by Kel Kade
Aaslo reached out and grabbed the shadowy figure by the heel as he tried to scramble up the slope. He dragged the man down to his level, raised his sword over his head, then thrust it through the foreigner’s face. The magus bled red like any other. As the dust finally settled, Aaslo considered the brutality of the attack. He had never wanted to be a killer. He wanted to be a harbinger of life and growth, but something was squirming inside him, something that relished the hunt.
Backing down the slope, he nearly slid into Teza. “I saved you again,” she said. “You owe me your life twice over.”
“What are you talking about?”
She looked at him like he was daft. “The shield? You would have been itty-bitty little bits if I hadn’t thrown that up.”
“Yes,” he said, “I didn’t know you could do that.”
“It’s one of the first spells we learn—for protection,” she replied.
“That might have been helpful earlier when I was fighting.”
She shrugged as she led the way back to where Ijen was sitting again in his chair. “I forgot about it.”
“How could you forget that?” Aaslo groused.
“Don’t snap at me. You try thinking under pressure.”
“I do,” he said. He looked at Ijen as the man stood and said, “Well, Prophet, what do we do now?”
Ijen shook his head. “I cannot tell you which paths to take. It’s forbidden. There are very specific rules for prophets.”
Aaslo huffed. “Is it safe to change my clothes now?”
Ijen smiled. “I think so.”
Aaslo grunted and then looked at Ijen’s horse, who hadn’t moved during the entire encounter. “Your horse is remarkably well-behaved,” he said.
“As is yours,” replied Ijen, eyeing Dolt where he stood in the middle of the road. “Mine is bespelled.”
“Mine’s an idiot,” said Aaslo as he realized Dolt was actually asleep.
He used the fresh clothes that were now rags sodden with monster gore to wipe the rest of it from his body and then donned new ones. He rounded Dolt and said, “All right, we’ll continue with the plan, then.” He turned to Teza. “Are you ready?”
She stared at him thoughtfully. She tilted her head, and placed her hand on her hip, then stared at him some more.
“What?” he said, concerned that he might have missed some of the ick.
She said, “A little fancy for traveling, don’t you think?”
Aaslo looked down at the clothes gifted to him by the queen. “They’re the only clothes I have that aren’t torn, burnt, or covered in blood.”
Ijen walked over, leading his horse by the reins, and waited expectantly.
“What do you want?” said Aaslo.
“I’m going with you.”
“Why?”
Ijen tapped the book he had tucked into his belt. “That’s how it happens in the story.”
“It’s not a story,” said Aaslo. “It’s our lives.”
“Right. Sometimes I forget,” said Ijen. “Where are we going, then?”
Aaslo gritted his teeth. “You should be telling me.”
Ijen wagged a finger in the air. “No, no. You must decide.”
He sighed. “Fine. We’re going to find one of these fae creatures Magdelay told us about. You don’t happen to know where to find one, do you?”
Ijen lifted his chin. “I might, but I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Why not?” said Aaslo.
“It’s not a good line of the prophecy,” said Ijen.
Aaslo threw his hands in the air. “You just said that I have to pick. Do you have a better line?”
Ijen tapped his lip. “No, they all lead to death, but that one is particularly disturbing.”
Aaslo raised his dragon arm and clenched a taloned fist in front of Ijen’s face. “I can deal with disturbing. What I can’t deal with is sitting around doing nothing. Mathias was the chosen one. He was supposedly a powerful magus. Therefore, it stands to reason that anyone with a chance of success needs to also be a powerful magus. We seem to be all out of magi, save for the two of you, and I have no power. These fae sound like our best bet at acquiring some allies with real power. So, where do we find one?”
Ijen sighed. He flipped through the book, read a few lines, then flipped to another page. After doing the same thing three more times, he finally snapped the book shut and said, “Ruriton.”
Aaslo groaned as he hung his head. Then he began to chuckle. He couldn’t help it. Mathias’s laughter was contagious.
