Nexus Moons: Book One of the Tales of Graal

by Ron Root

  Once past Market Street they made good time, and Jarek soon found himself standing outside the parish. “Who is the church’s thane?”

  “Prior Rigby. All here know him.” Hagley pointed to a nearby trough. “I’ll water the horses while you tend to your business. When you’re done, I’ll drive you back into town.”

  “A kindly offer, but I don’t know how long this will take me. I’m sure I’ll have no problem finding my way back to town.”

  “I really don’t mind, sir. Besides, your bags look too heavy to carry.”

  His bags! In one was the gift he’d brought for his nephew. “You’re right,” he said, picking up the knapsack that held it. “This alone would be too cumbersome.”

  He headed for the entrance. A brown-clad clergyman greeted him, looking none too friendly.

  “I’m here to see a Prior Rigby.”

  The man eyed Jarek’s robes. “What matter has a godless sorcerer in a house of worship?”

  And what business is it of yours? “It’s a personal matter.” He offered up a faux smile, hoping to diffuse tensions. “Now, if I may, the Prior?”

  The clergyman stood silent a moment, looking him over. “As you wish,” he finally answered. He eyed Jarek’s knapsack, “May I relieve you of your burden?”

  Jarek hugged it to his chest. “A most gracious offer, but I can manage.”

  The grim-faced clergyman led him down a long corridor. Rooms lined its sides. The people inside them eyed his robes with similar distrust. Guiding Jarek into one of the rooms, his escort nodded. “Wait here while I fetch the Prior.”

  With two elegantly decorated chairs and a table, the room was well-furbished. Deep red tapestries woven with intricate golden accents adorned the walls. The chairs were of matching silks. Disdaining the room’s finery, Jarek remained standing.

  The dour clergyman returned, escorting a short, pudgy, white-haired man in a brown robe. Wrinkles framed his mouth, hinting of a man who often smiled. “I’m Prior Rigby,” he said, his eyes trained on the royal signet embroidered on Jarek’s collar.

  Jarek offered his hand. “I am Magus Jarek Verity, Sorcerer of the Court.”

  “Well met, sir.” The churchman’s eyes drifted back to Jarek’s signet. “If I may ask, what concern has the Court for our small island parish?”

  “None. My presence here is unofficial. I seek an orphaned kinsman whom I’ve never met. Recent documents I’ve uncovered suggest he may have been raised here within your grounds.”

  The Prior cocked his head. “Apologies, but we have no resident here named Verity, nor have we ever.”

  “That’s to be expected; my sister’s marriage name was Smithy.”

  The priest blinked. He looked Jarek over, appraising him. “That would have to be Gresham Smithy.”

  Jarek’s pulse quickened. Did this man know his nephew?

  “He attends our cadet institute.” Jarek found that surprising. Typically, only sons of the wealthy were trained as military officers—never heretic orphans. “They’re quartered within walking distance. If you’d care to make yourself comfortable,” he gestured to a sofa, “I’ll send for him.”

  “That is most gracious of you. Gramercy.”

  Jarek watched the Prior leave. The fellow seemed affable enough, especially for a churchman. But how many not-so-amicable clergy were running about? He peeked down the corridor but spotted none.

  He paced the room. On the far wall was a mural portraying the One Star showering the world with its aethers. Its plaque read: ‘The Blessed God Star.’ He shook his head. What other distortions of truth had been taught to his nephew? The sooner he left this repository of misinformation, the better. He resumed his pacing, but it did little to settle his unease.

  Prior Rigby returned, escorting a young man dressed in red tunic and black leggings. He had a sword strapped at his side. Jarek had seen others similarly dressed on his ride here. He guessed this must be standard cadet attire. Tall and broad of shoulder, he had pleasing features. Not surprising, given his roots. If this truly was his nephew, Bronwyn would be proud.

  “Here’s your visitor, Gresham. Meet Magus Jarek Verity, of the Royal Court.”

  The young man’s heels snapped together. “Sir. Cadet Gresham,” he said, his expression a mix of wariness and perplexity. “You wished to speak with me?”

