Destiny (Heroes by Necessity Book 3)

by Riley S. Keene

  Sieghard let silence fall between them. He tapped his steepled fingers together in front of his chin, a far-off look in his eyes. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Well,” he said finally, “what is your conclusion from this discrepancy?”

  “I wasn’t sure at first.” Athala shuffled through a few sheets of parchment until she found one with large circles connected by thin lines. “I honestly thought it was a dead end until I realized that the myth hasn’t changed in hundreds of years.” She pointed to one of the circles on the sheet, drawing his attention to the text. “Versions of the tales from the Age of Dragons are the exact same as the current versions. There’s no mention of the dragons, and there’s very little mention of the specific Gods. Or where either the dragons or the Gods came from.”

  “This doesn’t explain your conclusion,” Sieghard said with an impatient click of his tongue, although he was still smiling.

  “All tales change over time. They change in the telling from person to person. Historical details are discovered and forgotten. Myths especially change from generation to generation across eras and city cultures.” Athala counted off on her fingers. “Rollan the Traveler, Jolan and the Mountain, Viveka of the West... all of these tales have grown and changed over the years.

  “There are written versions of Rollan’s tale from the Age of Dragons where he took his orders from the dragons instead of the Gods, and his famous bow was strung with human sinew instead of dragon gut. And Jolan—” Athala paused. She was rambling. And Sieghard was yawning. So instead of continuing the thought, she shook her head. “It’s not important. But what is important is that this story hasn’t changed. Every word is the same. No version has embellishments on their arrival, giving any insight into where they came from. No version highlights the actions of a specific God. It’s just... vague.”

  Sieghard yawned again. “This still isn’t a conclusion,” he observed, his tone playful instead of angry.

  Athala ignored him. “Every city, including followers of seven different Gods, agree with the same story told by followers of seven different dragons. It’s not just strange. It’s convenient. Suspicious.” Athala slapped the desk in front of her, shaking the books that were balanced precariously on its wooden surface. “It’s fabrication! A lot of people disagree about how powerful the Gods are, and how much they can affect the world outside of their specific spheres of influence. This is an example of that!” She pointed at her notes. “The Gods made up this story. They have been preserving it and perpetuating it for centuries. It’s like they replace any alternative versions with the same old vague tale and we all just assume that’s how it has always been.”

  Sieghard paused, thoughtfully stroking at his hairless chin. “Interesting.” He paused longer, then nodded. “A surprisingly novel theory, indeed. Warrants further consideration. But,” he said with a grin, “how does it relate to the idea of ascension?”

  “Ascension becomes not just conceptual, but probable. If the Gods are doing something to keep this story the same, intervening or what have you, it means they’re hiding something. I can’t say that it’s ascension for certain, but if they were created from some sort of primordial magical essence by human belief, they wouldn’t need to be hiding that. If they were raised from human to God, they would have a definite interest in keeping that hidden. Otherwise they might find competition.”

  “Sound logic. Not entirely based on evidence, but still a well-thought-out theory.”

  “Sorry,” Athala said with a small shrug. She looked down at her notes, willing them to give her the factual evidence she needed to claim her thoughts. “It just feels right though. What else could they have to hide?”

  “The possibilities are endless,” Sieghard said with a small smile. “Perhaps there is an eighth God for us to follow who they have otherwise stamped out. Or possibly there was a prosperous time before the Gods—not chaos at all, but paradise—and so they know we would question why we even need them?”

  Athala’s brow furrowed. The situations he outlined were so specific. She wondered if he had knowledge he wasn’t sharing, and then immediately dismissed it. Of course he did. Sieghard had been studying this topic for some time now. Athala sagged in her seat. “You’re right. It could be anything.” She yawned, and was suddenly well aware of the lateness of the day. “I suppose it’s not terribly useful to you, then.”

  “Quite the opposite.”

  Athala looked up, blinking twice. “Really?”