Teza crossed her arms. “What’s so funny? It’s convenient, right? That’s where we were going anyway.”
Aaslo shook his head. “Ever since I left the forest, people have been trying to get me to go to Ruriton. I’ve traveled for weeks and weeks looking for help, and all along I needed to go to Ruriton.”
Teza tapped his nose. “Yes, but if you hadn’t gone all over the place, you wouldn’t have met us.”
He shook his head. “Let’s go.”
As they mounted, Ijen muttered, “I really don’t like this line of the prophecy.”
CHAPTER 22
Myropa sat watching the road stretch into the distance behind them from the back of the prophet’s horse. Of course, she wasn’t really on the horse, but imagining it to be so meant less work on her part to keep pace with them. She wondered if the presence of the prophet had significance. Arayallen was livid with Arohnu for creating the imbalanced Aldrea Prophecy, yet he had also been delivering his messages to this prophet, who was apparently destined to become one of Aaslo’s companions. What was the man’s role? Was he to be a guide through the darkness, or was he meant to steer Aaslo from a path that might upset Axus’s plans? Aaslo had insisted on pursuing the fae despite the prophet’s warnings, and Myropa was most proud of him in that moment of forester stubbornness. She wondered how he had become so fearless.
The marquess’s estate was set upon an escarpment that overlooked the ocean. Most of the surrounding land, in fact most of Ruriton, was either too rocky or boggy marshland. She understood why the marquess had been so adamant about acquiring any assistance he could. Myropa felt a familiar chill as they entered the town at the base of the escarpment. At the same time, the horses stopped. She glanced over her shoulder to see what had caused the abrupt halt. The city was completely devoid of life. No people manned the stalls, no children ran through the streets, no dogs begged for scraps, and no birds swooped down to steal what was left. Even the topiaries had shriveled into black masses. The grass and scrub that surrounded the town was brown and dried to halfway up the slope that led to the marquess’s estate.
“What happened here?” said Teza. “Are they all dead?”
Aaslo said, “I don’t think so. Besides a few overturned carts, everything looks in order. Look, the shutters are locked, the doors closed, and the laundry pulled from the lines. I think the people left.”
“What about everything else?” Teza said.
Aaslo gazed at the sky and surveyed the ground. “I’d say everything else is either dead or it ran away.” He dismounted and crouched by the side of the road to examine the dead foliage more closely.
“Don’t touch it,” blurted Teza.
Aaslo looked at her and shook his head as if he needn’t be told. He turned back to the brush and considered it for a while. Finally, he remounted and directed Dolt down the path to the marquess’s estate. He said, “Stick to the road. Don’t touch the plants and keep the animals from them as well.”
Teza said, “Is this the blight?”
“It would seem so,” said Aaslo.
“Oh no,” said Ijen. He pulled out his book and flipped through several pages, muttering, “Not good. Not good at all.”
The slope around the marquess’s estate was covered in tents, lean-tos, and hastily constructed huts. Displaced people and animals were everywhere, yet the makeshift town seemed quite orderly in its design. Many of the hardworking peasants stopped in their tasks to w
atch them pass, and some even smiled or waved.
“They seem to be in high spirits,” said Ijen. He flipped a few pages in his book, lifted his head again to narrow his eyes as he observed the scene, then went back to reading. “No, this is strange. Someone has been meddling.”
“What are you rambling about?” snapped Teza. Then she held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me. I probably don’t want to know.”
Ijen blinked at her and then seemed to remember himself. “It’s nothing terrible. Quite the opposite, really.” He waved to the surrounding area. “This was supposed to be chaotic, the people in abject misery. That’s the way it happens in the story.”
Aaslo grumped, “Life, Ijen.”
“Right, yes, I meant prophecy.”
“Does this mean the prophecy is changing?” said Aaslo. “Is there a chance of creating a new line in which everything doesn’t die?”
