Alexa Drey- the Veils of Lamerell

by Ember Lane

  “Quite a bit?”

  “A lot.”

  “And who’s Sakina?”

  “Sakina? You best ask Cronis that—he’s known her the longest. Me? I went to the vale to have a quiet few years. Such talk is not for me any more.” And after those words, Greman fell silent.

  I watched the forest go by, with its shadows, brooks and moss-ridden banks. After a few hours the conifers started to thin. Ahead of us, Shylan led the way, the horse sauntering along at a walk, and Petroo darted off, came back, darted off, waited by a tree, and darted off.

  After a little while, the forest ended and was replaced by a broad, grassy valley, dotted with stands of trees, bursts of heather, black, jutting rocks, and higher, scree-covered slopes and threatening cliff faces. The wind picked up, a chill on it, and I realized that this was my first real glimpse of the Land of Barakdor. I realized that the Vale of Lamerell was secluded, protected, some how safer than this outside world.

  Petroo dashed back and jumped clean into the air, somersaulting over the two horses pulling us and landed with one foot on each of their rears.

  “Fancy a run?” he asked. “No point in wasting a bit of practice time.”

  “Can I, Greman?”

  Greman shrugged. “I’m not in charge, and I’d guess you couldn’t be in a safer pair of hands than his.”

  “You’ll get to try your new boots out,” Petroo said.

  I jumped off the wagon.

  Name: Alexa Drey. Race: Human. Type: Chancer.

  Age: 24. Alignment: None. XP: 500. Level: 3.

  Profession: None. Un/Al pts: 6. Reputation: Nobody.

  Health Points: 150/150 Energy: 60/60 Mana: 50/50

  HP Regen: 15/Min EN Regen: 6/Min MA Regen: 5/Min

  Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)

  Vitality: (2, 13), Stamina: (6, 0), Intelligence: (5, 0),

  Charisma: (3, 0) Wisdom: (5, 0)

  Skills: (Level, % to next level, Boosts %, Level Cap)

  Running: (3, 67, 25, 12), Perception: (3, 32, 0, 15), Commerce: (1, 0, 0, 6), Magic: (1, 0, 0, ∞), Concealment: (2, 0, 0, 15)

  Talents:

  Tongues of Time. The Veils of Lamerell.

  Quests:

  Seek out the Legend of Billy Long Thumb. Status: Incomplete. Reward: Unknown.

  9

  A Pot Of Broth

  I raced down the valley, the land either side of the trail blurred. Petroo was just ahead; somehow his speed exactly mirrored my best. The trail wound around rocks, threaded through stands of deciduous trees, as it curved to the stream’s path. I was going so fast that I daren’t look around, daren’t do anything but concentrate on Petroo’s lead. In my mind, I could near enough see my running percentages going up and up and up. When Petroo skidded to a halt, I nearly smashed straight into him.

  “Whoa,” he said, catching hold of me, and he pulled me off the trail and down behind a rock. “You run well, for a novice, but running isn’t everything. The problem with the speed is that you need to be able to control it.” He sat up. “Think, you watched me come down the vale from Zybond, but did you see me slow? Then, before you knew it, I was standing in the doorway. How? Look—look there.” He pointed to the two great divots in the mud that I’d left when I’d skidded to a stop. “Now, if we were scouting a band of thieves and they were to see them, it’d be obvious someone was following. You see?”

  I nodded. “So, how do I stop?”

  He scratched his nose. “Let me think. My most recent students had some ideas on it. Take Swamprat, for instance, she starts to think she’s running through water, except she imagines thin water first and makes it progressively thicker. Solemn, she imagines she’s racing through long grass, Shrimp—water, same as Swamprat, but then they are brother and sister, and Swift…” Petroo paused, “I don’t think he’s ever told me. Some think of clouds, others sand, I’ve even had one that imagined pea soup. My point is this, imagine running through something thin and make it thicker to bring you to a halt. After that, all you have to do is do it faster. Here...” And he sprang up. “I’ll show you.”

