Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  “You’re leaving.” Lakif could clearly read the expression on her friend’s face.

  “Yes.”

  “So soon? There’s much to do!”

  “One needn’t travel to Maladomini to find dragons. We, Lakif, are the renascent dragons of Maldiveria. And dragons soar alone.”

  “To reach what heights?”

  “To soar through the clouds of distant memories, the very stuff of dreams. There’s something I have to do.”

  “What?”

  “Going through the ritual forced me to confront an issue. I don’t know why I can’t remember our time at Rhoan Oak clearly. By all accounts, I was old enough. I feel that something very special happened there, something now threatened to be lost forever. I’m setting out to search for the others.”

  “From Rhoan Oak?” Lakif couldn’t be sure she heard the confession correctly.

  Bael nodded. Lakif was taken aback by the revelation. “It’s a foolish gesture. You’re not going to explore your newfound magic?”

  “Of course I will try to develop it. But there was a magic among us there—a magic just as worthy as that of the Stones. It was forged in another type of furnace, the crucible of our youth. Rhoan Oak was the magical anvil from which the swords of our lives were hammered out. That magic teeters on the edge of oblivion, soon to be extinct without concerted intervention. We’ve already seen the fading of one—Vassag! Know you this, Lakif. Rhoan Oak, our distant past, is the unknown future waiting to be explored.”

  Lakif listened keenly to the Kulthean’s impassioned commentary. If indeed Rhoan Oak was the genesis of something, what fruit would it bear? What garden would bloom from its seed? Lakif found she did not share the Kulthean’s optimism.

  “How on earth will you ever find them?” Lakif asked. “They must be scattered throughout the city, inextricable from the masses.”

  “It will be challenging, without a doubt.”

  “Do you even remember them?”

  “Only a handful, I’m ashamed to say.”

  “It would be a chore to locate just one. To find more than one would require a stroke of luck. And several? Divine intervention.”

  “We live in a time of miracles, Acaanan. When stars fall, great men rise. Is there nothing we cannot achieve if our will so directs us?”

  Lakif reflected on Bael’s words. As potent as they were, she still felt that what he proposed was a fool’s errand. Yet, if any of the children of Rhoan Oak could surmount the insuperable, it was Bael. But she harbored no illusions that Bael would remain a lone vehicle for long. She imagined that in no time at he would be commanding legions of followers, for he was the shining star of them all.

  “Thank you.” Lakif placed her hand on Bael’s shoulder.

  “How so?”

  “For finding me. I couldn’t have imagined going into that dark place alone.”

  They reached a parting in the road. One fork sprouted a bridge spanning the Fornix. It led to the eastern reaches of Grimpkin. The other led toward the Leviathan and back into the heart of the district. Bael looked in the former direction.

  “I must go.” Bael spun his hands in dramatic fashion. “But before that, I perform my first act: I grant thee power of invisibility that you may flourish without detection by the Seekers, or other enemies. Goodbye, Lakif. We bury part of ourselves where roads divide, the part that dies when we say goodbye. Wherever your own road lies, and whatever happens, one thing rings true. We will always be friends, Acaanan.”

  “Forever!” Lakif cheered.

  The two hugged a warm goodbye. As the Kulthean turned away, he raised his hands to the sky and trumpeted.

  “Remember this, Lakif! Whatever else fails, the future remains. And what a wonderful one it will be!”

  With that, the Kulthean left and headed east into the blustering wind. Lakif watched him dwindle in size until he disappeared into the city.

  When she turned, Torkoth was standing at hand. The Half-man had a penchant for creeping up on the Acaanan while she was woolgathering.

  “Bael has gone?”

  Lakif nodded. “To stake out his new kingdom in the east.”

  “He’s a steeple of a man. What other could match him in stride?”

  “Only his shadow,” Lakif quipped.

  The Acaanan paced out a score of steps before sputtering to a stop. A sudden feeling of emptiness washed over her, as if the Kulthean’s departure had bankrupted her very self-confidence. What would she do without Bael’s guiding influence? She felt rudderless without the Kulthean captain at the helm of her destiny. In fact, she felt that she would simply drift with the wind.