  Gresham. Had Bronwyn named him that, or was it the Church? He was well mannered. Jarek liked that. When they shook, his grip was firm, and although Gresham had Damián’s physique, he had his mother’s eyes. So much so, it made Jarek’s heart ache just looking at them. Yes, this truly was his nephew. “You’re built like your father.”

  Gresham’s eyes widened. “You knew my father?” he asked, incredulous.

  “I met him only a handful of times. It’s your mother I know well. She is—was—my sister.”

  Gresham stiffened and stepped back, appraising Jarek, looking skeptical. “You claim us family?”

  Jarek laughed. “If but one man can constitute a family, then yes, I make that claim. Your grandmother died birthing your father, leaving him an only child. And I’m your mother’s only first kin.” He placed a hand on Gresham’s shoulder, “I can’t begin to express my joy at finding you.”

  Reaching a hand for the chair behind him, Gresham sank onto its cushion, his expression softening. “If what you claim is true, your joy pales compared with mine.” He sat, staring at Jarek, shaking his head. “I have family. Can you tell me of my parents, and what became of them?”

  Jarek sat beside the lad. “Of course. Your father was a blacksmith; your mother a sorceress.” Gresham’s eyes flared at that statement. Jarek went into great detail about his sister, sprinkling his tale with what little he knew of Damián. As their talk progressed, his nephew relaxed enough to chuckle when told how his mother used to chase Jarek with garden snakes, knowing how he feared them. “Snakes, heights, enclosed spaces; I could never abide any of them.”

  Jarek paused, having forestalled the inevitable long enough. “You ask what became of them. I’ve no firsthand knowledge of the incident, but I’ve studied your father’s trial notes in depth. The One Church charged your mother with heresy, most likely for practicing forbidden arts.” He studied the boy’s reaction, wondering how he’d respond to this subtle reproach of the very institution that had nurtured him, but Gresham seemed too hungry for information to react. “When the Chevaliers came to arrest her, your father intervened. Armed only with his smithy’s hammer, he faced five armed men. When the fracas ended, three were dead; including your father.”

  This telling pained Jarek, as if he were witnessing the encounter firsthand. He could only imagine its effect on his nephew, who sat frozen, listening, showing no outward emotion. “The Chevaliers seized her. Where she was taken, I cannot say, or even if she yet lives. I prefer to believe the latter. I’ve made it my life’s mission to find her and gain her release.” He gave Gresham a sheepish look. “A task at which I’ve thus far failed miserably.”

  Gresham ran his hand through his hair. “Until this day I believed myself to be without family. Now, not only do I have an uncle, but my mother may yet live too.” He met Jarek’s gaze. “If that is true, I’d like to help with your search.”

  The idea of teaming with the lad was something Jarek had never contemplated. It appealed to him, surprisingly so. Eyes watering, he swallowed, wetting his throat. “I relish that prospect. If I gain knowledge of her whereabouts, rest assured, I’ll come fetch you,” Jarek placed his hand on Gresham’s knee, “and we’ll seek her together.”

  Gresham’s hand found Jarek’s. “I’d appreciate that, sir.”

  He was starting to like the lad already. “According to the trial notes, when your mother was taken, Prior Rigby’s orphanage took over your rearing. The rest you know better than me.”

  Jarek glanced at the knapsack he’d brought, then strode to the door. After checking to ensure no one was within earshot, he returned to
his seat. “This is from your father’s trial,” he said, carefully emptying the knapsack’s contents on the table. “When a life is lost during an arrest, the Law requires a hearing.” Sitting, he lifted a parchment out of the pile and handed it to Gresham. “This is a copy of those proceedings.”

  Gresham’s voice caught as he read its opening line. “Damián Smithy and his wife Bronwyn.” He looked at Jarek. “Before today I’d not known my parents’ given names; such knowledge makes them more real. Thank you.”

  “There’s more.” Jarek picked up a small box. “As you see, this box bears your father’s name.” He slid it toward Gresham. “It’s yours now. Show it to no one, for I violated uncounted laws in taking it.”

