by Ron Root
The next table held weapons. He laid Turpin’s sword next to its scroll he’d placed there earlier. He ran his hand along its sheath, wondering at its secrets.
A knock disrupted his concentration. “Yes?” he called; his gaze fixed on the weapon.
Mistress Genevieve entered. “You sent for me?”
He glanced her way. “Turpin’s sword finally arrived. You’ll need to record it.”
“Of course,” she said, nodding. “Also, you’ve a most important visitor waiting—a Sorcerer of the Court. What should I tell him?”
“Bring him here!”
She looked around the room. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. What secrets here can’t be shared with a Court Sorcerer?”
Minutes later Genevieve was back. She gestured to her side as if to introduce someone, looking baffled. No one was there. Then, before their eyes, a man suddenly appeared out of nothingness, grinning from ear-to-ear. Genevieve jumped back with a screech.
“Jarek?” Lavan asked, looking every bit as stunned as Genevieve. He hadn’t seen his friend in years.
“None other,” Jarek said, spreading his arms. He turned to Genevieve, “Mistress, may we have some privacy?”
Composed now, she gave Lavan a questioning look. He nodded. “As you wish.”
Lavan studied his old schoolmate. His once-black hair had surrendered to streaks of grey, and he’d added twenty-plus years of post-school girth to a frame that was already taller and broader than most. Perhaps Jarek was thinking much the same of him. He lacked Jarek’s size and paunch, but his hair was just as grey, albeit, he had far less of it.
Jarek’s eyes widened as he stepped into the room.
“It happens to anyone gifted who enters the vault, likely because of the concentration of aethers here. It passes quickly.” The two men embraced. “I see you’ve not lost your sense for flair—or jests. That was quite the entrance you made. I feared Genevieve might piss herself. I know I would have had you appeared beside me out of nowhere. I’m curious, how did you do that?”
“I merely released the cloaking spell I was using. After the Mistress told me who her headmaster was, I simply couldn’t resist the prank.”
Lavan shook his head. “Your knowledge of magic’s intricacies exceeds me.”
Jarek guffawed. “Hardly! But my discipline does. You should consider it sometime.”
“Ah, so you’re here to evangelize discipline; I’ve often wondered how royal lapdogs fill their days.”
Jarek scowled. “Lapdogs! A Court Sorcerer’s duty is to protect his king and do his biddings, as opposed to doing whatever one pleases—as some do.” He looked around. “Such as playing with this collection of toys you’ve garnered here.”
“They’re hardly toys. And I don’t ‘play’ with them—I examine them with the hope of learning their secrets.”
Jarek picked up one of the relics—a jeweled dagger. “I suspect there’s more play involved than you admit; you were never one to abide by the rules.”
“And you were ever afraid to break them,” Lavan said, taking away the knife and placing it back where Jarek had gotten it. “We both made our choices: you, the propriety of the Suzerain Court; me the freedom of the isles.”
“Choices need not be forever.” Jarek countered, picking up another relic.
Lavan took this one from him too. “How about we go to my study and renew acquaintances over a game of Castles?”
“Why? Ever did you beat me at it.”
Soon they were in Lavan’s study, staring at one another across a game board. “So,” Jarek asked, making his opening move, “what have you been up to these many years?”
“As of late,” Lavan said, countering Jarek’s move, “I’ve been studying the Great Age magi. I’ve concluded their vast powers weren’t innate, that they achieved them by focusing the aethers.”
“And what, pray tell, does focusing aethers mean?”
Lavan paused, formulating his explanation. “If our world attracts the aethers, it follows that other heavenly bodies do too. Every few years our three moons align. When this happens, I believe their collective pull might focus the aethers to a common point. If one were to stand at this nexus, I believe the strength of his Gift would be magnified to something akin to that of the ancients. I’ve devised an experiment that I hope will prove it.”
Jarek made another move. “Why in demons’ hells would you want such power? Have you forgotten those Great Age magi nearly obliterated themselves?”
“Bah! Having knowledge and misusing it are two different things—if I exercise proper caution, I’ll be perfectly safe. I simply want to study the aethers in their concentrated form.”
There was a pause in their prattle as each made a series of moves. “Ha!” Jarek whooped, capturing one of Lavan’s pieces. Grinning, he leaned back. “Your curiosity has always exceeded your prudence. Why are you never content leaving things the way they are—why must you constantly seek out something new?” He shook his head. “Assume your theory to be true, were you to touch such power, it would be sensed by everyone gifted within leagues of here. I just heard the Chevaliers are coming to your isles. Do as you plan, and their Clerics will sense a disturbance in the aethers. You’ll have them pounding your door claiming you violated some holy law, and likely charge you with heresy like they did with Bronwyn. This experiment of yours plays right into the One Church’s hands.”
Lavan’s gut constricted at the mention of Bronwyn, despite the passing of years. “You were ever the worrier,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Every headmaster before me has in some way bettered the arts. This experiment you so readily belittle, could very well be my contribution.”
“Go on,” Jarek said, studying the board move Lavan just made.