  “I need a moment to collect myself.” The nascent warlock sat down on the steps of an amphitheater. Meanwhile, Torkoth jogged over to a vendor.

  Lakif studied the plaza fronting the drama house, studying the distance for any sign of the shimmering haze that Bael had noted. A dura lay dozing on a step nearby; a jagged bone was tucked under a paw. Across the lane, a group of men were ringing hand bells in concert.

  But she identified nothing like the apparitions, the subtle alterations, her friend had described.

  Why would they both experience differing sensations following the ritual? Perhaps it was to be expected, given how they even beheld the Stone’s inner light differently. Bael had suggested that magic was a country. The nation was impenetrable to normal men, but its gates were uniquely thrown open to the scions of Rhoan Oak. The land, constant and unflinching, dared the warlocks to conquer its timeless resources. Lakif never imagined that the nation would be different for different warlocks. Could the force of magic be so personalized? Or were the two simply looking at the same terrain from two vastly different angles? But she could not shake an unsettling suspicion—Vassag’s death was linked to the strange spectators that Bael glimpsed and she felt. She even imagined that they might directly be responsible for his gruesome end.

  Torkoth returned, nibbling on a piece of fowl. Lakif eyed the drumstick voraciously. She couldn’t remember her last meal. Due to their early flight out from the Goblin Knight, she hadn’t eaten breakfast the morning of their departure. Only a slight snack had tided her over that day. If Torkoth’s account was accurate, it would mean that skimpy meal had been her only sustenance in nearly four days.

  “How do you feel?” Torkoth asked. He held his short sword pointed down between his legs and was spinning the pommel with his scaly hand.

  “Empty.”

  “Empty? I thought you would be brimming with delight from your newfound power.”

  “Power? I couldn’t pull a rabbit from a hat.” Lakif frowned.

  “You don’t feel any different?”

  “I have a strange sense, a perception of something in the air. I feel that this is the shadow of the Arcanum. But wherever the truth lies, it seems that I will have to gradually develop my power. I feel like an infant just learning to walk.”

  “I know the feeling,” Torkoth commiserated. Then he switched the topic. “Why did Bael call you ‘Meanstaff’?”

  “Meanstaff?” Lakif echoed. Although the word carried significance to her, she didn’t recall Bael mouthing it.

  “Is that your surname?”

  “It was a nickname given to me at Rhoan Oak.” Lakif searched her recall. “We all had pithy monikers.”

  She realized that she had finally broached that thorny subject of her youthful home with the Half-man. It didn’t matter anymore.

  Surprisingly, Torkoth didn’t respond, so Lakif felt she should elaborate.

  “When I was there, I took to training with a quarterstaff. I don’t know why. It was taller than me, so I suppose I looked rather ridiculous. Thus I inherited an ironic nickname. I’d favor losing it.”

  “What is Rhoan Oak?” The inevitable question came.

  “An abbey where we spent our youth.” Lakif leaned back and rested on her palms. Something gooey squashed between her fingers. She felt that she had smashed a bug. Tipping her hand, she found that it crush
ed imp dung. Grimacing with disgust, she rubbed her palm against a pillar, smearing the feces in streaks.

  “Miserable vermin those imps are!” She wiped her hand clean on her pants.

  “Youth? You and Bael?” Torkoth chuckled at the sight.

  Lakif nodded.

  “There were others as well…” she began, but was at a loss to offer up any specific names. “There were many of us.”

  “Rhoan Oak was an orphanage?”

  “I suppose you could label it such,” Lakif acknowledged. “But with a very strict membership. All the children there were born with a link to Arcanum.”

  “You said that such individuals are quite rare.”

  “Exceedingly.” Lakif emphasized the word.

  “Then how were you all culled from the masses? Who orchestrated all this?”

  “The Unseen One of the White Hand, our mysterious benefactor.”

  “He must have had vast resources.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Was it also a school? I know you can read.”

  Lakif nodded. “We learned many skills at Rhoan Oak.”

