The Dragons' Legacy
Page 35
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Later, Iltar arrives at the north eastern most city square. It is evening by now, and the sun shines through the buildings around the plaza in a warm light from the east.
Iltar’s steed quickly gallops through the square, rounding the edges of the west and north portions until he reaches the opened area just in front of the notorious Sea Vistonia. Several other horses and carriages crowd the eastern part of the square, their riders most assuredly enjoying the hospitality of the establishment.
“There better not be a long wait,” Iltar grumbles, dismounting from his horse.
As Iltar reaches to tie the reigns to a post directly in front of the steed, he feels a tight grip on his upper arm.
With rage burning within him, the necromancer turns in disgust, reigns still in hand. However, he’s taken aback as he sees a very old man, dressed only in a simple wrap of dirty cloth around his waist.
“Oh, kind sir…” the old man trails off in a bereft tone as he holds Iltar’s arm. “I have heard mention of your name in the city the last day, and of your generosity to others. Please, will you spare something that I might eat?”
A look of surprised abhorrence flits across Iltar’s face as he leans back, attempting to break free from the frail man in front of him. However, the grip around Iltar’s arm tightens, squeezing the necromancer in an immovable grasp.
Further surprised, Iltar glances at the old beggar’s hand, and then to his face.
“Would you show charity to me?” the old beggar’s wrinkles thicken as his features express his disparity, and his eyes look into Iltar’s.
As the two men’s gazes meet, Iltar’s eyes lock on to the old man’s dull gray irises. In that same instant, an overwhelming sensation consumes Iltar, rendering him motionless. His mind races back to the nightmare of the morning and the hatred-filled gaze of the dragon a week ago.
The beggar’s pupils expand, as if anticipating Iltar’s answer; however, the old man’s eyes irises shift in shape, swirling around his pupils.
Vivid memories flash in Iltar’s mind, from his earliest memories to his latest exploit with Kenard.
A moment of silence passes between the two men until Iltar finally shakes himself, regaining his composure. He blinks once and notices the beggar’s eyes appear as they had initially.
“What?” Iltar gasps and the beggar relinquishes his grip, yet continues to rests his hand against the necromancer’s arm.
“Would you help me?” the beggar asks again in the same bereft tone.
Without a word, Iltar hurriedly thrusts the old man’s hand away and pushes past the petitioner; in his haste he almost runs across the corner of the square to the raised wooden path leading to the Sea Vistonia’s entrance. Once at the door, he turns his head slightly to see the beggar still standing by his horse and tying the reigns to the post.
Taking a deep breath to regain his composure, Iltar grips the handle of the door leading into the tavern. He quickly opens the heavy wooden door and steps through into the waiting area.
Guests crowd the booths along the edges of the entry lounge.
With a harried expression still across his face, Iltar strides to is a chest-high podium where a middle-aged man acts as the host.
The host briskly smiles at Iltar, motioning for him to come forward but asks with concern, “Are you okay sir? You look frightened, did something happen outside?”
“You-you need to do a better job of keeping street scum out of this square!” Iltar snaps, slowly regaining his typical composure. “There was a man out there begging me to give him something of monetary value!”
The host sighs and walks past the necromancer, pushing his way through the thick doors. His footsteps sounding across the elevated veranda. Having someone slander the restaurant’s reputation was not something he or any of the other employees took lightly. The Sea Vistonia had set a presence of affluence for itself and subsequently the surrounding area.
Several of the guests gasp and mutter alarmed speculations to each other.
A moment later, the host returns with a puzzled expression on his face. “There’s no one there… I didn’t see anyone like that in the square. How long ago was this?” the host asks in a slightly annoyed tone, his brow narrows as he looks at Iltar.
Surprised, Iltar steps out onto the veranda with determination, the host at his side; both quickly walk back toward the square where there is no sign of the old beggar. He had vanished as fast as he had appeared.
“It was just now…” Iltar’s words trail off as he looks around the square. “He was an old cripple, he couldn’t have gone far. He…” the necromancer’s face slowly twists with horror. No! He couldn’t be a drag–
“Now that that is out of the way,” the host interrupts Iltar’s thoughts from the wooden path, “How many are with you?”
Iltar shakily responds while surveying the square, “Just myself, and I want a private table…”
“Very well.”
Still scanning the square, Iltar can hear the host walking back toward the doors leading into the fabled restaurant, leaving Iltar alone at the base of the wooden walkway.
A moment later, Iltar mutters in confusion, “But that story is only a child’s fable; it can’t be. It doesn’t make any sense, how could they take a different form–”
“Iltar?” a sultry voice beckons from his left. “It is you, isn’t it?”
Darting a frazzled glance toward the voice he sees a tall slender woman dressed in pale tan clothing, a woman’s tunic and pants with dark brown boots. Her black hair is puffed up in the front and pulled back into a braid reaching midway down her back. A smooth light skinned complexion covers her thin face, and her chin rounds out with a dimple. Her dim hazel eyes sparkle as she studies the necromancer.
Iltar’s eyes widen as she approaches. There’s the council’s next illusionist.
“My my… it is you,” she bites her lower lip. “You look so old, and even more so with that strained look on your face.”
Iltar chuckles bashfully and shakes his head. He turns aside, thinking of what to say. Gwenyth, I haven’t seen her in so long… She can still make me uncomfortable.
Gwenyth had been a student at the Sorothian Magical Order, prior to its conversion by his preceding necromancers, and was an illusionist. Iltar had always admired her, partially because of her youthful beauty. He had also been drawn to her because of her name, which was shared by Iltar’s mother.
“Still shy I see, like that little boy you once were,” Gwenyth puts one hand on her hip while the other hangs at her side, waiting for Iltar to respond.
Iltar turns back to her and admits, “Well, it has been a very eventful day for me, and seeing you has…” He motions with his wrist, at a loss for words.
“You still are not good with people, are you?” Gwenyth sadly looks at him, her lip pouting at one side. “Well, it was good to see you, Iltar…”
Disappointed, Gwenyth walks toward the Sea Vistonia’s entrance.
Waking from his childish stupor, Iltar loudly beckons, “Wait! I need to speak with you.”
Gwenyth stops midway between Iltar and the tavern’s. She pauses, then turns around surprised. “Wow, it took you over thirty five years to finally get the courage to stop me from walking away?”
“No… it’s not like that,” Iltar stammers.
“Then what is it?” Gwenyth demands, irritated. “I’m hungry.”
“Perhaps we should discuss it over dinner–”
“No!” Gwenyth shakes her head and leans forward. “You’ll tell me right now. Be a man, and quit dancing around it.”
The necromancer takes a deep breath then quickly asks, “Will you take a seat on the council of the Sorothian Magical Order?”
“What?!” Gwenyth gasps, shaking her head. “Iltar, don’t jest about that, stop wasting my time!”
Gwenyth quickly turns and continues to the tavern’s door.
“Stop!
” Iltar barks. He marches toward Gwenyth, who has stopped near the doors. “Please, you obviously don’t know what has transpired do you?”
“I suppose not…” Gwenyth turns, raising a eyebrow, then folds her arms. “Enlighten me.”
Iltar narrates the tale of his rise to leadership within the Order, feeding the same lie he and his coconspirators have fed to those they’ve encountered on Soroth. Gwenyth had heard nothing of the ordeal. She lived on one of the remote islands and was visiting Soroth for an annual trade of a farm surplus her and her family grew. Amid the tale, Gwenyth looks at Iltar with genuine interest in his story. After a short while, her arms drop to her sides as she listens intently.