by Kim Wedlock
"This may hurt," he warned her as Garon set clean cloth, alcohol and a basin of warm water down on the table beside him, and she nodded and gritted her teeth as he gently wiped the blood away to get a better look. As Rathen concentrated and the woman and Aria both watched him work, a heavy silence descended.
"You're an inquisitor, right?" She asked Garon a long moment later, who stood and stared out of the window after scanning around the near-empty tavern, seeking conversation to take her mind away from the impending pain as Rathen reached for the alcohol. "We don't see many of you out in remote places like this. What are you doing here?" Her uncomfortable eyes shifted to intense curiosity. "Are you after a murderer?"
"I'm afraid it's classified," he said with the same note of superiority that Rathen knew came with all such statements, and the subject was brought to a very swift close.
"What's your name?" Rathen asked instead, touching the soaked cloth to the deepest wound, at which she immediately hissed in pain. He smiled briefly in apology.
"Petra," she replied once the sting began to pass.
"Care to tell us what happened, Petra?"
"Just a bad loser, that's all," she said mildly. "I was looking for a fight, he challenged me, I beat him, he didn't like it, then he tried to attack me." She shrugged. "It happens."
"You were looking for a fight?"
"You're a duelist, aren't you?" There was a very clear note of disapproval in Garon's voice, and it sat even plainer upon his brow.
Petra rolled her eyes as though she knew precisely what he was about to say, but suddenly flinched as Rathen touched at the bloodied tear in the side of her blouse. He scratched his head and returned her frown uncomfortably. "I'm going to have to..."
To his surprise, she needed little coaxing, and removed the cinch tied about her waist, setting it on the table. Her sword followed. Then two smaller blades joined it, along with a length of coiled rope ending with two steel balls. Rathen stared at her arsenal in surprise, and even Garon's eyebrows rose, but both lost interest when she raised the side of her blouse just high enough to reveal the wound beneath her ribs. She peered over to look at it, and though her eyes were troubled, her sigh didn't relay any astonishment.
Rathen's brow dropped gravely. Brutal burns warped the skin of her left hip and reached around to cross her lower back, and though their extent was concealed by her clothing, they were too severe to be so kindly isolated. So severe, in fact, that the senses of the affected area must have been dulled when it had happened - years ago, he guessed. He shortly spotted two more scars hidden within it, no doubt sustained from previous duels and gone as unnoticed as this one would have been, if their rough healing was anything to judge by.
"And what does it matter if I'm a duelist?" She demanded as Rathen silently turned his attention onto the injury, flashing her eyes defiantly back to Garon as she put it from her mind. "I'm not hurting anyone who didn't literally ask for it."
"Duelists cause disruption and injury, they encourage gambling which leads to violence and theft, and they put themselves and those around them at undue risk with undue reason." Garon looked down at her from beneath a stern frown, his arms folded tightly across his chest and his presence imposing enough to make the rebellious young woman shift and Aria, who had spent the while staring transfixed from the other side of the table, finally move away to stand close beside her father.
"It's all I know," Petra replied flatly. She'd likely been given the speech many times before. "I have to make a living somehow, and this is what I'm good at."
Garon shook his head and another long, weighted silence descended. Fortunately, and not a moment too soon, Rathen declared that he was finished and Petra rose to her feet with surprising grace despite her injuries, eager for the opportunity to leave, and flashed him a grateful smile.
"Thank you. I'm sorry there's nothing I can give you in gratitude, but I only just got here and--"
"It's fine," Rathen interrupted, "just take care of yourself."
Garon frowned at the softness of his voice - it was still rough enough to make most hesitate, and indeed the young woman did, but beyond the bitterness there was now also a kindness similar to that which emerged whenever he spoke to Aria.
"I always do," she assured him. "This was just an unfortunate occurrence, and I'm going to pay for it."
"What do you mean?"
She indicated the very wounds he had just dressed. "I won't be able to fight for a while. But I'll get by; I have in the past." She returned the cinch about her waist and slipped her weapons back where they belonged. "Thank you again," she said with another grateful smile. "I'd definitely be much worse off without your help. It's nice to know there are still good people out there, even if they're few and far between."
"Wait a moment," Garon said as she turned to leave, and she stopped rigidly in preparation for another condescending speech. "You wouldn't happen to know where we could find a man named Anthis Karth would you?"
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "No, sorry, I--"
"Just got here," Garon nodded. "Thank you anyway."
Rathen shook his head after her as she limped away and vanished outside, absently taking hold of Aria's hand and giving it a similarly thoughtless squeeze before turning to Garon expectantly. "Lead on."
Chapter 3
The barkeep had been of equally little help, but the inquisitor appeared unperturbed. He set a purposeful path back through the maze of streets, and though he seemed disinclined to share his plan, they trustingly followed him into every lane, road and building all the same, Rathen's spirit curiously calmed despite the uneasy darting of his eyes. Before too long, as the sun began its descent, they stepped into the third and final tavern in Edam, where music and the smell of cooked meat filled the stifled air.
