by Unknown
“How did Primean die?”
“He used ALL his spark. His fatigue was so great that he collapsed and his muscles stopped working, including his heart.”
“How did I end up here?”
“Upon feeling a faint heartbeat, I performed a transfusion for you from the student who discovered us. I would have used my own blood, but I had lost a great deal myself. After that, I called for help and we transferred you to the care of the infirmary. They did a great job, but there are a few things you should know…”
“Like what?”
“Your injuries were severe because of their quantity. There was very little skin left for the infirmary wizards to work with...they were able to close the wounds, but they aren’t very cosmetic.”
“I can live with that…what else?”
“Do you remember me saying that the color in your skin had drained?” Slate nodded. “I assumed it was due to the loss of blood, but even after the transfusions it hasn’t come back.”
Slate slowly lifted the bed sheet and looked at his torso. Thick, rope-like scars covered every inch of his chest and shoulders. They should have been red and enflamed, but they weren’t…they were the palest shade of white he had ever seen. He lifted the sheet a little more and saw that it wasn’t limited to his chest. His skin was ghost white. “I look like Death.”
Lattimer gave an uneasy chuckle. “…only because you have recently cheated it…” The uneasy chuckle gave way to an even more awkward silence and then Lattimer continued. “When I told my father on the way over here that you had earned my respect, he shared with me that Pillar was destroyed. I would like to help you catch the person responsible for the tournament and Pillar.”
Slate had experienced more shocking things since he first arrived in Ravinai, but this definitely counted as one of the most unexpected. Lattimer wanted to help him investigate his parents’ attack? Maybe it was the fact that Lattimer had just saved his life, but Slate decided to accept the invitation. “I need all the help I can get.” Slate grasped Lattimer’s extended forearm and the two shook.
Despite the show of solidarity, Slate decided to give his new ally a test. “Could you investigate a lead for me? I found an interesting weapon buried in the rubble of Pillar. It was a throwing knife with catalpa trees on the hilt and of exquisite workmanship…much too fine for someone in Pillar. Could you find out who the owner of the knife is?”
“There are a lot of knives, but the one you describe sounds rare enough that it might be possible. I’ll look into it.” Lattimer then rose and left Slate to rest, something he had no intention of doing.
After waiting several minutes, Slate rose and tested his strength. The famed infirmary wizards did work worthy of their reputation. He felt the same strength as he had when he got out of bed this morning. He found his clothes folded neatly in a corner, dressed, and slipped out of the infirmary using skills honed in the hallways of Ispirtu.
Slate took to the rooftops of Ravinai and jumped onto the balcony of his apartment. Rainier was gone, but Sana rested on the lounge pillows. Rainier must have given her a key. “Good evening, Sana.”
“Slate! What happened to you? Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“It might be more accurate to say I’ve turned into one. I’ll explain everything later, but for now, I need your help. Do you remember the testing you did on my hand?” Sana nodded slowly. “Please take out one of your knives. I have a new test for you and it will require your skills in healing afterwards.”
“What are you planning?” Sana sounded afraid for the first time in Slate’s memory, but she complied with his request and one of her knives appeared from a fold in her robe.
“I hope this doesn’t frighten you.” Slate took off his shirt, exposing his wounds.
“Fractal’s pattern…” was all Sana managed to say. Slate didn’t blame her.
“Cut me in the chest…anywhere you see a scar will do.” He spoke with authority and confidence to discourage questions from the shell-shocked apprentice. Sana hesitated, but then she made a small, shallow cut near his sternum.
It stung and the pain lingered, but no blood exited the wound. It was as he had thought. When Slate awoke in the infirmary, he still felt the same feeling of tightness as he had in Primean’s laboratory. It seemed that the effects would be permanent. Slate smiled at Sana, but she was too shocked to smile back. “Try my arm.”
Sana complied, this time cutting a bit deeper. Again, no blood flowed from the wound despite the pain. This time Sana had recovered enough to ask a question. “Slate, what is going on?”