  The old wizard smiled at her, a quirky, wide thing that felt familiar and like home. “Of course. This is a novel direction to look and it’s... reassuring to think that there could be logic to this. I have some conceptual work to show that ascension is a possibility, but the idea that there could be precedent? That it’s not just possible, but that it happened in the past? That it could be duplicated?” His smile turned to a grin, taking ten years off his appearance without the use of magic. “It’s invigorating.”

  “Does this mean you’ll let me help you tomorrow?”

  “If this is what you can do without my direction, then yes. Your confidence in your abilities is well placed and I’d be a fool to not accept your help.”

  Athala clasped her hands together in front of her chest. She was overwhelmed with the urge to hug Sieghard, but would likely end up shocked or something more for her show of affection. “Thank you so much! I won’t disappoint you!”

  “You already haven’t.” Sieghard paused, looking at the books and notes Athala had spread out on the table. “Do you have a place to stay in town?”

  “Oh! Yes. I have a room with a friend.” Athala leapt to her feet and started collecting the books to return them to the shelf. “I’ll, um, I’ll return at around sixth bell, if that’s not too early.”

  “Not at all,” the older wizard said, laughing. “When you get to be my age, you don’t get much sleep. I’ll have been up for around two bells already by then.”

  “Did you want me to come by earlier?” Athala asked as she put away the last of her research material.

  “Hah, no, Wizard Dohn, thank you. I am not a pretty person to be around before I have a cup of tea and an hour of meditation. Sixth bell will be fine.” Sieghard pulled himself to his feet and staggered over to a nearby table, pulling a tome from its surface. It was a thick volume, bound in green leather. “But if you are awake early anyway, it’ll give you time to look this over.”

  “What is it?”

  “Unoriginal though the title may be, it’s a useful foundation for your research,” he said, handing the book over.

  The words on the cover were draconian, and like all other draconian, they could have meant any number of things. Athala tapped the mix of symbols. “Does this translate to ‘Of the Magic that Makes Them’?”

  “Very close. A literal translation would just say ‘Dragon Spells’ but your translation is much more elegant than Blaise’s original.”

  “Blaise? I’ve never heard of them.” Athala turned the book over in her hands, treating it as if it were made of crystal instead of parchment and leather. “Where is it from?”

  “Marska, originally.” Sieghard grinned when Athala looked up, shocked. “Yes, this book is transcribed from work originally done during the Age of Dragons. Blaise was one of the first wizards to try to analyze how dragons used magic.” Sieghard blew out all but one of their candles and collected the last to lead the way from the library. “Most modern work on the subject is based on his observations, though he wrote under at least a dozen names, since, at the time, the work was very heretical.”

  Athala clutched the book to her chest and followed Sieghard out of the library. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry about it much,” he said with a laugh. “Bring it back when you’re finished. Just don’t lose it.”

  “Oh, um, no. That’s what I meant. I’ll, um, finish it tonight and bring it back. In pristine condition, no less.”

  Sieghard snorted. “That’d be a neat tr
ick.” They crossed into the foyer and he paused, turning to face her. “I spilled tea across the middle of it about six years back, and it stained through about thirty pages in both directions.”

  Athala stared at him. Her mind flashed between outrage, terror, and horror.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that.” The old wizard waved a hand dismissively. “A book lasts forever. A cup of tea doesn’t outlive a bell. The book is still readable. And it even has a little personality now.”

  “It’s still monstrous,” Athala said with a sniffle.

  “Welcome to studying with Sieghard,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “At least you know what you’re getting yourself into now!”

  Chapter Twenty

  A bell was chiming, sad and soft in the distance.

  Ermolt wasn’t sure which bell it was. Something told him it was last bell, but that could have been the exhaustion talking.

  With a sigh of effort, Ermolt shoved the door of the Lucky Turnip open ahead of him. He staggered inside. Every muscle in his body burned.

