“I …” Words failed Kaitha. She wanted another hit of healing potion, but more than that, she wanted to not have another hit, and to not need it.
“Perhaps you were touched by the Lady after all,” said Niln. “Goodnight, Kaitha. May you find what you are looking for.”
Kaitha mumbled a good night, and then dismissed Gleebek as well. She packed away the folded golems and the rest of the training gear. Then she drained her flask, and upon finding it empty, promptly refilled it from the bottle of Marvelous Marvo’s Famous Halfling Rum that she kept in her belt pouch. For a time, she drank in silence and watched the stars above the plains.
The flask was halfway empty again when Laruna stormed by, sparks flying from the solamancer’s grinding teeth and flames writhing around her fists. The mage stalked past the ranger without so much as a glance. Kaitha watched her go, with another swig.
A moment later, Jynn followed the mage. Something about the man’s walk annoyed Kaitha: his back always straight and rigid as a highbirch, his nose always held up and away, as though avoiding an unpleasant smell. He looked down at her with the serene condescension of an ancient statue. “I see you’re drinking again, naturally.”
“And I see your lesson went as well as ever,” she shot back.
Jynn’s lip curled slightly as he watched Laruna storm back to camp. “It’s neither my fault nor my concern if she has no head for higher learning.”
“Of course it is. If I can teach a Goblin to use a stave and knife properly, you should be able to teach one of the most gifted mages I’ve ever seen how to weave a better spell. Not that we need you to; she’s outfighting you.”
“You should focus less on the affairs of mages and more on sobering up enough to make yourself useful.”
Kaitha took another swig of rum, stood up, and cracked her knuckles. Her earlier conversation with Niln still didn’t sit well with her, and Marvelous Marvo’s never sat well with anyone, so if the rank-one wizard wanted to lecture her on effectiveness, she wasn’t going to take it sitting down. She stretched, stepped toward Jynn, and gave him a kidney punch that would put an Ogre on the floor. The wizard crumpled into her arms with a squeal.
“If you knew me half as well as you think you do, you’d know that I’m a violent drunk,” she hissed into his ear. She grabbed the wizard’s hand and twisted it behind his back.
“I … am the … high councilor of the Circle … of the Red Hawk,” he spat through gritted teeth.
“And that plus a giltin will get you a fish on market day,” growled Kaitha. “We’re in the field, where the fights are to the death and nobody is going to challenge you to a duel and stand ten paces away before they try to kill you. What good is being a high councilor if you’re so green that a few Lizardmen almost took you down?”
“I don’t have to prove myself to you!” He snarled, struggling in her grip.
“Perhaps not. But until you do, you’ve got nothing to say to me about being useful, newblood. Understood?” Kaitha took a long, burning pull from her flask, daring the wizard to say something.
Jynn grimaced at the smell of the rum, but he remained silent in a rare display of wisdom. She could tell by his eyes, specifically in the way they never met her own, that’d she’d made her point. Some men were too proud to ever admit defeat; the closest they came to surrender was learning to keep their mouths shut.
“Good,” she said, giving the wizard a shove, and left him without another word.
The satisfaction of putting Jynn in his place faded before she reached the campfire. It didn’t change what had become of her career. It didn’t make Niln any less right about the hunger, the emptiness that plagued her.
She exchanged halfhearted waves with the heroes around the fire as she made her way to her tent. Inside, she found her rucksack with the false bottom, and the vials of elixir secreted within. She didn’t know what she was searching for, let alone how to find it, or if it existed at all. But she did have a private space, a sharp knife, and a bottle of blissful ignorance. For a short while, that was enough.
Ebenmyre was little more than a few farms scattered around an old inn, all within the shadow of Arth’s most deadly swamp. The village was surrounded by overgrown foundations and rotting frames of buildings long gone, the skeletal remains of more prosperous times when the Myrewood’s inhabitants were as wealthy as they were terrible. Lilacs grew around the ruins. Small baubles had been hung from every post; seashells and glass globes and beads dangled from every nail, all one shade of purple or another. Beyond the ruined town, the black trees of the Myrewood seethed.