  “It sounds more like an academy than an orphanage.” Torkoth ran his nail along the sword’s blade.

  Again she nodded. The former image was more complimentary than the latter.

  “I haven’t thought about that place for so long.” The memories were vague, and voicing them to a stranger felt odd. “I placed those memories neatly on a shelf in the attic of my mind and closed the door.”

  Lakif began rummaging through her belongings, taking a mental inventory of all she possessed. The bamboo container from the alchemist’s lab, a sooty prayer bead necklace rescued from the conflagration, a tube of red mercury, and a compartment ring were her recent acquisitions. But her pouch of coins was shrinking rapidly. With a shake, she seized up the contents. Perhaps two days of money remained. She had run nearly dry of funds. Or perhaps she was starting fresh, depending on the point of view.

  “So, what is your real surname?” Torkoth asked.

  “I don’t have one, or I don’t know, which I suppose amounts to the same thing.”

  “What was your father like?”

  “I don’t remember him at all,” Lakif snapped curtly. Torkoth’s query rang threateningly near the line of questioning begun by the psychologist.

  “Nothing?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “So how do you know your mother was an Acaanan?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You knew neither of your parents. How do you know she was the Acaanan?”

  “I just know!” Lakif growled. “But how?”

  Lakif felt the bite of the questions.

  “I remember her! The stone of years has dropped into the still pond of my mind, but I can see slivers of rippling images.”

  “But you said she died during your birth,” Torkoth was quick to add.

  “Yes…”

  “It would be unfathomable for a newborn to remember even a perverted image,” Torkoth corrected her.

  “You obviously don’t know Acaanans. I can’t remember what I did yesterday, but the most curious images are trapped here.” Lakif tapped her temple. “Somehow, that first sight is sculpted into this block.”

  “Well, Acaanan, I was wrong.” Torkoth raised his blade and arched it in the air as if tracing a figure with its point. “It seems we’re no different after all; we’re both alien to our past.”

  Lakif had confided personal details of her past, albeit vaguely, to her partner. As such, the Acaanan was forced to conclude that Torkoth had at last earned her entire trust. Although the swordsman was a mysterious figure, he had several times championed her interests. She had found herself a new confidante. The short conversation was the most candid one they had exchanged in their brief time together. On the Acaanan’s part, she was relieved to have cleared the air.

  As Torkoth’s sword streamed through the air, Lakif noticed a cut across the dorsum of his hand.

  “What happened?” Lakif pointed to the wound.

  Torkoth looked surprised as he examined the laceration. “I have no idea.”

  Lakif didn’t entirely believe the response. The length of the cut would defy ignorance. The wound looked exactly in accord with a punch through a glass pane or mirror.

  “Where are we off to now?” Torkoth asked. Lakif had the distinct impression that he was eager to change the subject. She was also startled by the question, having assumed that Torkoth would take this opportunity to bail out. He had every right to take his long awaited leave, having fulfilled his duty admirably.

  “You’re staying with me?” Lakif was flabbergasted, but also thrilled. She had become rather accustomed to Torkoth’s company and was hoping for the guard’s continued presence.

  “Why not? You are a bag of surprises, for weal or woe.” Lakif noticed Torkoth had a dagger slid under his boot straps.

  “My past is as blank today as it was that first night together. I must continue the search.”

  “Perhaps one must lose his life in order to find it.” Lakif commented.

  “More than find it, I reckon. I can rebuild it, as the potter who has marred his vessel can reshape it into another pot.”

  Lakif was reminded of Bael’s final remarks.

  “I imagined that you would take care of the girl from the plaza. What was her name?”

  “Sarah, but she’s in a safe haven now.”

  “Well, if we are to remain together, you should be forewarned. We must keep a tight lid on any talk of the Stone or the church. And there must be no talk of Arcanum or warlocks, at least where others can overhear us. It would spell disaster for us both, pun intended. The citizenry would stone us and anoint our skulls with their urine; it is the law of the land.”

  “Agreed,” the Half-man acknowledged.

