Laedron nodded. “I can’t argue with you there.”
Piers put his elbows on the table. “So, have you thought about what you will do while Jurgen is away?”
“Away? It’s not as if he’s going to some distant city.”
“Yes, but his task could take some time. In the meantime, we could accomplish a great deal with a sorcerer’s aid.”
“What sort of thing did you have in mind?”
Smiling, Piers leaned back in his chair. “Tomorrow, after Valyrie’s father is laid to rest. We’ll talk then.”
“All right.” Laedron stood. “I’m going to check on her and perform the transformation.”
“Caleb, will you see our new friend to the chapel?” Piers gestured toward the door and received a nod from Caleb.
Laedron made a quick stop by his room to get the appropriate spellbook, then Caleb led him to the bowels of the church. When they stopped at the chapel door, Laedron said, “Sorry about that earlier.”
Opening the door, Caleb remained silent, then closed it when Laedron passed through. I feel bad for punching him, but he really deserved it, he mused. Perhaps he’ll find a way to forgive me someday.
Valyrie stood beside an oaken crate. Laedron could only see her back, but he heard her quiet whimpering. The sound of her crying slammed him into a wall of sorrow, but he could do nothing to ease her suffering beyond handling the transformation and the ceremony with care and respect.
“I never knew it would be like this.” She dragged her sleeve across her nose. “The few times I thought about losing him, I assumed we’d have plenty of time to resolve our differences.”
Taking a deep breath, Laedron stepped closer. “Sometimes things don’t turn out the way we want. Regardless of how I may feel, the Fates have never asked me about my wishes.”
When she turned around, he could see the pain in her eyes, the whites blistered red from her tears and anguish. Instinctively, he averted his eyes, both to ease his own suffering and so she wouldn’t feel as though he were gawking at her pain. The recollection of Ismerelda’s death rushed through his mind, the images flashing like a collage hastily painted in blood.
“You seem as if you feel sadness at my father’s passing, but you never knew him.”
“I only sympathize with you,” he replied. “Seeing you now takes me back to the death of my teacher and how I felt, though it seems long ago.”
She turned to the improvised coffin. “Yet you’ve come to this city despite the dangers.”
“I carried on in her memory.” He joined her next to the crate. “At first, I sought vengeance against the one who killed her, but now, I see we must go beyond that. To end the war and prevent countless others from dying over a lie, that is a cause worth fighting for.”
She nodded. “My father would’ve liked you, I think.”
“Why?”
“It’s not because he would have agreed with you; that’s for sure. No, I think he might have enjoyed the debate.”
“He would’ve disagreed with what I’ve said?”
Looking at her father’s face, she formed a smile beneath her tears. “I don’t think so, but he wouldn’t have let you know that. He was the type to argue the unpopular end of any disagreement.”
“What about you?” He met her gaze when she turned. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath and stared into the coffin. “Goodnight, Father. See you in the morning.” She held her hair back, leaned over, and kissed Pembry’s forehead.
“Take care of him,” she said, turning and walking to the door. “You know, it doesn’t seem real. I keep telling myself that he’ll come back, that he’ll come through the door and give me a big hug, but he won’t—he can’t. Take care of my da, Lae.”
Once Valyrie was gone, Laedron gazed into the wooden box and sighed. How many more innocents will lie dead by the time we’re done? Far too many. He walked to the dilapidated stone altar, placed his tome upon it, and flipped through the pages. Thankfully, he’d become so skilled at reading Zyvdredi texts that he no longer needed the book Mathias had given him. Though he still had trouble with a few of the less common words, he could derive their meanings without the need of a manual.
He held his scepter above the crate and chanted slowly. Black wisps dripped from the ruby at the tip of the rod down to Pembry’s body. The wisps danced and coiled freely through the air like ink dropped into a pool of water. He held it until only ashes remained. He gathered Pembry’s ashes into a bronze urn, then moved the crate to the floor. He carefully placed the urn at the center of the stone slab where the coffin had been and took his spell book from the altar. After one last glance at the urn, he returned upstairs.
