The scales were like sand to the touch and surprisingly dry, yet still soft. "Now what should I call you?" Marcius said out loud, feeling foolish for talking to an animal. "Dragypoo is an insult to both our sensibilities, eh?" The creature gave a contented sigh, which Marcius took as agreement. It withdrew from his finger and curled up in a corner of the cage, the green eyes still on Marcius as it rested its head on a pile of straw.
"We can figure it out later," he promised as he took the note off the kegs of dwarven stout. It was short and written on the back of a brewery order form with very scraggly writing. Marcius had a hard time deciphering it.
in repayment for helping out Anthony. free of charge. remember my brewery for all ale you need
thank you
Marcius left a message with Lars, asking Clarissa to give some meat cubes to the wyvrr since he expected to be gone most of the day. The stable boy had just gotten in when Marcius got back to the stables, and in no time Ruby was ready to go. As the horse stomped the ground softly with impatience, Marcius gave the stable boy a small tip and mounted. At a relaxed trot, he headed to the Rhensford trade district, anxious to see what awaited him.
Chapter 05
The visit to the apothecary went off without a hitch. In less than an hour, Marcius had everything he needed from the store. He was soon on the familiar worn path of Cobble Street, feeling rather optimistic about life in general. He soon spotted the elf at his fruit stand, handing a small box of fruit to a kind faced woman. As if sensing Marcius watching him, the sharp eyed elf turned around, throwing Marcius a welcoming grin as he closed the distance between them. "Greetings my Lord, the usual I assume?" He had already started navigating around the pile of apples on display, deftly selecting the kinds he knew Marcius liked.
"Ah, no, I've come here for a different reason. I don't believe I caught your name before? I am Marcius Realure," he said, eschewing the normal formalities in class by extending his hand in greeting.
The idea that someone would take an interest in him must have come as a surprise, his catlike yellow eyes widened. The shock was quickly replaced by suspicion, the pupils narrowing, giving him even a more feral like appearance.
Marcius watched the transitions take place in an instant. It ended with a very guarded expression of indifference as the elf cautiously took the proffered hand. "Forgive me, my Lord, but I'm a mere fruit vendor trying to make a living. Whatever reason, besides fruit, could you have to visit me?"
Marcius decided to act on a suspicion he harbored ever since he read the message from Antaigne. "Really? Is that so? Well then, I will have to tell my dwarven friend to get his supplies elsewhere." Marcius made sure to leave it vague, in case he was wrong. No sense in broadcasting that he knew magic to the whole community, especially after the discussion with his father.
The words had the intended effect, for the eyes grew wide again though the elf was quick to rein it in. "Ah, well then, you must be one of my other customers. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Kenelevialry de'Yonliacfrag," he said with an air of pride, bowing, the vestiges of etiquette seemingly vanishing with the action. "But I know how you humans are with such long-winded titles, just call me Ken. It would be bad humor, indeed, to discuss these sorts of business dealings out in the open, considering the circumstances. Please follow me to my dwellings."
He started packing up the cart, easily throwing up the wooden side boards. The cart was designed to be a mobile store, taking only mere moments to prepare. Marcius followed the blonde elf through the now mushrooming crowds that packed the street, as the elf artfully but quickly weaved his path around the denser areas. After a few moments, they came upon a meager dwelling within a impromptu cul-de-sac, located somewhere between the trade district and the slums. The elf promptly deposited his cart outside, pulling a padlock seemingly out of thin air in which to secure it.
Ken's knock was answered by a boy with dirty ash-brown hair, the tips of his pointed ears barely visible. He boldly looked Marcius up and down and said a few words to his father in the pleasant-sounding language of the elves. Ken gave an irritated shrug and the boy hurriedly moved aside to let them pass.
At Marcius's questioning glance, Ken explained, "Fenriel was just curious. We don’t get many guests."