Of all of the town's public houses, this was probably the most pleasing, and though it was busy for that fact and caused Rathen to tense up once more, the far less hostile atmosphere managed to offer at least some comfort. Here were not drunkards but people socialising, friends and colleagues laughing and enjoying one another's company, and, most notably, a number of old and learned-looking men, some reading, some in discussion, and others simply smoking in peace. But despite the savoury occupants, he kept Aria close.
"This looks promising," he said quietly to Garon as they headed towards the bar, and surely enough, no sooner had the inquisitor mentioned the name than the tavernkeep pointed off towards the far corner of the room.
Rathen followed the gesture to the more sparsely occupied tables, and his eyes fell immediately upon an elderly man. He was sat much like the others: alone, book in hand, pipe in his mouth with a glass of what looked like port on the table beside him, while cloaked in an undeniably scholarly air. In fact, he looked just as Rathen had expected him to, for despite his seclusion and disinterest in the subject, even he had heard of Anthis Karth. Kienza had mentioned him more than a few times in the past regarding academic discoveries of the long-passed age of the elves, and he remembered that one of those occasions had actually caught his interest. He couldn't presently recall the details.
That aside, this man, highly respected within historical circles, wore his reputation for passionate fascination well; it was evident from a single glance, in the way he pursued the book in his hand, his oddly youthful eyes transfixed as though being transported back in time by the words on the page, all while picking apart every detail and storing it for future reference.
But as he watched the reputable man, Rathen couldn't help wondering how one could ever maintain such a passion. The past was the past, after all; learning from it to keep it from being repeated was one thing, but a personal passion for the subject? Well, there was a reason he had never become a scholar, after all.
Garon thanked the tavernkeep and started towards the corner while Rathen and Aria followed close behind him, picking and weaving their way through the chairs. Those who noticed them - or rather the inquisitor's dark uniform - stepped aside or tucked in
their seats to make as much room as they could, and a few inclined their heads as they passed. Rathen noticed how respectful each gesture was; not like those most mages received, stiff and steeped in fear.
The old man at the table didn't notice them approach, nor even glance up from his book as Rathen hesitated beside him, frowning after Garon who had simply continued on past. Even Aria was obediently keeping up, and she turned to frown at him quizzically while pulling on his hand for him to do the same.
He did so, though his confusion only deepened when they stopped beside another solely-occupied table, one at which the man seated was surely no older than twenty five. Like the others, he was absorbed in his work - his nose in a book and a quill in his hand while papers stood in a disorganised stack on the table in front of him - but in less than a moment Rathen was struck by the unmistakable and peculiar hunger of interest in the young man's eyes, one that informed him in no uncertain terms that, never mind anyone else, this was the man they sought.
He still stood momentarily dumbstruck, glancing back towards the older man and wondering if they weren't actually mistaken, but as Garon had known where to find him, he was surely right on this account, too.
"Excuse me, Mister Karth," Garon began, standing in the same passively official manner he had when he'd first visited Rathen, and the young man dragged his attention away from the pages of his book to smile inquiringly up at him. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?"
"No, please, goodness, go ahead, Inquisitor," he smiled politely, slightly flustered as he made an attempt to tidy the table top, and he gestured to the chair beside him before turning his remarkably friendly gaze then upon Rathen and Aria, though it lingered quizzically upon first Rathen's bemused expression then to the very presence of the child before returning to the inquisitor. Despite the shift of his thoughts, however, his cheer never once faltered. "I apologise for the mess, I was just comparing notes from today's work - nothing that can't wait."
"That's actually what I'd like to talk to you about." Garon seated himself, though he didn't look like he expected to stay for long, and Aria, her little legs having grown quite tired, quickly followed suit. "The site you're presently studying is in Silverwood, isn't it?"
"Yes, the old elven ruins." A single blonde eyebrow dropped a fraction as concern crept over his young face, and his eyes flicked briefly up to Rathen. "Why?"
"I wondered if you'd noticed anything strange about the place at all? Or in others?"
"Oh for goodness sake..." He groaned and rolled his head back in weary frustration before leaning suddenly closer towards him, his cheer replaced by an abrupt defence. "None of that has anything to do with me," he told him quite precisely. "Regardless of what some 'distinguished' individuals might claim, I didn't trigger any kind of spell or whathaveyou in my 'tramping around' the ruins. It's been happening outside of Turunda, even in places I've never been, so how could I possibly be involved with it?"
"We're not here to accuse you of anything," Garon assured him, raising his hand to calm him, "we're just investigating the situation. We have a few suspicions regarding the nature of the phenomena and we were hoping you might be able to help us."
The young man paused. "Oh..." He smiled apologetically while his cheeks reddened, and his posture eased with a sigh. "I'm sorry, it's just that I've had the unfortunate honour of being the first to witness a few of these 'phenomena' and some people have assumed I was somehow to blame." He shook his head to himself then raised his glass, half-full with ale, and drank another half of what remained.
Rathen frowned at the lively young man with lingering scepticism, wondering whether the reputation he'd earned as one of the finest scholarly minds was really deserved or if he wasn't in fact, and far more likely, an imposter. The only facts that gave him thought to concede was that Garon seemed convinced, and he was too young to have earned it in any ordinary way. So either he truly would be able to help them, however Garon intended to use him, or he was simply a very convincing liar.