When he reached the hallway, he noticed the door to Valyrie’s room was closed, and he prayed silently for the Creator to watch over her and guide her during her time of mourning. Remembering how he felt when Ismerelda had been killed, he decided to leave Valyrie be. He could only imagine how it must’ve felt to see her father killed before her very eyes—a feeling which likely would not have been matched even if they had been tortured by Piers and his men.
“Might I have a word?” Brice asked, snapping Laedron out of his thoughts.
Brice led Laedron into his room, then closed the door behind them. “I wanted to ask if you would mind if I trained with Caleb?”
Laedron raised an eyebrow. “Training?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about things. I’m not as big as Marac, and I’m not as smart as you—”
“Don’t put yourself down.”
Brice grinned. “I just want to make the most of my abilities, you see? I helped my parents in the loom, and I’ve always been handy with a needle. Such work takes nimbleness and precision.”
“So… Caleb is a tailor?”
“No, not at all.” Brice sighed, seeming frustrated. “I saw him practicing with locks a little while ago, and he showed me some of the basics. I was thinking maybe I could learn from him. Maybe that would be a useful skill to have.”
Laedron smiled. “Useful indeed. Very well, but don’t forget to practice your swordsmanship, too. We must always be ready for a fight.”
Opening the door, Brice bobbed his head. “Thanks.”
“Get some rest,” Laedron said on his way through the door. “Tomorrow will come sooner than we expect.”
Joining Marac in the common room, Laedron took a seat at the table, put down his spell book, and sipped from the cup he had been given earlier. “How do you feel about all this?”
Marac looked up from sharpening his sword. “Dangerous, but isn’t everything we do?”
“Perhaps.” The glints of candlelight on the blade drew Laedron’s eye. “It would seem we will be splitting up for a while. Jurgen and Valyrie, Brice and Caleb, and you and me.”
“Brice and who?” Marac was busy sharpening again.
“Piers’s man, the one I punched.”
“Ah, what’s the thimble doing with him?”
Laedron took another sip. “Learning of lock picking.”
“At least he’ll be making himself useful.” Marac held up the sword and inspected the edge. “About time.”
“Why are you so hard on him?”
“He’s soft.” Marac put the weapon on the table and took a swig from a cup. “He hasn’t had a hard day’s work in his entire life, and it shows.”
“Neither have I. Does it show in me, too?”
“It’s different with you, Lae. Your ma taught you to be strong and persevere, but Brice’s parents had resolved to see him working a loom for the rest of his days.”
“No matter. It might take more time, but I’m confident he’ll come around.”
“That makes one of us,” Marac said. “I’m not so convinced.”
“Give him time.” Laedron stood, grabbed his spell book, and patted Marac on the shoulder. “Apparently, we have plenty of it.”
“Lae?” Marac called out before Laedron entered the hall.
“Yes?”
“The wand and the scepter, what purpose do they serve?” Marac glanced at his sword. “Simply tools of the trade?”
“Yes,” Laedron said, then paused to consider a more thorough explanation. “To manifest our spells, we require three things—concentration, a focus, and an incantation. The wand, with its intricate carvings, sturdy weight, and rough finish, gives something real to focus upon.”
“And priests? They use staffs?”
“Or rings, like Jurgen’s.” Laedron grinned. He was glad Marac was showing interest in his craft. “Goodnight, my friend.”
After entering his room and closing the door, Laedron put the scepter on the nightstand, then placed the tome in his pack. He saw his practice wand poking through the flap on the side. As he traced the intricate carvings running deep along the shaft, he remembered how, during his training, he couldn’t reproduce an illusion of his wand. Then, he recalled the powerful image he had conjured from his memories, his happy days with Marac and his sister Laren by the old oak in Reven’s Landing. Before going to bed, Laedron knelt and appealed to the Creator for Ismerelda’s soul to arrive safely in the heavens.