The elf gracefully moved his way through the piles of books and papers that littered the narrow hallway, coming to stop in front of a tapestry. It was a rich design depicting a poignant scene from a well known legend. "Pact of Jaylynn" was a popular fairy tale about an old man who made a pact with demons in order to achieve happiness, but as with all stories involving demons, the man's life unravels to a tragic end. Marcius thought it served as a very pointed reminder to tread carefully around things you don't understand.
"Very appropriate, don't you think?" said the elf, pointing at the man on the wall, captured forever in his grief at finding his love dead. "I've always wondered how true that story is. The artist seems to have captured it perfectly. I can almost hear his anguish." Ken placed his pointed ear to the tapestry, closing his eyes as if listening.
Marcius said nothing, feeling awkward. He had the feeling the elf was doing this to see his reaction. A few moments passed before the elf, ostensibly just remembering his guest, straightened up and cleared his throat. "Ah, sorry, we elves sometimes get caught up in the ghosts of the past," he said wistfully, his mind obviously on other things, "Do tell me your master's name?"
"He goes by Antaigne." The elf's face washed over with a look of happiness. The smile he gave Marcius looked light, and he chuckled.
"Ah, the old dwarf is still alive! Good, good, I thought the fools from the Academy might have gotten him! No way can you be an agent of the King. The Academy goes to great lengths to hide the existence of rogue wizards. No doubt Rialan has no idea of half the unguilded magic users in his kingdom. Makes them look bad you see. Please do follow me!" He tapped lightly on the embroidery, and to Marcius's bewilderment, the colors swirled until they formed a hole, through which the elf stepped lightly. Hesitating, Marcius followed. There was a tingling feeling that made the hairs on his neck stand at end as he stepped through.
The room was dark. There was the slight chill of cold stone in the air and the ground felt of a dampness that even penetrated the confines of his leather traveling boots. As soon as he entered, the portal behind him closed, bathing them in darkness. He felt an oppressive weight on his chest, robbing him of breath. Marcius was just starting to feel alarm when he heard the elf clap sharply with his hands. Four massive torches flamed to life, flooding the room with an orange glow. Marcius gasped, the room was filled with magic paraphernalia and it was rather large, much bigger than the outside of the house.
From spell components to enchanted weapons, the air practically hummed from the concentration of magic. The pressure on his chest must be from the sheer amount of energy in this room. He started to feel light headed, swaying, and he had to feel for the wall behind him to steady himself. This did not go unnoticed by the dutiful elf. "I'm sorry, those attuned to magic can feel. . . overwhelmed. . . by this room at first. Don't worry, it’ll pass shortly," the elf said, confirming Marcius's theory.
He was surprised to find the elf right, he was already getting his bearings back, but the nature of the room still dumbfounded him. "Ken," said Marcius, rolling the new name uncomfortably around his tongue, "What do you need all of this magic for? You've enough for a small army of wizards here!"
Ken beamed with pride. “Well, I am a supplier of magical items and components, but mostly I am the middle man.” The elf must have seen the look of bewilderment that crossed Marcius’s features. “I smuggle many things in for various people. Business is booming with the war up north,” he elaborated.
“I thought the war was between elves and Morlians. Why would you sell to both sides?”
“I was exiled about a century ago. Not that I care, money is money,” the elf remarked offhandedly. Though, Marcius thought he detected a note of hostility in his voice.
This bit of information would have shocked Marcius, but given the revelations that he was discovering that since put on this task, he found that he wasn’t that surprised. Reaching under his cloak, he pulled out the now well worn and creased scroll, handing it over to the waiting elf. Ken’s face scrunched up as he read, making him seem like he smelled a particularly bad odor, an observation that made Marcius smirk.
Ken gave Marcius an appraising look, as if seeing him truly for the first time. “These are familiar items, well, the part that you still need I mean, judging by the other things you crossed off. Well, except the ale and apples of course. Getting the apprentice to do a bit of shopping for himself it would seem.” He gave a small flick at the paper with his index finger and a resigned shrug, then turned around and started rummaging through a pile of bottles on a shelf in the corner.
“So. . . no, not medusa coils. . . how long have you been an apprentice to the. . . no, that’s not it. . . wizard?” the elf asked distractedly.