“First, please heal me. They still hurt as much as a regular cut.” Seconds later, Slate felt the warmth of Sana’s magical touch permeating and repairing his wounds.
When she was finished, Sana demanded the whole story. “Let’s lie down…it’s been a long day.”
Slate then proceeded to tell Sana about the Sicarius meeting and the fateful trip to Primean’s laboratory. He described the whipping in as much detail as he could remember, but Sana was mainly interested in the spell and his description of tightness drawing toward his core and how he clung to it, pulling it as hard as he could. Finally, he described waking up in the infirmary and the turn of events regarding the Regallos. Sana appeared openly skeptical until Slate said that Lattimer saved his life. Then Sana had one final question. “Why did you lose the color from your skin?”
Slate was amazed that he had forgotten to tell her. “I don’t know. It happened during my time in Primean’s laboratory, but I can only assume it’s related to my lack of bleeding.”
Sana then answered for him. “That makes sense based on your description. I think the spell draws blood toward your key internal organs, like your heart and brain, and away from your peripheral organs, such as your skin. With the loss of blood flow, you would lose color. I will have more tests for you to understand how you are able to retain your strength with decreased blood flow to your periphery…starting tomorrow.”
Slate groaned but only in jest. Her excitement was enough to bring a smile back to his face. When she returned a smile, he rolled over and kissed her. She flinched for a second and Slate drew back. “I forgot, I must look completely different to you…”
Sana stopped him before he could finish his sentence. She kissed him on the lips before slowly working her way to each of his new scars across his chest and back. The act was better than any words of assurance she could have said. Slate took some initiative and sat up to kiss her, but she pushed him back down.
“You already took my knife from me tonight, Slate. I am completely defenseless and I don’t trust you without it.” She smirked mischievously. “The only solution I can see is if you let me be in control and you stop me when you feel uncomfortable.”
Slate leaned back and relaxed. “Who am I to argue with logic like that?” He smiled up at her. He had already been probed by a half dozen wizards in the past few months and he had little left in the way of humility. Sana failed to find something that could make Slate uncomfortable, despite multiple inventive attempts…
INTERLUDE
REFLECTION OF REGRET
The clacking of the practice swords ceased, the silence drawing Slate’s gaze from his revelry, where the innkeeper and his son stared into the distance. Slate heard the distinct, and yet still far off sound of hoof beats. Dust rose against the horizon, failing to hide the riders approaching with the inevitability of an imminent thunderhead.
The guardsmen found him. The king had labeled Slate a threat to Malethya and the decades of peace. Slate admitted he looked the part…but if he died, no one would know the truth. Was it worth fighting for? The people in the kingdom seemed happy enough living under the control of a Blood Mage.
Deep inside though, Slate knew the Blood Mage would seek more and more power, just as the followers of Cantor had done. Even if peace was kept for now, it was only a matter of time before oppression was a way of life within Malethya.
; He looked down at the innkeeper as he put an arm around his shaking son, uncertain of who approached but certain of their inability to defend against such a force. Slate knew the riders would bear the shining armor of the Bellator Guardsmen and carry the crest of King Darik. Upon sight of it, the townspeople would stop shaking and cheer.
Then the guardsmen would get closer, and the townspeople would see their eyes turn red. By the time they were done, this town would be as empty as Pillar. The people would be killed and the buildings burned to the ground. Slate didn’t know if he could stop it from happening…he certainly hadn’t stopped any of the Blood Mage’s other plans. But he couldn’t give up. Somehow he’d find a way to protect people like this innkeeper and his son.
Slate dressed, but not in the traveling clothes he used to hide his identity. His pants had a series of black ties and folds that allowed freedom of movement and plenty of hiding places for darts and knives. Slate didn’t wear a shirt. He wanted people to see the scars on his body and the bloodless wounds if someone were lucky enough to land a blow. He hung the Stratego medallion around his neck as a reminder that nothing appears as it seems. Slate decided not to wear the Sicarius mask. He wanted people to know who saved their village and see his red, fractal-forsaken eyes. Finally, Slate put on his glove and thought of Lucus as he always did when wearing the gift.