"Could you tell us what is happening in Silverwood?" Garon asked, putting the matter back into focus.
The young man nodded, but he kept a rein on his quickly returning enthusiasm and took a moment to collect his thoughts. When he spoke again, he did so carefully. He understood the weight of the inquisitor's involvement, if not his purpose. "There's a great beauty about the place," he began slowly, "but you must understand that I don't mean the landscape. It's like there's a blanket smothering that part of the forest, and once you step beneath it your whole perspective shifts. Approaching the site you would see only the trees, the roots, the mud and eventually the ruin itself through the darkness, and even as someone who is no happier than when surrounded by crumbling walls, the site is basic and I don't consider it to have much aesthetic value - and yet," he leaned further forwards, excitement colouring his green eyes even as his voice tightened in secrecy, "when you cross a certain point in the trees and the sun breaks through the leaves, they suddenly become majestic pillars holding up the sky, and the roots become seats to sit upon and stare at the incredible world around you and the ruins of one passed, as if it was a portal through time. But," he shook his head and squinted, squeezing his hands as though he could will an image of the place into being, as he couldn't possibly convey it in words, "but it's more than that. You could sit there for days - weeks - completely enraptured if you let yourself, and..." But he sighed and shook his head again, staring down at his papers though he didn't truly see them. A long moment later he looked back up to Garon, then to Rathen, whose own expression had been touched by interest even despite his relentless scepticism, and his voice hardened. "Silverwood isn't the only place I've encountered this. It was in Loggerhead, too, and when I got there the village was at a stand-still. If it wasn't for the fact that the village sits beside a main road, I really do think people could have died - starved to death, sleep deprivation or something." His eyes grew haunted. "The danger is too real, but I don't understand it at all."
"Why do people think you have something to do with it?"
"Well that one they don't," he admitted, but though he looked at Garon as he spoke, his mind was still elsewhere. "It was already happening when I got there, but a few people seeking to discredit me and my theories have leapt upon the unfortunate fact that I was the first to stumble upon these happenings, and as I'm much younger than most of my peers, some of them have put it down to me being careless and setting something off - which is preposterous anyway because elven traps are far more sophisticated than that, it's not like snagging a tripwire! And why would anyone even create a trap like that? Do you know," he frowned and leaned forwards, lowering his voice again, "there have even been a few whispers that I've hired a mage to do it for me, to keep people away so I can fabricate evidence to support my theories!"
Rathen watched him carefully. "Do you believe they are spells?"
The young historian's eyes lost their incredulous edge as they turned up to him. He opened and closed his mouth for a moment, but not a word came out. He was unable to miss the weight behind the question, and it was clear once again that he was thinking carefully before replying. "I don't know," he said at last. "I wouldn't be surprised, but I also can't justify why such spells would have been put in such places, nor indeed why they've only just become active."
"You're assuming the elves made them."
He looked back to Garon, his eyes turning momentarily blank, as though the point should have been obvious, but realisation slowly dawned on him and his mind was pulled back to the present. "Force of habit," he replied sheepishly - then alarm flashed through his widening eyes and his voice hushed again. "You think mages have done it?! So they are rebelling?!"
"We don't know yet," Garon replied, raising his hand to calm him once more while Rathen bit his tongue, hard, "nor if it's even magic. That's why we're investigating. We need to know what's causing it, why, and more importantly how to stop it. Whether mages are involved or not
, it can't be allowed to escalate."
"I quite agree - but if you think it could be mages, why are you coming to me?"
"Because all the reports mention elven ruins of one kind or another, and we want to know why."
"We need someone with an understanding of the sites," Rathen clarified, solely for his own benefit. On further thought, Kienza had mentioned that detail, too.
The historian grinned eagerly, his alarm forgotten as quickly as it had arrived. "I see. Well count me in! I've almost finished studying the place and I'm not currently on commission, and I'm certainly curious about the matter - I'd be honoured to work with you and help where I can, Inquisitor." But then his keen smile faltered, and he lowered his voice one last time as he glanced furtively around the tavern. "But won't we also need a mage?"
"We have one."
He stared at Garon for a long moment, then looked quizzically to Rathen, and then to Aria. "Who?" He followed the inquisitor's discreet nod and his eyes widened in horror, though whether it was for the mage's presence or for his own recent words, it wasn't clear. Rathen assumed both. "Forgive me," he said quickly, "you're not--you're not wearing your cloak. Is - forgive me - is that allowed?"
"It is." Not for any other mage, it was true, but he at least was exempt. A fact for which he was glad, as the Order's rank-issued and emblazoned cloak would have certainly earned them unwanted attention.
"Oh... Okay, that's good. Well, in that case, um..."
Aria frowned as the historian nodded vigorously. "Are you all right..." Her pastel voice, so out of place in a tavern of mostly middle-aged to elderly adults, immediately grasped their attention despite its smallness, and her eyes widened in her hesitation as she tried to recall what was evidently an extremely important detail. "...Mister...?"