“Each moon will create a new focus point—a nexus of its own. The first one happens tomorrow night, with two more to follow shortly thereafter. It takes place not far from here. It’s too great an opportunity to miss. Instead of making disparaging remarks, why don’t you be my friend of old and assist me?”
Jarek let loose a laugh. “Tomorrow, eh? I still think it’s folly, but you’re right, friends should help one another.”
“Then you will?” Lavan said, driving his knight’s sword through Jarek’s king.
Jarek sighed. “Why do I even play this with you? You win every time.” He leaned back, shaking his head. “Yes, my friend, I’ll help you.”
Lavan grasped his hand. “Thank you.”
“Truth be known,” Jarek said, seeming like the Jarek of old. “I rather like the idea of us working together once more. It evokes fond memories of our university days.”
Lavan laughed. “I’m sure Master Gil’s twisting in his grave at that prospect. Remember that imp we loosed in his quarters?”
“How could I forget? It took us days to put things back in order.”
“Yes, but doing so kept us from getting expelled.”
The two took turns recounting the various pranks they’d played to torment their old mentor, several bringing peals of laughter. When it finally died down, Lavan asked, “I’m curious, if you didn’t know I was headmaster here, what brought you?”
“Right after my ship docked in Portsmouth, I met a most interesting lad who claimed he’d studied here but failed both his trials. In talking with him, he seemed shorter on confidence than talent.” He lay his king down in surrender. “I promised him I’d speak to his headmaster to see if I could get him a third trial. His name is Hagley. A nice fellow, the sort who could prove a credit to our guild.”
“I’ll speak with the schoolmasters about him. If they agree with your assessment, I’ll grant him that chance.” He moved his game pieces back to their starting positions. “That explains why you came to the university, but not what brought you to the islands.”
“I found out Bronwyn had a son, back before she was taken—on this very island. I came to find him.”
Lavan’s gut tightened once more at the mention of her name. He’d loved her dearly. “Was the father of this boy the same fellow who caused her to break off our betrothal?”
“Yes,” Jarek said, looking anguished, “Damián was the boy’s father. I wish she’d chosen you over him—we’d be family now if she had.”
Lavan grasped Jarek’s hands. “I feel as if we are, anyway.”
“As do I.”
Bronwyn had been so beautiful; way too much so for a homely man like him to covet. “The gods had other plans for me. Instead, they brought me here to do what I love. How can a man be angry at that?” He reset Jarek’s game pieces too. “I’m curious; why wait all these years to seek him out?”
“I only just learned of his existence—from a parchment in the Royal Library.”
“I can’t believe she never let you know.”
“She didn’t correspond with Suzerain. You know how the Magi Council feels about the gifted marrying the mundane. Still, I’m saddened she didn’t let me know she was with child.” Jarek pursed his lips. “Perhaps she was waiting until she’d safely delivered, and her arrest somehow foiled her plans.” Jarek stood, his face lighting up. “The good news is that I found him! His name is Gresham. He’s training to be a soldier right here in Stalwart.”
“What marvelous news,” Lavan said, clapping his hands. “When do I get to meet him?”
Jarek winked. “Right after we conduct this damned experiment of yours. If this Nexus of yours happens tomorrow, when do we leave?”
“It’s a full day’s travel to get there. Dawn would be best.”
“I’m not sure I can get here from Stalwart that early.”
“Stalwart? Nonsense! You’re spending the night here as my guest.”
“Then dawn it is.” Jarek placed a hand on his shoulder. “With the two of us teaming again, what could possibly go wrong?”
Havoc
Jarek inhaled, savoring the crisp morning air. He was at the stables bedecked in riding attire, finally out of those damned robes, waiting for Lavan. “I want you to look like a representative of the court,” Spymaster Booker had insisted the morning Jarek left Suzerain. He supposed he’d find out why once Booker arrived. Kolton likely figured into the puzzle somehow.
He scoured the area. The only other person here was a man repairing a broken wagon spoke. Jarek spied a stick propped against a nearby post. Since it was roughly the size of a sword, he picked it up, thinking how remiss he’d been about practicing his fencing. Pointing it toward the post, he stepped through the required poses. Engarde; lunge; ballestra; parry; riposte. Over and over he repeated the moves, his vigorous efforts forming sweat on his brow. Engarde; parry; riposte.
“Gods, Jarek, stop before you frighten that poor post to death.” It was Lavan, arriving late as usual.
Twisting around, he pointed the stick at Lavan. “Beware of your taunts sir, or after I dispatch that post, you’ll be next.”
Lavan raised his hands. “I yield, please spare me that poor thing’s fate.” He lowered his arms. “Tell me, are royal sorcerers so lacking in the arts they must rely on mundane skills?”
Jarek lunged his stick at Lavan. “A wise protector needs more than one tool in his arsenal to defend his liege. Fate may not allow time to cast a spell.” Jarek lowered his stick, looking it over. “Why, if pressed, this stick might even suffice. Besides, swordplay is invigorating—it keeps one in fighting condition.”
Lavan pointed at Jarek’s stomach. “Then you’ve clearly been remiss as of late.”