Ijen tapped the page with his pen. “No, nothing like that. Small differences happen all the time in prophecy. It’s like the telling of a story from one generation to the next. We all know how it begins and how it ends. We know some of the major details in the middle, but the small things change with each telling. The outcome is the same, though.”
“You could have let us believe it was changing,” said Teza.
Ijen shook his head as he closed his book. “I do not believe the forester cares to live in fantasy.”
Teza snickered. “I’ve seen him fantasize before.”
Aaslo said, “What are you talking about?”
“Something about a love triangle between items of clothing,” she said with a roll of her eyes.
Aaslo chuckled. “You’re talking about the shop in Yarding. I suppose I did. Jennis had an excellent imagination. Mathias had such an imagination. When we were boys, he would make up these great stories about pirates and knights and dragon slayers and such. He always wanted to act them out.”
“Who won?” said Ijen.
Shaking his head sadly, Aaslo said, “It wasn’t like that. Mathias insisted we fight other kids or imaginary foes together, always on the same side. We were brothers in all things, he would say.” He exhaled heavily. “I complained every time. I told him such fantasies were pointless wastes of time, that our efforts would be better spent on meaningful tasks.”
Teza smiled at him. “But you still did it,” she said. “You wasted your time with him because it’s what he wanted to do.”
Aaslo nodded. “Yes, he taught me how to imagine.” His gaze roved over the encampment. “If not for that, I wouldn’t be able to imagine the possibility of succeeding against all odds.”
“Interesting,” muttered Ijen as he made a note in his book.
Myropa was intrigued. She wanted to know more about Aaslo’s life before that fateful night on the road. She wanted to hear about his childhood and his friends. She felt terrible for her part in claiming Mathias’s life. She hadn’t had a choice, though. The Fates would not be denied.
Teza said, “I thought you were having so much fun because you thought the shopkeeper was cute.”
Aaslo grinned at her. “She was.” Teza’s expression turned bland, and Aaslo said, “But she reminded me of someone I’d rather not think about.”
“Who’s that?” said Teza.
“Ah yes, the brunette,” mumbled Ijen, flipping back several pages.
“Must you do that?” said Aaslo. “I don’t appreciate you digging into my life like that.”
“Oh, I apologize, again.” He held up his book. “It’s just that this is the only life I’ve ever known.”
Aaslo said, “It’s not your life, Ijen. It’s other people’s lives—mostly mine, it seems.”
As they neared the front gate of the estate, a half-dozen guards in plate armor stepped across the road, while another half dozen waited on the side. The lead guardsman held up a fist and said, “There’s a blight on the march of Ruriton.”
Aaslo frowned as he looked down at the man. “We are aware of that. How could one miss it?”
“Everyone must pass inspection. Did you venture off the path?” said the guard.
“No,” said Aaslo as he reached into the sack tied to his waist. He pulled out a packet of papers, shuffled through them, and handed one to the guard.
The guard’s eyebrows rose, and his face brightened. “Sir Forester!” he said. He waved the paper in the air and looked back at the other guardsmen. “It’s the forester! He’s come.” He looked back to Aaslo and saluted before handing him the paper. “It’s an honor to have you here. The marquess said you would come. There are those who doubted him, but I know him to be a man of his word, and here you are.”
“Yes, I am here,” muttered Aaslo.
Word spread quickly through the camp, and Myropa watched from the back of Ijen’s horse as people gathered behind them. Myropa’s icy core stirred with a thrill as people smiled in excitement, hollering to their friends that the forester had come to the march.
* * *
The parlor was open, as was most of the estate. The walls were folded and stored in the corners so as to allow for the most efficient airflow, a necessity in the humid south. Aaslo sat uncomfortably on a fine divan as he and his companions awaited the marquess. Although his clothes were nicer than any he would normally have worn, he could no longer call them clean following several days of riding. He had hoped to procure a few new sets in the town, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen.
“Look at you, finally concerned about your appearance.”
“I’m not as concerned about my appearance as I am about damaging the marquess’s fine possessions.”
