The Games of Ganthrea

by Andy Adams

  With affection, your Great-Uncle,

  Windelm

  Brenner set the letter down, feeling encouraged by Windelm’s words, and better about his choice to accept the opportunity with Dalphon.

  “So,” said Finnegan when Brenner finished, “would you like to join me for an evening of entertainment before you ship off?”

  “Sounds good. What did you have in mind?”

  “I heard the apprentices are holding a competition to see who can best amplify their jumps across the river. Wanna watch?”

  Brenner agreed, thinking that a final walk around the castle grounds would be fitting. The teens meandered through the stone hallways of the castle, down the green sloping east lawns, and followed the familiar dirt track through the forest where before Sage Shastrel had led them, teaching them how to summon stones. Soon they heard the gurgling sounds of Valoria’s river, which ran north before feeding into the larger Arborio River.

  “Watch Lemke!” a brash voice called in the clearing ahead. “Here he goes!”

  They walked past a thicket of trees just in time to see a wiry, dark haired student leap through the air across a twenty-foot section of the river—and, arms flailing, land with a splash halfway across the swift waters. A chartreuse crowd of gawkers sitting around the launch point—mostly second and third level apprentices—let out hoots as Lemke surfaced. He sputtered and then doggedly swam back to the shore.

  Already, another apprentice was stretching and then kicking pebbles over the side of the rocks, sizing up the stretch of river. He backed up, then ran, and then leaped from the ledge. Unlike Lemke, he went higher on the halfway point, kept falling, and landed neatly on the other bank.

  “Nice going, Timothy!” a friend called, as the apprentices gave him approving claps and shouts. Brenner clapped, too, but stopped when he realized spellcasters were elbowing each other, pointing in his direction. For a short moment the evening air was still, and then a dozen girls and boys jumped to their feet, clamoring to be the next jumper to prove themselves.

  A couple of the younger spellcasters were pushing each other toward Brenner. Finally, one got shoved right up to him. He blurted out, “Can you teach us how to jump?”

  Brenner smiled. He knew he should probably pack and mentally prepare for tomorrow, but he didn’t have much personal belongings, and he would not be around Valoria much longer. And, he thought, it’s kinda fun to teach something you’re good at.

  “Okay,” said Brenner, “to start with, who knows what the best jumping animal is?”

  That night, after finishing his impromptu lesson with the younger spellcasters, Brenner decided a final flight around Valoria and Arborio would be fitting. In his mind he spun the Volanti spell. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but now did with pleasure, that the fourth color of elixir caused his spell to be easier to ignite and sustain—and soon he was lifting through the treetops, then soaring above dark and light canopy greens and bright fruits that, like a patchwork quilt, knit together to form the eastern woods of Valoria. The river flowed below, looking like lapis blue thread leisurely unspooled, giving life to everything it touched.

  The summer air was warm, and the stars twinkled.

  He soared across the forest, over the hills, west around Valoria’s ramparts, and hovered, like a hummingbird, looking at the giant city of Arborio: the night orbs had all flickered on, illuminating the trickle of flying spell-casters flitting to pubs and hotels; bursts of laughter and conversation echoed from tree condos at the head and eateries at the foot of massive trunks. Some dark clouds were forming on the far side of town, and he wondered if his journey tomorrow would launch under a storm.

  Brenner turned and flew back, down to the balcony of his quarters, dodging a snake-like vine to land on the stone surface. He went inside. Packing only took about ten minutes. His inner-expanding rucksack made it easy to fit in the new sets of clothes and belt alongside his toothbrush, canteen, compass, knife, Essence of Spungelite and Alacritus potions, pen and journal.

  After setting the dials on the side of his bed to wake with the sun, Brenner laid awake, thinking about the thrill of the Games…Dalphon and his new contract, Windelm’s advice…Sherry’s hug, leaving Valoria and the sages and Finnegan’s jokes…but mostly, he thought of Gemry.