“A few years. I’ve not had much uninterrupted time, had to stagger it out at one week of training per month. Mostly because it wouldn't be a good idea to let on I was studying magic to the nosy nobles and such.”
“Ahhh. . . of course of course.” Ken placed a vial of crimson liquid to the side as he spoke; it glowed with an ominous fluorescent radiance. “So how is Lian doing?”
“Ummm. . . he’s fine, enjoying the challenge of trading.” Inspiration struck Marcius. Here was a chance to learn a bit about his father’s past, a subject Lian had always kept a bit quiet about. “So. . . how do you know my father?”
Ken gave him the look that keenly suggested that Marcius had just asked a stupid question. “Shouldn’t it be obvious, you of all people should know, right?” He gave a small jolt at Marcius’s dumbfounded look “Well, if you don’t know, I’ll assume Lian has a good reason for not telling you. You'll not pry it from my lips. I am old enough to meddle not in the affairs of others.” A look of triumph appeared on the elf’s face as he pulled out a small wooden box. Nondescript carvings were etched along its surface.
“Ah, here it is!” he said with a small flourish. “Phoenix feathers, very rare mind you, not easy to get a phoenix in the first place, even rarer to get to one of their nests for the feathers!” He set the box down, and after pulling out another even smaller box, he opened up the first container. A bright red light filled the room. Marcius had to shield his eyes at the speed at which the brightness had struck hurt his eyes. He saw spots dancing in front of him. Then the illumination disappeared, swallowed up by the smaller container.
“Oh sorry about that, always forget how fragile you humans are. Anyway, here is your minotaur blood and phoenix plumes.” He pushed the two containers into Marcius’s arms, and then went to shift through another cabinet. Marcius stuffed the containers into the pockets of his cloak, both of them uncomfortable lumps in the fabric. “Feel free to look around, it might take me a bit to find the tears and sacred ash. I suggest no touching though, no telling what may happen.”
Marcius decided to take him up on the offer, curiosity was eating away at him. Using the light from the torches to guide him, he warily stalked his way around the room. There was a whole corner devoted to armor and weapons that drew his attention first. Jeweled scabbards and polished suits of armor gleamed at him from every direction; swords, spears, and countless other weapons littered the ground more or less haphazardly.
Looking meekly at the elf, who was still preoccupied by his search, Marcius determined to pick up one of the weapons, a silver long sword with a large ruby encrusted in the hilt. It was deposited next to a sinister looking dagger that had an engraved wooden snake for a handle. The eyes were glittering blue sapphires, twinkling ever so gently as the cut edges caught the orange aura of the torches.
The blade was thin, extending out about four feet. Curved imperceptibly at the end. In the torch light he could see that an attractive woman was imprinted into the swords edge, flowing along the breadth like a supple river. He was amazed to find how light it was, his hand fit the handle perfectly, and even though he was no expert, it felt flawlessly balanced, like an extension of his own body. He gave a mock swing at an imaginary foe, the sword let out a low ringing noise as it cut through the air and the exceptionally sharp looking edge gave off a dim white glow.
“Ah, the sword of Aslar, the Storm King. Good choice for your first breaking of my stipulations.” The elf’s soft voice startled Marcius, causing the sword to slip from his grip. He stared as the sword dropped noiselessly onto the cold stone floor up to its hilt, like a knife through butter, a metal reverberation rang throughout quiet room. “I must insist that you cease any further rule breaking; if you had picked up that dagger over there, for example, you would no longer have a soul for a familiar. The demon trapped within has a rather voracious appetite.”
Marcius gave a nervous look at what he could only assume was the aforementioned dagger. The sapphire eyes of the serpent handle now seemed to gleam hungrily at the elf’s words, as if daring Marcius to go against the elf's instructions and pick it up as he had the sword. “Please put the sword back, and remember what I told you: don’t touch anything. I would not want your death on my hands, especially since you are an apprentice to Antaigne. Would be most troublesome.” Marcius gave a nod, feeling silly when he realized Ken could not see him, as the elf had never turned around during the whole exchange. He was still moving the various components that were in the cabinet, mumbling occasionally at something he found before delving through the contents once more.