Slate jumped out the window, flipped once and landed on one knee, an old habit from his tournament days. The innkeeper and his son were startled and then terrified at the sight of the Blight-Bringer. Slate didn’t bother to console them. “You should go inside now. This will all be over soon…”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HOUSE OF CARDS
“Pick up your things. We are heading to the courtyard.” Brannon pronounced to the class. ”Don’t waste your spark on simulated battles in the hallway. You’ll need it for today’s testing.” Brannon’s scepter glowed and the sounds of battle ceased outside the lecture hall.
Slate walked through the hallways with Annarelle and Tommy. Brannon may have stopped the battle, but Slate preferred to walk between his two friends for protection. Annarelle and Tommy had begun joining Magical Defense late to get quiet lessons from Slate when the opportunities arose. They had also worked out a technique for surviving the halls of Ispirtu. Annarelle scouted the hallways, and Tommy would dispatch any alerted patrols. Tommy wasn’t big by Bellator standards, but in Ispirtu, he looked like Jak. If any Ispirtu wizards witnessed their bending of Ispirtu rules, Tommy used physical means to encourage their silence. The prideful Ispirtu wizards refused to admit defeat by such lowly means as a physical beating, so Tommy and Annarelle eluded punishment. Pride filled Slate to know they now walked the Ispirtu hallways in confidence.
“What do you think Brannon has in store for us today?” Annarelle asked.
“Whatever it is, he won’t be happy in our performance.” Tommy snickered. Over the course of the last few weeks, the temperamental Brannon had turned downright irritable, spending his time locked in his office.
“He can’t be angrier than the other day. When you couldn’t shake the ground beneath your feet, I thought he would make a hole for you and bury you in it.” Slate was only half joking.
Tommy stopped snickering. “Let’s hope today’s lessons don’t involve moving the ground.”
Brannon led the class into a beautifully manicured courtyard with ornamental trees clinging to the last leaves of autumn, denying the inevitability of the oncoming winter. A series of concentric rings lined the grounds and Brannon stood at the epicenter.
“The first ring simulates the strike of a swordsman. The second corresponds with the thrust of a pikeman. Any wizard hoping to survive the battlefield must be able to defend himself from these distances.” Brannon let out a pressure waves in all directions that reached to the second circle. “This, of course, is only the minimum defense needed in battle. Powerful wizards can take out any archers within range as well.” A massive firewall emanated from Brannon toward a distant line in the courtyard. Despite his distance from Brannon, the heat passed over Slate’s face and forced him to turn away. When he looked back, the ornamental trees were left barren and charred, their remaining leaves incinerated from the heat.
“Speed is important in battle, but power is a great equalizer. With a powerful spell, you kill your opponent before they are in range to attack. Unfortunately for some of you, power is related to the strength of your spark. Lattimer, you will be tested first.”
Lattimer walked to the center of the circles and unleashed a powerful spell that shook the ground around him, almost reaching the archery line.
“That was an impressive display, but the strength of your spark indicates you are capable of more. Continue practicing.” Brannon then tested some wizards from Lattimer’s ever increasing group of admirers. The strongest wizards sought Lattimer’s attention in the hopes of increased access to Brannon and prestige within Ispirtu. With each wizard tested, their power decreased and Brannon’s interest waned. “You there…what’s your name?” Brannon asked.
“Annarelle.”
“Try to do better than that sorry excuse for a wizard that went before you.” Tommy hung his head since he had preceded Annarelle’s testing.
Annarelle entered the center circle and concentrated, producing a small pressure wall that didn’t quite reach the line indicating a pike thrust. Brannon had seen enough. “I can’t watch this anymore…get out of my sight.”