  Am I making the right choice?

  When Brenner finally drifted to sleep, his mind mixed the triumphant events of the week with his subconscious fears, bobbing through thoughts like icebergs in a foggy sea…of moving into unknown regions, fending for himself, going it alone. Strange dreams descended upon him, one moment filled with cheering green fans and brilliant blue waterfalls, the next with ashes, shadows, and strangers.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Morning of Mayhem

  Brenner awoke early on Monday to the gradual rumblings of his bed, grateful he’d finally figured out how to change the settings on it from jolt to gentle. Only a handful of the other level six conjurers were up, clasping their trunks and quietly leaving the dormitory. He showered, dressed, and picked up his rucksack. This is it, he thought, looking around, feeling a bit nervous now that he was truly leaving. He double-checked the contents of his rucksack, and noticed the shimmering blue Alacritus potion. He lifted it out. It wouldn’t hurt to start this job with a little boost. He uncorked the bottle and took a small swig of Alacritus. It tasted awful. But he found his nerves did indeed start to calm, and that he was more in-tune with emotions. He went to the Banquet Hall, putting a couple of baked rolls and warm sausages on his plate—knowing this would be his last breakfast at Valoria for at least a year. Finnegan was not with the spell-casters in the Hall—no doubt he was still sleeping, as he wouldn’t need to be at Hutch & Son’s until lunch.

  As Brenner took a seat at an open table and began to eat, he noticed students elbowing each other, and overheard them talking in worried tones with their heads down.

  “—wasn’t the only embassy to get burnt last night—”

  “On top of that, I got an express post that says there’s been murders—”

  “My dad said he was coming to the gates as soon as possible. Said he doesn’t want me to spend another moment in the city.”

  The news made Brenner’s skin bristle. Fires? Murders? No wonder merchants were hiring players for extra protection. Then he felt the calming effect of Alacritus, and finished eating, feeling better. He slung his pack over his shoulder, and headed across the marble floors, through the passages, going to the entrance of Valoria. He was still puzzling over the conversations when he saw a couple of spellcasters stopped next to large bulletins hung on the entry wall: next Fall’s Ability Levels.

  While he wouldn’t be back for the fall, he was curious to see where he placed. The chatty group of apprentices saw him approach, and politely cleared a path.

  Brenner walked up to the middle, scanning the placements… he wasn’t in the level six conjurers.

  He wasn’t in the level seven mages, either.

  At the bottom of the next chart, he found his name: he was slated to join the level eight mages. A tinge of pride swept through him.

  “Brenner,” a husky voice called from behind, and he heard quick footsteps heading toward him.

  Red-faced and a bit breathless, Sage Vicksman approached him. “Since it’s urgent,” he said, looking concerned, “I’ll be blunt: there’s been some fights and even some lootings last night. Your guardians asked me to escort you to their residence, immediately.”

  “What happened?” Brenner asked. “What did Windelm—”

  “I’ll explain as we fly—” he said, putting a hand on Brenner’s shoulder and guiding him to the front entrance. “Have all your supplies?” he asked, his eyes flicking from Brenner’s face over to his rucksack and to his belt.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Follow me.” Vicksman walked through the large stone archway, levitated off the front steps of Valoria, and waved his arm quickly until Brenner was floating just behind him.

  The morning s
un was partly obscured by low, gray clouds, and the two flew forward through the major vias of Arborio. Looking down, Brenner saw something missing: the normal bustle of merchants and shopkeepers in the streets. Only a few vendors were out with their produce, while most stores remained closed with windows shut.

  “Three of the biome embassies—Montadaux, Vispaludem, and Arenaterro—” Sage Vicksman called to Brenner, “had major fires last night. Sovereign Drusus has called for an immediate investigation to find the vandals, and for heightened security around the Ironclad Assembly, public buildings and banks.”