  Gresham looked inside at what were likely the only surviving remnants of his heritage. Many was the time Jarek had studied those contents. It contained Gresham’s parents’ rings and his father’s hammer and belt. The young man’s mouth opened as if to say something, but then closed. He picked up the larger of the rings and slipped it onto his finger. “My fingers are larger than most, yet my father’s ring fits me perfectly.”

  Jarek picked up a smaller ruby-crested ring with an image of the One Star embedded in its center. “As I said, I’ve found nothing of what became of your mother, but this was hers,” he said, handing it to Gresham. “Only magi achieving the rank of Master are issued rubied rings like this. Have you ever sensed the Gift in yourself?”

  Gresham took the ring. “No sir, I’m but a simple soldier. The arts are beyond my ken.”

  “Perhaps not. We should assess you. There’s a test they conduct at arts universities. I understand there’s one near here.”

  “Thank you, sir, but what use has a soldier for the arts?”

  Jarek shrugged. “You might be surprised, but it’s your decision. Let me know if you suffer a change of heart.”

  Jarek stood. “I’ve taken enough of your time and have a young man outside waiting for me. I have other business to attend while I’m here.” Had the Spymaster arrived yet? If so, what assignment did he have? “Once that’s done, how about we dine together?”

  Gresham stood. “I’d like that, sir.”

  Jarek shook his head. “No more sirs… call me Uncle. I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve attended my tasks.”

  Smiling, Gresham squeezed Jarek’s hand. “Until that supper—Uncle.”

  Gresham escorted Jarek out of the building, bid his goodbye, and with knapsack in hand, returned to his soldier’s hall. Jarek paused, lighting his pipe, thinking how astonishingly well things had gone with his nephew.

  He was about to seek out Hagley when Prior Rigby hailed him. “Magus Verity, how went your talk with Gresham?”

  “Far better than I could have hoped. I’m in your debt. Gramercy.”

  Prior Rigby shook his head. “You’ve nothing to thank me for.” He shrugged. “It’s too bad you arrived when you did, you narrowly missed an opportunity to meet our Grand Inquisitor.”

  Jarek frowned. “Grand Inquisitor? That’s a title I’ve not heard before.”

  Prior Rigby touched his palms together. “Apologies. The title is new. It’s how we are to address the new head of the Chevaliers.”

  The Chevaliers! So the bastards had a new commander. He’d best learn more. “Do you know this man’s name?” he asked, feigning politeness.

  Prior Rigby clasped his hands together. “It would be improper for one of the clergy to address him by anything but Your Grace. However,” he said, cocking his head. “I do seem to recall having once heard… ah!” He snapped his fingers. “Kolton; that’s his name. He’s due to arrive here later this week,” Prior Rigby said, beaming ear to ear.

  Rance Kolton! That obsequious ass now headed the Chevaliers? No wonder Suzerain had so readily granted Jarek leave to come search for his nephew. They wanted him here to spy on his old nemesis. Who better than a former schoolmate? Jarek felt like a token in a great game of castles. It did, however, explain the Spymaster’s pending arrival. “I’m curious, what interest has he here?”

  “Each year the Chevaliers come to recruit from our graduating cadets.” He pressed the fingers of each hand together, “Who knows, maybe Gresham will have the good fortune to be chosen.”

  The Prior’s words brought to mind the gypsy’s augury, ‘In days soon to come, you are fated to experience both great joy and extreme dismay.’ Was she right? Jarek couldn’t imagine a more horrible prospect than finding kin only to lose him to the clutches of the Chevaliers. “We can only hope for such an honor,” he said, looking around. The clergyman who’d first greeted him stood not far away, scowling his way. Ever were churchmen the bane of the magi, and Kolton and his Chevaliers were on their way. “Alas, the hour is late,” he said, smiling at the Prior, “and I’ve yet to secure lodging.”

  He left in search of Hagley, finding him at the troughs. “Where to now, sir?” Hagley asked as Jarek approached.

  “I need to find an inn. Is there one you recommend?”

  “Most mainlanders prefer the Sleeping Dragon.”

  “The Sleeping Dragon it is then,” he said, hopping into the wagon.