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A Day of Remembrance
The morning light drove away his nightmares, and Laedron opened his eyes to sunlight dimmed by the foggy stained glass in the narrow window of his room. The hazy yellow image suggested the figure of a holy man of some kind, probably a Heraldan saint whom he neither recognized, nor deemed important. To think, an entire world littered with such icons. Well, I suppose there are worse ways to waste glass. At least it’s pretty to look at. He snatched the scepter from the table, then headed to the common room.
Caleb was busy stirring a cauldron suspended from an iron hook in the fireplace. The scent of a fine stew drifted into Laedron’s nostrils, exciting his empty belly. He wouldn’t have thought of eating anything the day before; his near miss upon the executioner’s table and his sympathy for Valyrie’s situation had been enough to ward off any hunger pangs. Sitting at the table, he eyed the clean bowl in front of his chair and waited as patiently as he could.
“Morning,” Jurgen said.
Laedron noticed Jurgen wore his ceremonial robes. “Morning. Do you think you’re a bit overdressed?”
“The dead deserve utmost respect, regardless of their station.” Jurgen poured some wine into his cup. “Sleep well?”
“Everything was fine until I woke up.”
“I know the feeling.” Jurgen watched Caleb ladle some stew into his bowl. “Thank you.”
“Do you have any preparations to make for the ceremony?”
“A few, but it’s well in hand.” Jurgen carefully sipped from his spoon. “We’ll make it to the seaside before noon, I would imagine.”
“Is it so far?” Laedron started on his stew as soon as it landed in the bowl.
“A few miles from the city. Not to worry, though. I know a private place.”
Laedron heard a door close down the hall, then Valyrie joined them and took a seat. No sooner than she had picked a chair, Brice wiped his mouth and followed Caleb out of the room.
“Where’s he going?” Marac asked.
Jurgen shrugged. “They mentioned something about practicing, but they went quiet when they noticed me.”
“Ah, well, I hope the little fool doesn’t get himself in any trouble.” Marac crossed his arms. “I suppose we’ll end up having to rescue him.”
“I seem to remember rescuing you, Marac Reven.” Laedron paused as Marac’s head drooped with guilt. “And I’d do it again. Without reservation.”
Marac returned Laedron’s smile. “Point taken. Sorry.”
Having eaten the large bits with the spoon, Laedron lifted the bowl and drank the broth, then wiped his mouth with a scrap of linen. He glanced at Valyrie and felt some guilt for eating so freely while she had barely touched her meal. “Are you feeling well?”
Of course she’s not, fool. She just lost her father. Unable to withdraw the question, he waited for her to respond.
“As well as I can, I suppose.” Her eyes remained locked on the chunks of meat floating along in the bowl.
“Jurgen said we can have the ceremony around noon. Would that be acceptable?”
She dipped her head. “When do we leave?”
“Not long now.” Jurgen brushed breadcrumbs from his otherwise pristine robes. “In fact, let us be on our way. You’d better cowl yourself, Sorcerer.”
“I’ll get my things,” Valyrie said, standing.
“All right.” Laedron stood. “I’ll get the urn, too.”
“No need.” Jurgen pointed at a dimly lit corner of the room, and Laedron saw the urn sitting on a table. “I’ve already done that.”
Jurgen opened the door. Laedron followed, but turned to Marac before leaving. “Aren’t you coming?”
“No,” Marac said, leaning forward. “I leave it to you, friend.”
Laedron nodded. “We’ll be back soon.”
Valyrie wore a black shawl, and Laedron complimented its quality before closing the door behind them. Pulling the hood over his head, he looked at the building which, up to that point, he had never seen from the outside. The structure had every feature of an aged, abandoned church he could imagine. The otherwise plain and dilapidated exterior set off the dirty stained glass windows running the length of each wall and the base of the dome. Gray and tan stones to match the silver and gold themes? Perhaps.
Following Jurgen, he caught himself before stumbling on the platform holding a fountain resembling a dull golden cup. Looks like I’ve found the golden chalice, Meklan. Almost bathed in it, too.