The sword slipped out of the hard stone as easily as it entered. It was completely unharmed. Marcius shakily laid it down in its previous resting place. Admonished, he walked to the other side of the room, as far away from the dagger and sword as he could.
The type of magic this section contained was in sharp contrast to the previous area. Instead of weapons and armor, it enclosed what seemed to be everyday household objects. However, they appeared skewed, as if one was viewing them through a thin veil of water. It reminded Marcius very much of the shimmering heat waves given off during hot days. He got an uneasy feeling from these objects.
There was a map that showed all the weather patterns, clouds and storms moving across the surface like insects. A rag was cleaning a cabinet, seemingly propelled by an invisible hand or person. Marcius stared in amazement as a painting of a battlefield acted out the fight from beginning to end.
It was disturbingly realistic, even down to the blood and gore. After watching the life fade from a skewered soldier's eyes, Marcius had to turn away, feeling sick to his stomach. There were numerous chalices that shimmered with a ghostly glow. Marcius had not a clue what they did, nor was he interested or stupid enough to find out firsthand.
Next to a dresser with an ornate mug, there was a simple old wooden coat stand which held a forest green cloak. Marcius was suddenly overcome with an urge to try it on. The fabric looked soft to the touch and as he drew nearer, it gave off a light metallic sheen. It’s only a cloak, and it looked so warm. The closer he got, the more compelling the cloak became. He could hear it calling to him, beckoning. All thoughts he had prior were replaced by images of him wearing the cloak. Oh, how everyone would admire him!
His hand lingered on the velvety softness, the sensation too much to bear as he rubbed it between his fingers, feeling the richness of the weave. He went to free it from coat rack, fumbling as he tried to remove the poor excuse of a cloak he currently wore in the same motion, but something stayed his hand, startling him out of his trance. There was a strong but delicate looking hand holding his arm. “Easy there Marcius, this cloak isn’t something you want to mess with.” Marcius vaguely recognized the voice of Ken, but it didn’t matter. It was a trick! The elf wanted the cloak for himself! He was jealous of Marcius!
&n
bsp; “Unhand me! It’s mine! I—“ Marcius never got to finish the sentence, for out of the corner of his eye he caught a brief glimpse of a fist before it slammed into his jaw. He went sprawling onto the floor, lights flashing in his eyes. Rubbing his face, he shook his head and started to stand up, anger fueling his legs, only to be met halfway by a plain looking, but sharp, sword. He hadn't even seen the elf draw it.
“What is your name?” The elf’s voice was oddly insistent, but the point of the sword was steady, gently prodding the skin under his throat, lifting him up, lest the sharp weapon pierce the skin and draw blood. Marcius felt he had to answer or be skewered, but he just couldn’t totally recall what people called him.
His brain felt fogged as he tried desperately to remember something, anything. He felt his head slowly become clear, the fog gently lifting to reveal something solid concealed with its depths. My name is. . . Marcius. . . I’m here for. . . items. . . from the elf for a. . . familiar. . . then the realization of what he did came crashing in, unwelcome and not at all gentle.
“Oh. . . I am so sorry!” he gasped. It was like a release. As if he’d been drowning and suddenly broke the surface, thirsty for air. The elf smiled and held out his hand to help Marcius up. “What. . . is that thing!” he asked, pointing to the cloak still on the peg of the coat rack.
It no longer looked as alluring to his now much clearer eyes. Instead, it bore a resemblance to exactly what it was, a simple traveling cloak, such as one would buy from any tailor; nothing more, nothing less. Marcius felt foolish, dirty in the light of that fact. As if the obviously magical cloak had violated his integrity. The memory of how he felt made him shiver as he wiped a bit of blood off the corner of his mouth. All urges to try the cloak on were gone, instead replaced by disgust and shame. Marcius’s breath came out in ragged gasps.
A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) Page 7