After several days spent walking the empty road and several nights sleeping on the rocky plains, Ebenmyre looked like an oasis to Gorm.
“Please tell me they have heated baths,” said Laruna, as the heroes rode toward the inn. “With lavender soaps.”
“And spiced wine,” said Jynn. “A good Elven vintage with Imperial spices.”
“And a pretty barmaid,” said Heraldin. “A cute and lonely thing with a set of—”
“Thank you, Heraldin,” Niln interrupted.
“Don’t set your hopes too high,” said Gorm, eyeing the inn’s rotting rooftop. As a general rule, the best inn in any given area was only ever slightly more comfortable than the best alternative sleeping arrangement, and this particular inn was competing with some ruins and a deadly swamp. “We’ll be lucky for a hot meal and a bed without fleas.”
“I’d settle for a wash bin by the fire,” said Laruna, holding out hope.
“Anything that’s not stale grog will do, really,” said Jynn.
“Honestly, if she’s got all her limbs and half her teeth—”
“Thank you, Heraldin!”
The Red Sow managed, somehow, to disappoint on every account. The only bath was a wooden basin in the barn. The bar served stale grog and cold sandwiches exclusively. The closest thing the inn had to a barmaid was the tavern keeper’s ill-tempered wife. Heraldin was convinced the tavern was named for her. On a happier note, the innumerable fleas and midges that had taken up residence in the Sow’s beds had starved to death long ago, and once their corpses were dusted away, the mattresses were serviceable.
It was getting late at that point, so Gorm and Kaitha went to settle the bill. “We’ll be headed out at dawn, and we don’t want to wake ye,” Gorm told the tavern keeper.
“Oh, I’m up by then, for sure,” said the tavern keeper.
“Well, then we don’t want to wake your wife,” said Gorm.
They all looked to the barkeep’s wife. She glared up from sweeping the floor, made a sound like a gravely retch at them, and shuffled into the back room.
“Fair enough,” said the tavern keeper. “Forty two giltin, three shillings, and six cents.” As Gorm counted out several ten-giltin notes and a handful of coins, the barkeep added, “Don’t suppose you’re going to the Myrewood.”
“Don’t suppose there’s many other reasons to be in Ebenmyre,” said Gorm.
“Have you got your purple?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Kaitha.
“Your purple. For the King in the Wood?” Sensing entrepreneurial opportunity, the tavern keeper lifted an old crate of seashells, painted beads, and handkerchiefs from beneath the bar. The crate said in thick, crude lettering, “PURPEL. 5S EACH.”
“Five shillings for a string of beads?” said Gorm.
“And a bargain at that. It’s the color that counts, you see. You know, like the kids used to sing: Carry purple, king to pay, a price to keep the dark away. No? Never heard it?”
“Can’t say as I have,” said Gorm.
“Well, it’s a fairly simple transaction, really. People fall into peril in the Myrewood, the king saves them, and they leave him a bit of purple as thanks.”
“Your king risks his life traveling the swamp in the hopes that people will tip him purple trinkets?” said Kaitha.
“It ain’t like that. Probably not, anyways. Nobody’s seen him, you see. Some say he’
s one of the old gods roaming far from the pantheon, or the spirit of the swamp, or an ancient Elven hero from the fifth age.”
“Or an excuse to sell painted trash to passersby,” said Gorm.
“Say what you will,” sniffed the barkeep. “Gods know I’ve seen my share of cynics. And as many as not have come out of that wood swearin’ they was saved by the king and thankin’ us for making them take a simple scrap of purple. It’s our civic duty.”
“How benevolent of ye,” said Gorm.
“Oh, not me,” said the barkeep. “It’s my wife. She just can’t stand the idea of poor souls riskin’ their lives in the swamp by going out without a scrap of purple to protect them. Can you, Burlinda?”
The backroom door burst open, the barkeep’s wild-eyed wife—a rotund, grimacing apparition—rooted in the darkness beyond it. “Thar gone widdout parpel?” she shrieked.