  Petroo vanished, but I knew not in the real sense, I knew he’d just sprinted away. He reappeared fifty yards up the road, and then burst forward and the blur gradually became him again until he was standing in front of me.

  “You try it,” he said.

  I got up, ran fifty yards back up the trail, took a breath and then ran back. I ran like the wind, I ran to impress Petroo, and then I tried to think of pea soup around my legs, thick pea soup, and my legs stopped running. My body, however, carried on, and I flew past Petroo, and over the rock he was standing by. The grass seemed to rush up at me, smacking into my arms and making me roll and roll until I smashed into another rocky outcrop that catapulted me into the air. I screamed as I realized the slope had suddenly gotten steeper again, and I was actually flying, and my arms and legs were pumping like I was still running.

  “Whoaahhh…” I shouted as a bunch of trees approached. I pitched into the ground just before them, bounced up and smashed straight into their ranging branches, ending up cupped by a pair of them.

  Damage! You have sustained 14 damage points. Brush it off and thank the Jaspur’s gift for protecting you.

  You still have 6 unallocated attribute points.

  Congratulations! You have a new attribute. You have been awarded the attribute Luck, and by the look of it, you’ll need it. You have a luck point, plus item bonuses.

  “All well and good,” I remembered thinking, before I passed out.

  When I woke, Petroo was looking down at me. “You’ll get the hang of it. You were quite tangled up in that tree, but it caught you well—almost like it was told too,” he said, smiled, brushed the leaves and bark off his clothes, and pulled me up. My legs felt like jelly. My back hurt from crashing into the rocks, and my pride was destroyed. Petroo took out a small vial. “I never train a novice without a vial of this,” he said, and gave it to me. “Just a sip, mind.”

  I looked at it; it was three quarters full of a deep, crimson liquid. I took a sip and nearly spat it out right away.

  Congratulations! You have drunk the blood of Brodgrat the spider and recouped your health. Spider’s blood heals the body, spider’s poison kills the mind. Don’t mix up your vials. You have gained 1 vitality point.

  Congratulations! Run like the wind. Under Petroo’s guidance, you have leveled up your running. Trust the Apachalant, they are always true.

  Congratulations! You have been awarded another stamina point. Run more, fly less, gain Stamina.

  “There,” said Petroo, “that must make it feel better.”

  “Will I ever get the hang of stopping without skidding?”

  Petroo draped his arm over my shoulder. “I forgot that you aren’t Apachalant. For us, it’s second nature. Why not try and reduce your skid marks bit by bit? Come.” He patted me on the back. “Let’s run back to the onion wagon.”

  “Looked more like garlic to me.”

  He nodded. “But onion sounds better.”

  My legs were pumping before the last words were out of his mouth. We ran as though truly free, both of us laughing all the way, until we neared the wagon. They had stopped by a small arc-shaped copse, untethered the horses and the four of them, Greman, Marista, Shylan, and Cronis were all sitting around a small fire, almost within the trees’ embrace. I skidded to a halt, trying to keep it as small as possible, and rather than launch myself into the air, this time I just stumbled on, stopping myself by crashing into the wagon—gently-ish—I only lost 1 health point. Marista glanced up and frowned.

  “I suppose getting her back in one piece is something,” she said, clearly addressing Petroo.

  “We had a…” he made to say, but thought better of it and slunk into the group between Shylan and Cronis. Marista bid me over.

  I sat next to her, and she immediately grabbed my chin. “No cuts, no bruises, and yet she has that glow of recently replenished health. The spider?” She shot a glance at a ve
ry sheepish high prince.

  He tossed her the vial. She unstoppered it, sniffed it, and passed it to Greman. “Needs a pinch of vanilla. Surprised the poor girl didn’t gag.”

  Greman fished his hand into one of the many pockets that adorned his rather odd-looking, leather-like coat. I say leather-like because it certainly wasn’t made from an animal skin—you could tell that from the numerous filaments that shimmered in the firelight—but it was a similar brown-gray. I decided to ask him about it, but next time we were alone up front of the onion. Petroo was right, onion was a much better description.