  Part of him was disappointed. In his days at Celnaer Hold, Ermolt had done drills that would have put that fight—and the subsequent run through the city—to shame. But here he was, out of practice, sore, and regretting his lapse in training.

  Before the door could swing back into his face, Ermolt leaned into it with one shoulder, pushing it back open so that Elise could follow.

  She looked almost as tired as he felt.

  The pair of them had managed to sustain only minor cuts and scrapes, but their escape had cost them in other ways. About half of the sheaths strapped across Ermolt’s body were empty, and they were both drenched in sweat. Ermolt had managed to get his breath back during the last quarter of a bell of their escape, but Elise’s shoulders were still heaving from their wild sprint through the city.

  The Lucky Turnip was empty, save for two people. The owner stood behind the bar still, even at this late hour, and while he looked up at them, he otherwise seemed unaffected by their appearance. Ermolt made a noncommittal grunt, and the man returned it.

  For all of its problems, including the wine that smelled like sulfur and the constant swaying and creaking of the structure, this was his kind of place.

  Ermolt turned his attention to the only other person in the tavern’s main room—Athala. She was asleep, if the snores that drifted across the empty tavern room counted for anything, and she seemed to be using some massive book as a pillow.

  Almost simultaneously, Ermolt and Elise sighed in relief. Ermolt stole a look at Elise, and noticed she caught her breath. She also stood taller and the worst of the worry was gone from her face.

  Ermolt let his shoulders relax as well.

  The three of them had made it through this trying day alive. And now they knew certain folks couldn’t be trusted. They wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  Ermolt crossed the room to Athala and carefully gathered her in his arms. As he began to lift her away from the table, she stirred and clutched the book, clinging to it. Ermolt didn’t try to separate them. Instead he carried her to her room and put her in bed. Book and all.

  She murmured something in her sleep.

  Ermolt draped the woolen blanket at the end of the bed over the wizard and left her to sleep.

  As he closed the door behind him, he looked down the remaining doors down the hall. Ermolt hoped one of them was empty. If his estimation was right, it was after last bell, and he wouldn’t be able to return to the Blue Halberd. He had no doubt his gear would be fine overnight.

  Ermolt returned to the main room of the tavern, motioning for a round of drinks before he collapsed into a seat across from Elise. The Conscript had her head down, forehead resting against the wooden surface of the table. Ermolt let silence pass between them for a moment before he stretched his arms over his head. “You know, all told, I think this was a good day.”

  Elise rolled her head to the side slightly so she could glare at him with one eye. “How in Ydia’s Endless Wisdom have you come to that conclusion?” she asked. “The whole city is against us. There are masked fanatics ambushing us—two nights in a row!—and the Guards are on their side. Not to mention, we found out the whole thing is being orchestrated by the monster who killed Merylle.” She groaned and sat up as a sleepy-eyed woman brought over their drinks. “Oh. And who also almost got us killed in Khule.”

  “We’re still alive,” Ermolt said, nodding his thanks to the woman and taking the drinks. “We’re together and we’re standing strong. And there’s clear adversaries for us to deal with. Do we need more than that?”

  “How about a plan? We need to get to that dragon before Ibeyar does.” Elise sighed and pulled the mug close to her. She didn’t lift it yet, though. “Alternatively, instead of just playing cat’s paw with him, we could just take him out.”

  Ermolt paused, looking at his mug of mead. It wasn’t a bad idea. Taking Ibeyar out before he could get to the dragon. Ending his horrible crusade of whatever his purpose was. He couldn’t interfere if they killed him.

  But it was wrong.

  In the stories he lived his life around, the heroes didn’t attack the villains first. They worked around them, constantly outsmarting the bad person until they stepped too far over the line. Then the hero would deal with the villain once and for all.

  Ibeyar was a bad person, but his actions hadn’t harmed the common folk in some way. And so Ermolt couldn’t justify going after him directly.

  “Wouldn’t work,” he said finally, shaking his head. “We don’t know where to find him.”