The barkeep’s smile oozed neighborly concern, but his eyes were the eyes of a salesman, predatory and calculating. “Why, my Burlinda could talk for hours about the dangers of going into the wood unprepared.”
Gorm and Kaitha shared a look and found, unsurprisingly, that they had both reassessed the value of carrying a purple. Gorm slapped a five-giltin note on the bar. “We’ll take eight,” he said.
The barkeep gave Gorm a triumphant wink. “And a bargain at that,” he repeated.
Sweat beaded on Laruna’s brow. It took immense effort to restrain the flames that wanted to come roaring through her arms and out of her hands. A tiny plume of magic sprouted from the air an inch above her upturned palm, slowly spiraling into existence. It cast a warm glow onto the wooden posts and stone blocks that had once been an Ebenmyre home.
She bent her middle finger toward the strand of magic in her palm and shot a small stream of fire from it, bisecting the path the sorcery channeled through. The thread in her hand split into two streams, spiraling in opposite directions. She positioned her thumb and little finger to split the strands again, so that four threads of pyromancy danced in long, twirling arcs from her hand, like a glowing golden bloom.
She was startled to hear soft footsteps approaching, and as she jumped, her weave changed course again. The threads began to cross back and forth, taking on a new shape.
“Laruna?” Jynn called, and her concentration was shot. Flames surged through her, and the spell began to wobble and come apart as excess power coursed through it. She tried to correct the weave, but the spell twisted into a clumsy snarl of magic. Her spell wobbled uncertainly for a moment, then slid awkwardly from her palm and landed with a warm hiss on the floor of the ruined house just as the noctomancer stepped inside.
For a moment, both mages stared in silence at the dying glow of the failed spell. As it sizzled and sputtered out, anger and embarrassment flared within her. “What are you doing out here?” she demanded.
Jynn scratched at the patch of raven hair on his chin, clearly uncomfortable. “I … I see you’re practicing your spells without me now.”
“That’s no concern of yours,” she snapped. “It’s bad enough the Dwarf sends me to your so-called lessons. What I do on my own time is my own business.”
“You misunderstand,” said the noctomancer, sitting atop a ruined bench with a heavy sigh. “When I was an apprentice. I had a … a cruel master whose lessons confused me, and he’d say that I … well, he didn’t think much of me, and let’s leave it at that. So I’d sneak away to practice spells on my own. And that’s how I really learned, practicing my own magic, but I forgot that as I grew. All I remembered is how he taught me, and it became how I taught.”
He gestured to the charred mark on the floor. “And now, I’m the cruel one, and you’re sneaking off to practice. Perhaps we are not so different, you and I.”
“Stop patronizing me,” Laruna said. “You’re not my master, cruel or thick-headed or otherwise, and I’m not your apprentice, nor am I a child. And don’t fool yourself into thinking we’re alike just because your private tutor made you cry when you were a boy. I’m nothing like you. I grew up eating dirt for dinner and getting beaten if I took too much sod. I’ve fought for everything I have.
“But you,” she snarled, practically spitting the pronoun. “I know your type. You were some rich little brat under the tutelage of a powerful wizard because your father could buy you a spot at the academy. The whole world’s been handed to you on a platter, and here you are moaning that the plate was tarnished!”
His jaw set, and she saw anger flash in his eyes and braced herself for a fight. Yet Jynn’s retaliation never came. Instead, the wizard stared into the ruined house’s fireplace and shook his head.
“Is that it?” she demanded. “Or do you have something else to say before you leave me in peace?”
His voice was softer than a whisper. “How do you do it?”
“What?”
“How do you fight when it’s not a duel? When you don’t know the rules—no, when there are no rules, and there’s no academy to enforce them? When … when you’re not fighting mages?”
“I don’t see how it’s any different,” said Laruna, caught off guard. “You just fight.”
“It’s totally different,” said Jynn. “I know magic. In a duel, I know what my opponent will do, what they should do. I can sense a spell coming. I’ve bested mages who outrank me, and those who have far more capacity to channel. But out here … I can’t sense a knife coming, nor do I know when or how a Lizardman will strike. And so while I’m considering my next move, before I have time to even think of what to do, you step in and just … just …” His hand swept away an imaginary horde of foes.