  “Because I’m putting my heart on my sleeve, there is something else I should mention. It concerns my sudden disappearance from the Goblin Knight days back, shortly after we returned from Ebon Myre. I skipped out on our deal.”

  “What deal?”

  Lakif blinked in surprise.

  “I had promised you some talents, and I couldn’t keep up my end of the bargain.”

  “Is that why you acted so squirrelly? Never mind, I’d forgotten about it.”

  Lakif nodded. “All the same, I’m afraid that it doesn’t cast me in a favorable light.”

  “Then as you suggested, let’s stick to the shadows.”

  Lakif breathed easier, feeling a weight lifting off her shoulders. Her eye wandered up to the column behind her companion. There was etched an engraving of a tower, not much different than a chess piece. She wondered if it were a rune.

  “Jonas!” Lakif shouted.

  “Who?” Torkoth looked around for the object of the outburst but saw nobody.

  “The scribe from the Goblin Knight!” She was mentally calculating the days. “It’s tonight, or was it last night? I can’t be sure!”

  “Pardon?” Torkoth blinked with surprise.

  “I have to meet Jonas at once!” Lakif leapt to her feet.

  “Who is Jonas?”

  “I’ll explain on the way.” Lakif was tugging on a reluctant Torkoth’s arm.

  “Why tonight?” her partner complained.

  “He may disappear, succumbing to the lure of another rune!” Lakif shrieked, as if a general emergency existed.

  “As usual, you speak in riddles,” Torkoth’s resistance continued.

  “I must go back to the Goblin Knight tonight!” Lakif pulled again but was still thwarted by the Half-man’s inertia.

  “Is that wise—after our subtle escape?” Torkoth cautioned.

  Lakif momentarily equivocated, evaluating the wisdom of returning to the inn. Torkoth was undeniably right. They would be flirting with disaster by returning to the inn, but the impulse was too great. But she was suddenly reminded of the Half-man’s suspicious behavior concerning the inn.

  “Wait a moment. Three tr
avelers turned up slain near the Goblin Knight,” Lakif informed him.

  “And?”

  “One was Capalos. You’re wearing his gift.” Lakif pointed out Torkoth’s tunic. “The others were the mystic and the Istani.”

  “Megani?” Torkoth grew wide-eyed.

  “I never gleaned his name.”

  “Slain you say?” Torkoth looked shocked.

  “In a most profane manner.”

  “That is a pity.” He stewed.

  “If we are to unite, I need an answer to this—did you have a hand in their untimely, and shocking, end?”

  Torkoth reflected on the revelation, then addressed her doubt.

  “No, but I have an inkling that I know the culprits.”

  “Culprits?”

  “There is a certain faction working at the inn. The sinister cadre takes it upon themselves to preserve the inn’s antiquated traditions, paying homage to the primitive idols of yesterday. They also see it as their duty to eliminate any undesirables that may drop in.”

  “Such as?”

  “Rabble rousers, alarmists, and the like. Capalos’ doomsday speeches may have aroused grievances. But they abominate Inhumans—particularly Acaanans. They tried to trick you one night into opening your door, so as to ambush you. They made some strange sounds in the hall, hoping you would investigate. It is not safe for you there.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I wormed my way into their confidence as we toiled together in the tower hearth.”

  “And the sword?” She challenged him.

  “Sword?”

  “That is Ku-than’s sword.” She singled out his blade.

  “Who is Ku-than?”

  “The mystic, I mean the shaman, from the Goblin Knight Inn. That sword was in his possession the night we met.”

  “Really? I hadn’t caught his name. He was a wise man, and gave me that pouch…I didn’t know this was his. One of the rakehells I mentioned was selling some items, and this sword spoke to me. At the time I naively assumed they were old heirlooms he was parting with, but now I see he was pawning stolen goods from his victims.”

  Lakif mulled over the Half-man’s warning. It seemed reasonable that Capalos and Ku-than had been killed like Isaiah of old for their doomsday talk. The intelligence certainly explained Torkoth’s reluctance to return to the inn on various occasions. He was simply looking out for the Acaanan’s welfare, as she was earmarked next for the gallows.