in a red cloak seated by the common room’s front door. She had not thought Jordel meant to guard them as well since it seemed clear that he was only after Xain. But then the figure rose and approached them, casting back its cowl. It was Vivien, her dark hair drawn back in careful looping braids. Despite what Loren knew of the woman, she looked beautiful, and it caught both girls off guard.

  “Risen at last, little songbirds,” said Vivien smoothly. “The morning wears on.”

  “It is scarcely past dawn,” said Loren, irritated. “Jordel has assigned you to watch us, I suppose?”

  She meant it as an insult, if a weak one—Loren had gathered that Vivien did not always agree with Jordel and that serving him grated on her. But Vivien smiled and spread her hands.

  “I am here by my own will. Since Jordel seems in such a rush to leave this city, I gathered that you would need to fetch some supplies. I grew to womanhood upon this city’s streets and can take you to all the best shops. My cloak will provide a better barter than you could gain with even the most silvered tongue.”

  Annis bristled beside her, but Loren spoke first and kept her tone equally civil. “We thank you but would sooner go alone. So much of the nine lands are still unknown to us, and they say a stranger may see more in a new land than the tired eyes of one long accustomed to its sights.”

  Another barb, but again Vivien only smiled. “My eyes are nearly as fresh as yours, for I have not been home in many years. It sounds as though you have had many thrilling adventures on the long road. I would hear all about them.”

  “We would not speak of them,” said Annis angrily.

  Vivien shrugged. “Then I will walk beside you regardless, and mayhap you will find my tales entertaining instead.”

  That piqued Loren’s interest. If indeed Vivien would only talk and not try to pry information, who knew what they might learn? “Very well. We shall need fresh bedrolls for a start—ours have grown musty. And salted beef and hardtack if it can be found.”

  “In plenty, and many finer things to eat besides. Come. I will take you to the clothiers first. Bedrolls are not in high demand, and they must make them when needed.”

  “Lead the way.” Loren quieted Annis with a look; the girl was fuming. “It will not be so bad,” she whispered as Vivien turned. “Mayhap we can learn something of value.”

  Despite her anger, Annis did not speak against it. So the three of them set out upon the city, Vivien swiftly taking them north and west to the craftsman’s quarter. Streets were quiet, and the few people they saw walking did not let their gaze linger anywhere long. Yesterday’s pall upon the city seemed to have worsened.

  “They await the next attack,” said Vivien. “It wears heavily on every nerve, though they do their best to hide it.”

  “The city has seen many wars, has it not?” said Loren.

  “Many, yes, though ‘war’ might be a strong word,” Vivien said. “Often do the Dorsean hounds yap at our heels, seeking to avenge some imagined slight. Most times, they come and bray at the walls for a day or two before slinking back to their homes, often without spilling a drop of blood. Other times, a few lives are lost on either side, victims of stray arrows. Never in my life have swords clashed upon the southern wall—at least not until now.”

  “How bad was it?” said Loren.

  “They managed to scale the wall in three places and every time were thrown back quickly. Some of our guards were wounded but none killed—the Dorseans lost a score of men.”

  Vivien seemed to grow more earnest by the word, her mask slipping away as it had in the tavern the day before. Her voice found more life than Loren had heard in it thus far—proud when she spoke of Wellmont, livid when the Dorseans poisoned her lips. If Loren could keep her talking, she might reveal much indeed.

  “That sounds like a victory. What, then, worries these people so?”

  “Jordel is to blame for that, though I bear him no grudge. The city felt it had nothing to fear, for though the Dorsean host is great, they had no way to pressure our northern wall. Supplies would have no trouble reaching us—or so we believed. Now Jordel has told them of the sellsword army, which even now marches upon us from the northeast. When they arrive, we will be hard put—but our walls are strong, and we shall surely best them. More than that—we will destroy them. While Selvan does not lightly put forth its strength in war, neither does that mean that Wellmont is weak.”

  Vivien spat the last with fury, such that Loren fell silent. The quiet lasted too long, for Loren saw her mask slide slowly back into place, all calm, without a single line to anger her brow.

  “You must forgive me for going on so long. As a child of this city, its fate weighs heavy on my mind. But I have heard nothing of you, Loren of the family Nelda. I do not know that name. Where is it from? Do you ha
il from here, in Selvan, or some other kingdom?”

  “I come from a nameless village in a forest you would never have heard of. ’Tis a place of little interest, to me or anyone else.”

  “Surely, each of us holds our homes to be important, at least in a small way.”

  Only one thing in the Birchwood was important, and I am not likely to see him again.

  Loren would no sooner have told Vivien about Chet than she would have revealed her dagger.

  “Such words come easily when you come from a great city,” she said.

  “You flatter me,” said Vivien with a small bow, hardly more than a nod. “If you will not tell me whence you come, then mayhap the little one will tell me where she means to go? You must know that your family eagerly seeks you, and if I will not tell them of your whereabouts, that does not mean others will be as restrained. Where will you hide from their watchful eyes?”

  “Do you think me a fool?” snapped Annis. “If I tell you, I may as well whisper it into my mother’s ears.”

  “I have given my word, and I am sorry that means so little to you,” said Vivien with a sorrowful shake of her head that Loren knew for farce. “But here. We have reached our first destination.”

  It was a small clothier’s shop with a green sign hanging above the door. Vivien gestured them in, where a buxom woman greeted them warmly. She received Vivien with particular grace, bowing low and remarking upon the lovely state of her cloak. The cloth looked lustrous, vivid as if it were brand new—a stark contrast to Jordel’s faded, threadbare garment.

  “Only half as fine as the meanest item in your shop, I am afraid,” said Vivien. The clothier blushed.

  In no time, the woman had cut them four new bedrolls of sturdy green cloth, thick and durable yet soft and comforting. Loren had never seen finer fabric used for so pedestrian a purpose. When she asked after the price, the clothier said she would take only a few silver pennies.