  Vicksman sped them toward the heart of Arborio, veering around ancient stone buildings and even taller trees, flying past few carrier carpets and an even scanter amount of spellcasters. Brenner tried to make sense of the vandalism—were they just going after money, or was it something else? Political perhaps?

  “Sage Vicksman,” Brenner said, as they passed Via Arborio, which would have led them to the Shell Towers, and beyond to Vale Adorna, “What has this got to do with me?” An odd feeling grew inside him.

  “Down this way,” Vicksman responded, turning off the major flight route, and flying down a less congested street. “Because,” he said, looking over at Brenner, “You are Arborio’s most valuable player, and if they could, these thieves would ransom you. Over here,” Vicksman said, swooping to a stop at a grimy-looking doorway. Next to the door a rat scurried from one crate to another. Vicksman produced a key, fitted it to the door, and opened it wide. “Quick,” he said, gesturing inside.

  Brenner touched down, and was about to follow…but the Alacritus potion gave him clear thought, which cut through Vicksman’s urgency… “Where is Windelm?” he said.

  “He’s coming,” Vicksman said, looking at him with impatience, and then something much stronger: greed. He pointed his mircon at Brenner, whispering something.

  Vicksman’s spell enshrouded Brenner, and he felt his defenses weakening. Now he wanted to follow Vicksman inside…wanted to obey him by any means…to give him his amulet…

  Brenner’s feet marched him up to the door. His mind felt covered with clouds…he pulled off his amulet, extended it to Vicksman…suddenly, like a ray of light, the Alacritus potion burned through the mental fog; his thoughts within cried out, Totum Aura…then again, louder, and Brenner shouted, “Totum Aura!”

  The spell of control snapped, and Brenner saw a look of malice flash across Vicksman’s face as he muttered, “If that’s how you’d like to get to Dalphon…”

  Brenner pulled his arm back, clenching his amulet.

  Vicksman bellowed, “Torturi—”

  “Repello!” Brenner shouted, and Vicksman hurled backwards into the dark room, hitting the wall with a crack, his mircon thrown from his hand.

  “Apellatum,” Brenner thought, and Vicksman’s mircon flew obediently to him; he caught it. He set it against his glass holster, which looped around it firmly.

  Brenner didn’t wait to see what Vicksman would try to do next, even if he was lying pretty still—immediately he cast his Volanti spell, and took to the sky.

  He flew back through the alleys like a hawk; with every turn, he looked over his shoulder, but thankfully didn’t see Vicksman…or anyone else trailing him. He sped behind a group of other flyers on a major via. How much of what Vicksman told me was true? And how did he know about Dalphon?

  He thought back to last night…there were dark clouds over the horizon…were those clouds…or could they have been smoke?

  Like a bullet, he shot past oakbrawns, mahagonies, and buildings, toward the fountains of Arborio. He looked to the eastern horizon; intermittently through gray clouds, he could see the sun was almost four fingers above the horizon—which meant he had about half an hour before Dalphon would be departing…but if Vicksman turned on me, who’s to say Dalphon wouldn’t be next?

  He slowed his flight by some giant sequoias, coming to the last corner before the fountains, and flew up to an empty balcony attached to an oakbrawn. He peered over the edge.

  True to his word, Dalphon was near the fountain, his blond hair waving across his face as he marched between caravans, issuing commands to his orderlies who loaded people and cargo onto wagons. The faint smell of manure drifted to Brenner as he watched Dalphon climb up the lead caravan, which was attached to a team of charcoal-colored Pegasi that whinnied and jerked on their reins, ready to leave the ground behind. Most other caravans were attached to horses. People loaded wagons with barrels and wooden crates—many of which were stamped with the word Aquaperni—then began tying the boxes down with coarse ropes. There seemed to be a working hierarchy, where men and a few teens wearing silver necklaces ordered the rest to do the heavy lifting.