Slate, Annarelle, and Tommy scampered for the courtyard entrance. They were still catching their breath when Lattimer and his entourage exited the courtyard with a verbal barrage. “Out of breath and out of spark…a dangerous combination.” Maintaining an abusive discourse helped to hide Slate and Lattimer’s newfound alliance.
“It must be difficult having so many fractal-fanning ass-kissers following you around all the time.” Tommy offered up.
“Tough words from a wizard who could be killed by a hand-held weapon,” Lattimer countered.
“A sword is all I need.” Slate flexed his fist. “Sometimes I don’t even need the sword.”
“Let’s go. I don’t want to hear any more threats from Death Incarnate. The sight of him causes me much pain. I couldn’t tolerate it for another five seconds.”
Lattimer walked off and Slate needed to leave. “I gotta run…there’s a Sicarius mission I have to fulfill.” Awe filled Annarelle’s eyes. No one knew what Sicarius really did or when, so it was an excellent alibi.
“Do you want us to escort you to the entrance?” Annarelle offered.
Slate wasn’t about to pass that up. “That would be much appreciated, Annarelle. Thank you.”
At the door, Slate thanked them again and asked who had the Stratego medallion. “I do,” said Annarelle with a smirk.
“How did she get it from you?” Slate asked Tommy.
Tommy turned red and Annarelle answered for him. “I kissed him and slipped it from his pocket.” She smiled, Tommy looked at his feet and Slate laughed.
“It must have been a good kiss then.” Slate left his friends and ran to the side of Ispirtu. Lattimer included the words “pain” and “tolerance” in his final volley of verbal abuse. That meant he wanted to meet him in the abandoned Pain Tolerance Laboratory in five minutes.
Slate ducked into the storeroom window and hurried down the hall. He opened the doors into the now dark lab and waited inside the door. Ispirtu didn’t bother using orbs to light the room anymore, so Slate didn’t have much choice.
A few minutes later, Lattimer walked in with an orb floating a few feet above his head, illuminating enough of the laboratory to avoid any painful mistakes traversing the room. Out of habit, they met in the back of the lab where two hooks still hung from the ceiling. They sat at opposite ends of the table that used to hold a whip.
“Sorry I was late. It really is difficult to escape when I want to.” Lattimer apologized.
“Ahh…the price of fame. Why did you want to meet?” Meetings were
difficult to arrange and Slate wanted to maximize their time.
“You asked about a weapon rumored to be in the Pillar wreckage…a throwing knife with catalpa trees engraved on the hilt. I gathered information about the blade and retrieved it for you.” Lattimer smiled and placed the throwing knife on the table between them.
“How did you get it?”
“I learned that a Bellator squadron visited the wreckage shortly after the explosion, and Magnus informed me of the details. He said they examined the wreckage for signs of foul play when the Sicarius headmaster threw the blade and hit him in the foot.” Lattimer laughed. “The headmaster must not be as good of a shot as the rumors say…Magnus is a pretty big target. Anyway, Magnus called the headmaster a toothpick throwing coward and blamed the headmaster for the whole Pillar incident. I don’t know if I believed that part of his story, but the knife clearly belongs to the Sicarius headmaster.”
The information was mostly correct, except for the parts that Magnus wouldn’t have wanted to divulge. “Did you find out anything else?”
“With the knife in hand, I had the engraving on the hilt researched. Catalpa trees have long been revered as a symbol of wisdom, but this specific engraving is a near replicate of an etching from the days of Cantor and the Blood Mages.”
“What do you know about Cantor and Blood Mages?”
“I am the son of the Ispirtu headmaster. He taught me the history of magic before I could walk and told the fantastical tales of the Blood Mages as bedtime stories.”
Slate tried to keep his face impassive. “What did the etching depict?”
“There was a man rising in a grove of catalpa trees…if there was anything else to the story, I’m afraid I don’t know it.” Lattimer shrugged like it was inconsequential, but the description reminded Slate of Lucus.
“You’ve done good work.” Slate hid his incomplete trust in Lattimer with a compliment. Before he questioned Lattimer further, fluctuating intonations came from the shadows.