  As they headed for town, he pondered all that had just transpired: The joy of finding his nephew, offset by the deplorable news of Kolton’s pending arrival; and even worse, the prospect of Gresham becoming a Chevalier.

  “Sir?” Hagley said, interrupting his thoughts, “In Portsmouth you mentioned something about speaking with my headmaster about a third trial.”

  “Ah, that I did, that I did. But not this day. I am travel weary and in need of rest.”

  “Tomorrow then?”

  Jarek found Hagley’s insistence amusing. But then, with the prospect of gaining his robes at stake, he could hardly blame him. “How about you come fetch me after I break my morning fast?”

  A Promise Kept

  Lavan turned the page, taking care not to damage the delicate sheepskin. His eyes roamed the parchment, absorbing its author’s every word. Reading Great Age history was like rummaging a treasure trove; if you weren’t diligent you risked overlooking some gem of wisdom. This tome chronicled the Sorcerers War and the havoc brought on by the ancient’s reckless use of the arts. It resulted in constraints still in place today—restrictions Lavan considered wholly unnecessary. Arts, when coupled with caution, need not be dangerous.

  Hungry to prove his point, he probed each page, looking beyond what was written for secrets unsaid, hoping to find a good argument for easing those rules. A knock disrupted him. A young man stepped into his library hoisting a sheathed weapon. “Your pardon headmaster, a courier just delivered this. Master Kagen said you’d want to see it straight away.”

  Lavan’s breath caught. Turpin’s sword had finally arrived. He’d received word of the precious find a fortnight earlier, along with the scroll found with it. He hurried to relieve the young man of what was the first Great Age relic unearthed since Lavan had succeeded old Kagen as the university’s headmaster.

  He eased the blade from its sheath. Rotating it, he examined it. Fashioned from opal, the pommel balanced the weapon perfectly. Dragons embossed its hilt and twisting serpents crawled down its blade, their tongues lapping at the tip. Its polished sheen gave testament as to why it had taken so long to arrive—the scholars had been attentive.

  “Thank you—that will be all.” Dismissed, the young man bowed and turned to leave. “Wait! Have Mistress Genevieve meet me in the relic vault.” Responsible for logging the university’s relics, she’d need to catalog this latest acquisition.

  From the damaged scroll delivered earlier, Lavan knew the weapon was enchanted. Now, with sword in hand, perhaps he could sleuth out its secrets, something rarely done with Great Age relics. What secrets did it hold? Finding out would require diligence. Anxious to begin, he headed for the relic vault.

  Once a high lord’s estate, the university now served a higher purpose as training ground for aspiring young sorcerers. His footsteps ech
oed off its stone-wrought floors as he wound through the university’s labyrinth of corridors. Carved window holes dotted its walls, their only adornments. Built with protection in mind, iron bars blocked any opening wide enough to crawl through. Lavan reached the darkened, windowless stairwell that led down to the relic vault. Buried below ground, its designer’s intent was to make its discovery difficult.

  He muttered an incantation. Instantly a ball of light burst into existence, hovering above him. He continued down the sloping pathway until a prickly tingle crawled up the back of his neck, making his hairs stand; the signal he’d reached the hallowed room. He stopped. A reveal spell exposed its hidden doorway and he stepped inside. Light from his globe danced off the relic-laden counters, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the ceiling. The chill from its masonry walls mixed with the acrid stench of centuries-old sorcery to assault his sharply honed senses. He held his breath, waiting for the feeling to wane. It was the toll the gifted paid upon entering the vault.

  Once his trembles ceased, he intensified his globe and the colors faded. A library of scrolls filled one side of the room, tables of relics the other. He walked its aisles, assessing the room’s treasures. The university had been collecting relics for decades. Theirs was the greatest collection of its kind, and as its headmaster, their mysteries were now his to fathom, to hopefully restore some lost art or knowledge to the present day and perhaps accomplish something worthy of his office.

  One table held rings and amulets, each harboring its own special knack or enchantment, none of which he had so far comprehended. He stopped at a bench to fondle two tiny orbs. Thumbnail sized, this matched pair allowed its bearers to mind-speak with one another.