  One of the teenagers scurrying around the caravans and giving out commands looked oddly familiar. Brenner tilted his head over the balcony to get a better look. The boy turned around to scold a subordinate for snapping a rope, and Brenner saw his familiar, rat-like eyes.

  Sorian.

  Sorian, who had swapped his green Valoria robes for ones the color of crude oil, and adorned with a silver necklace, smiled as he bossed the men and other teenagers around, most of whom had copper rings around their necks. From inside a caravan came yelps, which echoed off Brenner’s balcony. As Sorian looked up to the balcony and around to the caravan, Brenner ducked his head down.

  When a moment passed, he looked out again: Sorian was facing away from his balcony, and walked over to Dalphon, who was gesturing at two of the burly men to deal with their wagon. They drew their mircons and shot spells inside the caravan. The shouts within subsided.

  Yesterday Brenner had been eager to claim a job for five thousand golders a year, but now, after seeing what the operation really looked like, and who they employed, Brenner decided the money, the risk, and the company was not worth it.

  If Vicksman had been right about the lootings, and fire, would the vandals have stopped at embassies? Would they have attacked other shops as well?

  Gemry. What about Gemry?

  He had to find her.

  Casting his Volanti spell about himself, he quietly hovered back from the balcony, and then, using side alleys, veered in a wide circle up and away from the fountains, over to the northwest side of Arborio, where Gemry had said her father owned a shop.

  The majestic oakbrawns thinned, and the buildings sagged with a run-down look: flaking paint hung like scabs on the front of shops, crude graffiti boasted equally crude suggestions, and spellcasters traveled solo, glancing curiously at him as they passed, as if they couldn’t understand why a Zabrani player would be caught in this part of the city.

  He read the shop signs quickly as he passed…Tyrane’s Tattoos…Golders on Loan…Guard Beasts and Plants…that wasn’t it…Spell Magnification and Curse Removal…Whisker’s Wares and Saloon…and then—

  Gespelti’s Warehouse & Pawn. The first two words of the sign looked worn from age, but the last one looked a little brighter, as if it was recently added.

  The shop was more sprawling than the others around it. Its entrance had two large steel doors, and tinted glass windows on one side with a flickering sign that floated the letters: Open.

  Brenner floated down to the collar of the street, cast one last glance around for anyone following him, then pushed the heavy door open.

  Inside, the air was musty. Rickety sign posts hung from the ceiling every dozen feet or so, labeling aisles as ‘Recent Imports,’ ‘Spellcaster Camouflage,’ ‘Cargo, Travel and Carpets,’ ‘Miscellaneous Pawn,’ and a final sign labeled ‘Sorted by Biome,’ where different corrals held everything from Arenaterro animal bones and tusks to misty, glowing Gelemensus glassware.

  Walking past the aisles, Brenner saw a frazzled-looking, dark-haired woman at the far counter, hunched over paperwork, face on her fist. As he approached her, he noticed her face had a familiar shape, and her thin nose appeared identical to Gemry’s. But her eyes looked different—they seemed to have been surrounded by tired creases for so lo
ng they were permanently etched in, and they lacked the warmth of her daughter’s.

  “Excuse me,” Brenner said, to catch her attention—she hadn’t moved an inch the entire time. She tilted her head up. “What deal can I offer you?”

  “None, really. Are you Mrs. Gespelti?” Brenner asked, knowing the answer but wanting to be certain.

  She nodded.

  “Oh good. Is Gemry here?”

  Mrs. Gespelti let out a huff, as if Brenner was badgering her during a very important meeting. She fixed him with a pair of beetle-black eyes. “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Brenner…”

  She shrugged.

  “I played with her on the Zabrani team.”

  This seemed to jog her memory somewhat, as she sat more upright and gave a slight nod. But then she went back to looking at her ledger.

  Brenner pressed again. “So, is she working here?”

  Mrs. Gespelti’s blunt answer surprised him: “No. And if you’re not buying anything, I have other business to do.”