Laruna tried to find the hidden insult, the sleight she knew the wizard must have been trying to infer. “So, you’re saying I don’t think?”
He turned to look at her again, his blue eyes piercing. “On the contrary, I’m saying you think well on your feet. It’s one of the things I … I admire about you.”
Laruna took a step backwards, reeling from the compliment. Though perhaps that was his intention, she realized. If he wanted to put her off-guard, there probably wasn’t any better way to do it. She recovered quickly and changed topics in a decisive counterattack. “Then give me your vote to make me a full mage.”
His smile made it plain he had seen through her ploy. “You know as well as I do that magehood isn’t about the power you wield, but about the control you have over it.”
“Control,” she snorted. “You mean how fancy your weaves are. I’m sick of hearing about it, sick of seeing apprentices that couldn’t hold a candle to me getting advanced just because they can stitch together a few threads of sorcery.” Unpleasant memories of the academy surfaced in her mind, of long days wearing apprentice robes that were far too small, sitting in a classroom full of peers who weren’t half her age. “I heard the other apprentices talking. Even though they were just children, they’d call me stupid and say I’d never learn to weave.”
“And deep down, you wondered if they were right,” said Jynn, watching the stars overhead. “And you couldn’t help but think that if so many people thought that of you, if the whole world believed you incapable, then maybe you really were as worthless as they said.” The wizard’s words held no derision or mockery, just a wistful sadness, and something else—perhaps familiarity?
“Yes,” said Laruna, watching the noctomancer’s face carefully. “Has that ever happened to you?”
“Oh no, of course not,” said Jynn. “But I did … I know the sting of harsh words. You must not listen to them. When people insult you, remember that they don’t know you, not in your fathoms. Only you know what powers echo there.”
“You called me an idiot.”
“Prove me wrong, Laruna. Show the world the real strength inside you.” The wizard stood. “I can help you with that. And you, in turn, can teach me to fight.”
Laruna stared at him with open doubt. The man’s words were well and good, but he was still Jynn. He was the councilor whose vote denied her full
magehood, and who was indirectly responsible for her involvement in this sorry excuse for a quest.
Jynn seemed to sense her hesitation. “I’ve been tasked with teaching you to weave, and I want to learn how to fight,” he said. “I cannot succeed in either if you fail. I’m not asking you to trust me, just to recognize that our interests are aligned.” He extended a hand to her. “We have nothing to lose, and power to gain.”
Laruna wasn’t sure that was the case. Still, it wasn’t like there was much of a choice; Gorm would insist she train with the noctomancer no matter what. If nothing else, Jynn’s sudden change would make her mandated lessons a lot more tolerable. She took his hand and shook it.
Tuomas polished the blade of his shortsword vigorously. The enchanted blade was crackled with sorcerous lightning that singed his knuckles, but he kept scrubbing long after he could see his reflection in the runesteel. He’d been cleaning his gear since the cart had rolled away, leaving his team to their task. His armor and shield were already polished to a mirror finish. His boots were immaculate, and his cloak, unsullied.
He told the others that his rigorous cleaning regimen was a mark of professionalism, but they just laughed and shook their heads. Everyone else in the company had been a licensed thug for years and recognized a nervous rookie when they saw one.
There was a lot to be nervous about. Tuomas had been a goon for his entire career, up until now. Gooning was good work, if a little dull. Easy. Simple. Low risk. Not like thuggery. Thugs had to deal with heroes, which never seemed to turn out well for the thugs in all the bards’ stories. Sure, there were the great thug legends, mighty individuals who took down hundreds of heroes during their tenure with the Thugs’ Union, but they were vastly outnumbered by the vast throng of thugs who had promising careers cut short: stabbed, incinerated, melted, or otherwise violently ended by professional heroes. Even with the venerable Damrod the Eye fighting by their side, and the fact that their marks were rumored to be a bunch of newbloods led by a few washed-up drunks, there was a good chance someone on the crew wasn’t going to survive the ambush.
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 19