  “Who’s Brodgrat?” I asked, beginning to wonder if I had any control over my mouth anymore. It seemed to just ask questions, before I’d decided if it was a good idea.

  Cronis completely ignored my question, but then he was reading a book. Shylan looked up, but yawned and hunched back over as if the question didn’t concern him. Marista brought out a pot from a straw hamper by the side of her and gave it to Greman, and Greman got up and walked to the river, pot in hand.

  Petroo was looking around, and then appeared to realize my gaze had fallen on him.

  “Brodgrat is the king of the spiders—he lives on an island called Westerways, just northeast of The Isles of the Apachalant—my home.”

  “Oh, so he’s still alive? How come you’ve got his blood in a vial?” There it was again, another question just blurted.

  “I, err, I saved his life once, long ago.”

  I could tell he felt uncomfortable talking about it and supposed he was just being humble about the deed, but couldn’t quite work out how a spider had so much blood, nor why saving him was so…was such…was such a deed.

  “Is he quite large?” Well, that question had to be asked.

  Petroo grabbed a stick and prodded the fire. “For a spider. Ten, twelve-feet high, and I suppose about a twenty-foot leg-span.” He shrugged. “So quite big. It all happened a long time ago. Maybe one day when we’re stuck for a story, I’ll tell you about it, but for now, I fear it will muddle your mind.”

  I knew that was the end of that, and luckily, my impetuous mouth seemed to agree. There was so much I had to learn about this land, it was impossible to know where to start. Stop speaking and listen, I thought. The last thing I wanted to do was become annoying to these folk and get thrown out into some level three village—if such things existed.

  Greman returned, having filled the pot, and Marista brought out a number of metal rods that once put together formed a frame over the fire. She hung the pot from it and then delved farther into the hamper, bringing out carrots, greens, some dried-meat cubes, potato, and sprigs of this and that, dumping them all in the pot. She reached back into the hamper and came out with a handful of bowls, six mugs, and some cutlery. Getting up, she bent down and plunged both hands in, bringing out a barrel of ale and handing it to Greman. He planted it on a rock, and filled the mugs, passing them around. Marista sat back down and looked at me.

  “What?” she asked, but I just stared at the hamper, and then back at everything that had come out of it.

  “No way,” I muttered to myself.

  She shot me a look, and then reached back into the hamper and brought out a wooden spoon, leaning forward to stir the bubbling broth. “You’ll find, Alexa, that there is no point in doing things the hard way if an easier one is available. Shylan?”

  Shylan looked up. “Marista,” he said, though almost as a sigh.

  “Where are we to camp tonight?”

  “If we make good speed, we should get halfway, at least to Grim Valley Falls. We’ll make no alehouse, nor way station. Not at this pace. Besides, the closest is on The Silver Road.”

  Marista nodded. “As I thought, it has been an age since I traveled this way. I remember why, now.”

  “The wagon should afford you plenty of comforts,” Shylan said, and for the first time I sensed some friction between the pair of them.

  “Hmmph,” Marista grunted, and began to spoon the broth into the bowls. “Cronis, you must tutor Alexa this afternoon. She is far too naïve, far too exposed. We cannot afford the veils to fall into the wrong hands.”

  The finality of her words ended the discussion, and Marista passed me my broth.

  It was absolutely disgusting. Half-cooked potatoes, raw carrots and meat as tough as old boots. Every time I made to put it down, Marista scowled, and I died a little inside as I pulled the bowl back in and spooned in some more of the watery mulch.

  “I would suggest,” Shylan muttered, “that we all make haste to the nearest inn before the next meal finishes us off.”

  The chink of Marista setting her bowl down brought an ominous end to his words. I swear the flames crouched down and hid within the fire’s embers.