  “I thought you heard something from the Guards?”

  “Pretty sure it’s a trap,” he lied.

  Elise was quiet a moment. “You know, you might be right. Ibeyar seemed to know exactly where I’d go for information. He likely even had someone at the Hall of Records to capture Athala if she came through.” The Conscript went still. “How is he so good?”

  “He isn’t good. He’s fanatical. There’s a big difference.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “We just need to think outside of our normal tactics. What do we have so far?”

  “Nothing,” Elise said with an angry sigh. “We’ve learned absolutely nothing.”

  Ermolt took a swing of mead. “Not true. We know the Temple is against him.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Elise growled. “What just happened to us tonight? That was us reaching out to the Temple and the result was being chased all over the city. Sure, Numara and the High Priest might be against him, but we can’t just walk into the Temple and expect to walk back out. Any of the Conscripts and Temple Guards, maybe even the Priests, might be working for Ibeyar.” She stilled. “What if everything Tilke told us was a lie? What if Ibeyar is working with the Temple already?”

  Ermolt shrugged. “We can’t know unless we find out.”

  “Regardless, we don’t know anything else.” Elise started counting on her fingers. “We don’t know where the dragon is. We don’t know where Ibeyar is. We don’t know his plan. His motives. His resources. We don’t know his allies, his enemies, his weaknesses... nothing! We know nothing!” She shook her hands at him for emphasis.

  “You’re looking at this the wrong way,” Ermolt said, grabbing her hands and lowering them away from his face. “Sure, there are things we don’t know. But there are others we do. Numara isn’t to blame for the attacks in the night. I’d bet every coin in my pocket that the disappearances, injuries, and kidnappings are all Ibeyar. He’s got assassins going around in the night and sowing discord.” Ermolt looked Elise firmly in the eye. “It’s all him. He’s manipulating the whole city into his pocket, and anyone looking for real information is going to get ambushed.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel much better,” Elise said, tugging her hands out of his grip. “So he can manipulate a God and turn Her followers against Her. That’s great. We’re definitely, exactly the people to out maneuver someone who can run circles around a God
.”

  “We don’t have to out-maneuver him. We know it’s him. And we can use that to stop him.” Ermolt ran a hand through his hair. “He’s hurt people—stolen their children, killed their friends and family—all to make himself look like the savior. He’s caused pain and used it to his advantage. But that makes him vulnerable. We just have to get to the people and show them he’s responsible. His whole strangle-hold on this city is balanced on lies. We reveal those lies, and we take everything from him.” He paused. “We just need to show the people that we’re the heroes, not him.”

  Elise was quiet across the table. He watched her, trying to read her. Her hands were wrapped around her still nearly full mug of mead. She stared into it as if answers to her thousand questions lurked just below the surface.

  “Are we?”

  Ermolt tilted his head to one side. “Are we what?”

  “Are we heroes?”

  Ermolt laughed. “Of course we are.”

  Elise shook her head. “Not after what happened in Jalova. We killed a God, Ermolt. We ripped the heart out of His dragon and all His power faded from Neuges. All of His followers are now alone. No one listens to their prayers. Because of us. That doesn’t sound like something heroes would do.”

  “Teis wasn’t listening to their prayers.”

  “That makes it better?” Elise looked up at him. Her face looked tired. There were lines under and around her eyes he’d never noticed before. “We don’t know what happens when a God dies, Ermolt. All we know is that Ydia is sending the world into chaos, and we’re nothing more than agents of that chaos, now. Hether and Numara are victims of Ydia’s plan, in one way or another. They have to be afraid.” She frowned. “And Ibeyar. He’s loose in this city because of us. Is this what heroes do? Make things worse?”

  Ermolt looked down at his mug of mead. Like Elise, he searched the unbroken surface for answers. There were none.

  They were heroes. Heroes always did the right thing. But what did the heroes become when the situation changed—when the lies they were led to believe showed their truths?