Jurgen led them through the shady parts of town, apparently unconcerned with or unafraid of the sordid persons walking the lanes. They would never interfere with a priest, right? Laedron thought, eying them. Perhaps clergymen are off limits in this place. For once, he was thankful to be in the company of a holy man.
Laedron saw—and in some cases, smelled—people from all walks of life and nations of origin, but most were clearly Heraldan or of some Midlander descent. He reckoned that the xenophobia and religious intolerance of the population caused the lack of foreigners. It’s a good thing I’m a Midlander. Easier to fit in if I look similar to the locals.
The priest seemed to find his way to the eastern road with ease, as if he’d walked the route a hundred times before, and Laedron followed him along the dusty road and into the hilly landscape beyond. Only an odd tree graced the roadside, each obviously planted by the inhabitants of that country; the trees towered above the highway in a straight line into the distance, and each stood a precise increment away from the cobblestones. With the sun peaking in the sky, Jurgen stepped off the roadway, through the first meadow of tall grass Laedron had seen, and down an embankment. Laedron helped Valyrie descend the steep hill to the waterside.
On the sandy banks of the Sea of Pillars, a lacquered bench carved entirely from a single piece of wood sat beneath a drooping willow tree, its long branches swaying with the breeze. That breeze, thick with saltwater, gave Laedron some relief from the heat of the day, and he removed his hood, deciding that no one would see his face in that secluded nook of the shore. They stood isolated from the rest of the world with only the sound of the waves washing onto the banks and the occasional chirping of the indigenous birds to remind him of the larger world outside the alcove.
Jurgen stared across the sea into the distance, then turned toward Valyrie. He raised the urn above his head. “This gift we return to Azura and the Creator in the heavens. This man, Arthur Pembry, we commit to your sea.”
Arthur. The mere mention of her father’s name drove the true feeling of loss through his heart. The emotion was not unlike the one he felt the times anyone had said Wardrick in his presence. With his head still tilted downward, he shifted his eyes to Valyrie. A sparkling tear found its way down her face.
Jurgen
spoke some words in Heraldict, then paused and smiled benevolently. “To live in the hearts of those we leave behind is not to die. To live in the grace of Azura is to truly live forever.” He opened the lid of the bronze vessel, then from his robes, produced an engraved silver scattering spade. Standing with his feet and robes in the surf, he tossed the scoops of ashes into the sea.
“Thank you, Jurgen,” Valyrie said. “My father would have liked that.”
“An honor.” He patted her on the shoulder, then turned to Laedron. “I’ll wait for you by the road.”
Watching Jurgen climb the embankment, Laedron rubbed his hands together, trying to find the right words to say.
She gazed sorrowfully at him. “You don’t believe in any of this, do you?”
He sighed. “Some of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sorcerers, for the most part, believe in the Creator. We believe in the heavens and the hells, but not Azura—at least not in the same way the Heraldans do.” He walked to her side.
“For the most part?”
“Some don’t believe in any of it, and there are others who accept Syril as their master.”
“Syril?”
Laedron could feel her hate of the dark god seething through her words. “Yes. Those hungry for power and the ultimate knowledge of magic tend to, but I’ve never heard of anyone having their prayers answered by him. Except Vrolosh, perhaps.”
“And what are your desires, Mage?” She turned to face him. “You speak of that supreme power as if you wouldn’t mind its taste.”
He grinned. “Many paths lead to the heights of spectacular magic. Devoting oneself to Syril is but one, and to worship him is quite an undesirable activity to me.”
“Then how?”
“When my teacher was killed, I took possession of her spell books. Everything I need to complete my learning is in those books.” He drew the scepter from his boot, and her eyes immediately locked onto the large ruby. “I find magic easier by use of her rod, too.”
“I’ve never seen a ruby that big before, not even on the finger of a Grand Vicar.”
The Consuls of the Vicariate Page 2