“I know what you mean,” said Teza. “I need a bath.”
“In due time,” said the marquess as he entered the room. Greylan followed but stood watching them from the doorway. “Greetings, Sir Forester and companions. Welcome to Dovermyer. You have no idea how pleased I am to see you.”
Aaslo couldn’t help staring at the gaudy gold and purple atrocity on the marquess’s head. After a prolonged pause, he realized the marquess was waiting for him. “Ah, sorry. I was distracted.”
The marquess reached up and removed the coronet. “I was holding court. The people have many concerns these days. I forgot to remove this in my haste. Your presence has elevated my spirits greatly, and I did not wish to put you through the trouble of a formal greeting.”
“You were afraid I’d embarrass you in front of the court,” said Aaslo.
The marquess grinned. “Direct as ever, Sir Forester.”
Teza whispered, “That’s terribly rude, Aaslo.”
The marquess said, “The forester and I have an unusual rapport. He says whatever crosses his mind, and I refrain from having him flogged.”
“For how long? Shall we place a wager?”
“You were never a betting man,” muttered Aaslo.
“No, not usually,” said the marquess, “but I’ve found that betting on you is most profitable. Greylan, however, never seems to learn.” Greylan sighed and looked away in disgust. The marquess said, “In the matter of the blight, I have placed all I have to wager on your success. Greylan believes you will fail.” The marquess strode over to the window and gazed toward the desiccated town. “This is the farthest edge of the blight. It has spread across the entire march to the south and west. When first we met, it was still miles west of here.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Aaslo, “and if it’s as vast as you say, I don’t see how a single man can help.”
“Perhaps not, but one becomes many. Speaking of which, we found a couple slinking around the estate. They claim to belong to you.”
“They?” said Aaslo.
“Bring them in, Greylan.”
Aaslo could hear the commotion long before the subjects reached the room. “I’m telling you, we’re not here to cause trouble. We’re just looking for a forester. He’s probably—” Peck stumbled into the room as Greylan released his collar. “Aaslo! Are we glad to see you!”<
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“They’d be happier to see me. Everyone would be.”
“I’ve never had so many people glad to see me in my life,” Aaslo mumbled. He studied Peck and Mory. Peck certainly seemed excited, but Mory stared aimlessly into the air beside Aaslo with an odd expression. Aaslo said, “Why are you here?”
“Right,” said Peck as he straightened his coat. “I guess we can save the greetings for later. The Forester’s Haven was attacked. It’s burnt to the ground.”
Teza stepped up and grabbed Peck by the lapels. “Galobar?” she said accusingly.
Peck gently pulled her hands away. “He’s dead.”
“What did you do?” she shouted. She waved a finger in his face. “I know this was your fault, you scoundrel. You brought trouble to that sweet old man.”
Peck shook his head. “No! I swear, it had nothing to do with us.” He nodded toward Aaslo. “I think they were looking for him.”
Ijen shuffled through his pages, looked up, narrowed his eyes at Peck, studied Mory more closely, then went back to his book.
The marquess glanced between Aaslo’s companions. He said, “We have not been introduced.”
“Right,” Aaslo grumbled. He pointed to a couple of chairs beside a tea table just inside the opening of one wall. To Peck and Mory, he said, “You two go sit over there. Don’t touch anything.” Then, to the marquess, he said, “This is Mage Teza—”
“Fledgling,” she said with a practiced curtsy, “healer, to be specific.”
“—and this is Magus Ijen.”
Ijen’s nose was in his book again. He glanced up as if just realizing others were in the room. “Prophet, My Lord Marquess. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Your role in the story is most unique.”
The marquess looked back at Aaslo with delight. “You’ve brought a healer and a prophet. You, most unusual forester, have surpassed my expectations. These must be two of the last magi in Aldrea. It seems the rest have abandoned us—at least, those who made it to a working evergate in time.”
“It’s true,” said Aaslo. “The magi crossed to another realm and left us for dead. I heard some of the evergates weren’t working.”