  “This last night passed,” Marista said, her voice crisp and even. “I was dining with Carter Green in the Great Hall of The House of Chauffeurs. We ate gazelle, handreared by the De’Vulk herders and drank seven-year-old wine—a Thameerian Third Tier wine—a ruby red, and puffed on cigars rolled from the leaves of tobacco plants from the forests Trappas Shyl—possibly blessed by Scholl himself.” Her voice was wistful, as though the memories brought her great joy, but then they turned ice cold. “I could still be there.”

  Shylan’s mouth was wide open. “Did you bring any? Tell me you brought some.”

  Marista dipped into the hamper and brought out six slim, eight-inch-long cigars. “These little, old things?” she asked.

  Shylan nodded. Cronis nodded. Greman’s goggle eyes grew even larger.

  Petroo set down his bowl. “Well, I think the broth is wonderful,” he said.

  “I thought you might.” She tossed him one.

  “Quite delicious,” said Greman. “Is that a new trick you’ve learned with the potatoes?”

  “No, Greman, though thank you for the lovely compliment.” Another cigar flew in the air.

  “The beef is just right,” chimed Cronis.

  “It’s mutton, but all the same, I’ll take it.” Marista bent forward and handed Cronis the third.

  Shylan cleared his throat. “Absolutely gorgeous, see—finished it all.”

  Marista fixed him a glare. “Then why don’t you finish off the pot?”

  “But…”

  She waved the cigars.

  “It would be my pleasure,” Shylan said, through gritted teeth. “But why should I hog it all, perhaps a spoon each?” He looked around the group.

  “I’m good,” said Petroo.

  “Full,” announced Cronis.

  “Need to…need to… I need to round up the horses,” said Greman.

  “I’ll help you,” Shylan said, a smile gracing his face.

  “No need.” Greman pushed himself up. “You finish up the pot.” He brushed himself down and strolled off whistling a tune.

  Shylan held a full spoon over the pot and looked at me, his eyes pleading.

  “Full,” I said, and Marista’s laugh filled the copse’s embrace.

  The afternoon saw me inside the onion, with Cronis. Like the hamper, the inside seemed curiously larger than the outside. It was more like being in a luxurious marquee. All around, a bright, pale-yellow light filtered in through its jaspurwood sides making the room warm and inviting. A circle of cushions lined its perimeter, and a low, round table took center spot. We sat opposite each other, the table between us, and Cronis just stared at me.

  “I don’t quite know where to start,” he said.

  “Why not start at the beginning,” I ventured.

  He scratched his clumps of hair. “That’s the problem. I’m not sure where it is. I think I know the beginning of where we started, but I’m not overly sure. And then there’s the beginning of when they came, but that isn’t the real beginning at all. Something happened before we began, though I’ve yet to find out exactly what. So there’s the pickle.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me about Sakina, about why.”

  “But then you’d have to know about the color of magic to truly
understand that.”

  “Then tell me about the color of magic.”

  “To tell you that story, you’d need to know the history of Scholl.” He sighed at that, and I sensed great sadness in him.

  “Shylan was reading a book the other day—he said it was a book about you and him. Surely that has a start?”

  “The Auguries?” He reached around and brought out the book, passing it to me. “'Tis but the ramblings of a madman.”

  “Why don’t I just read the first bit, and you can tell me about it?”

  He nodded, but said no words.

  I opened the book.

  10

  A Beginning Of Sorts

  The book was about two feet by one, and bound in heavy, black leather. Not a word was written on its front to lend a clue what was inside. It smelled of old paper, the type found under a bed in an abandoned house, or lining a drawer, or insulating an attic. Its spine creaked as I opened it and set it on the table. The first page was yellowed—almost burnished—and a fancy scrawl covered it, which was blurred at first but soon became clear as if Greman’s Tongues of Time had suddenly clicked in. I cleared my throat, glanced around the wagon, and began to read.

  “A choice made and a magic unleashed, so powerful that the world cracked. Vast rents tore through its surface and the eight houses of the land separated. I will never forget the screams of the dying, nor should history forget their final breaths. But these auguries are not for those souls; these are the documentations of betrayal. For yes I, Cronis, originally of the House of Trappas Shyl, bear witness.