Jarek grabbed his ample belly and laughed. “That I have; that I have.”
“You seem in unusually good spirits.”
“And why not?” Jarek answered, looking around. “It’s a glorious day, and I’ve shed those unwieldy robes you so love to wear.” He looked down at his tunic and leggings. “I find this far more fitting for conducting an experiment.”
“Ahh, possibly more fitting, but far less comfortable.” Lavan said, shaking his loose hanging robes. “Are you ready to undertake our adventure?”
“Most definitely. In fact, I’m getting impatient.”
Lavan glanced toward the man fixing the wheel. “As soon as Goodricke has our wagon ready, we leave. In the meantime, I have something to show you I think you’ll enjoy.”
He pulled a necklace out of his robes. It held a pendant. Whereas most magi embedded their Master rubies in rings, Lavan had opted for that pendant, maintaining a ring could disrupt one’s spell casting, inviting ill fortune. For a man whose beliefs were otherwise steeped in logic, Lavan’s superstitions where luck was concerned had always baffled Jarek.
Lavan snapped open his pendant’s bail, pulled out his ruby, and removed one of two thumb-nail sized crystals he had stored behind it. He handed one to Jarek. “Place this behind your ruby.”
“To what end?”
“Just do it.”
Jarek no sooner had it in place when the words Now aren’t you glad you did? blasted his mind. “I heard that!” he said, giving Lavan a wide-eyed stare.
“Of course you did,” said a beaming Lavan. “Now you try it.”
“How?”
“Simply direct your thoughts toward me… …like this.”
Like this?
“Bravo! See how easy that was.”
Jarek stood, mouth agape. “Amazing.”
“Isn’t it? Since today’s journey’s a long one, I thought we could while away its drudgery experimenting with these.”
Jarek studied his orb. “It’s too bad Master Gil is no longer with us. These could have provided great sport.” Goodricke’s approaching wagon caught his attention. “Perhaps we still can. How well does your man take a jest?”
Lavan guffawed. “I’m thinking he’s too large a man to trifle with, but then, so are you.”
“Are you ready, milords?” Goodricke asked, climbing off the wagon.
Lavan hadn’t exaggerated. The wagoner stood a full hand taller than him. He was trim and well-muscled, his long blonde hair reminiscent of the two Nosarians Jarek encountered on Portsmouth’s dock. Lavan was right, Goodricke wasn’t a man to be taken lightly. “And here I thought I was tall.”
“This is Goodricke, my man-servant,” Lavan said, then gestured toward Jarek. “Goodricke, this is my friend Jarek Verity, Magus of the Suzerain Court.”
Goodricke tipped his head. “An honor, milord.”
Lavan climbed into the wagon. “Come. Time is fleeting, and we have a long journey before us.”
It was a two-horse wagon. Thrice a man’s length and half that wide. The driver’s bench would normally seat three, but with two as large as Goodricke and him, there was no way they’d all fit. With Goodricke driving and Lavan guiding, Jarek dutifully climbed in back.
“We’re going to those wastelands beyond Pembok, Goodricke,” Lavan instructed. “The Nexus will focus right along its coastline.”
Once everyone was settled, the wagon team ambled out the main gate, Lavan’s experiment officially underway.
Things went smoothly until they left the well-travelled roadways near Stalwart. Bump after bump now rocked the creaking wagon, banging Jarek against sideboard and backboard, quickly making him rue his seating choice. Worse, he had to either kneel on the hard, wooden floor, or sit facing backwards with no view of the road ahead.
Judging from the comfortable chatter up front, neither of the other two men shared his discomfort. Bored and uncomfortable, he decided on some mischief. You ready to play with these toys of yours, and have a little sport with your manservant? he asked, directing the thought toward Lavan.
All right, let me take the lead. “Goodricke, I should warn you to keep your thoughts shielded, lest Magus Verity read them.”
Goodricke chuckled. “Now that’s one you’ve not tried on me before, milord, but I’ve been around long enough to know when I’m the target of a jest.”
“What, you doubt me?” He nodded at Jarek. “A
sk him something he couldn’t possibly know, and I’ll wager he’ll come up with the right answer.”
Goodricke gave Lavan a dubious look. “I’ll not wager, but I’ll play along.” He twisted around toward Jarek. “All right, sir, what did I do before serving Master Lavan?”
The game was afoot. Work or not, their game would at least take his mind off his misery.
He was a sailor. I bought his indenture.
Keeping in character, Jarek pressed hands to temples and closed his eyes. “I see ocean—and a ship.” He paused, as if in deep thought. “Ah, it comes to me now. You were a mariner, but not wholly by choice. You were indentured.”
Goodricke’s eyes widened. He cast a suspicious glance Lavan’s way.
Lavan shrugged. “I told you. Ask him something else.”
Goodricke contemplated a moment. “All right, milord, besides driving the wagon, in what way did Master Lavan think I could assist him?”
He has this seafaring instrument that reads the stars. It will help us pinpoint the Nexus.
Jarek scratched his chin. “You brought something with you—from your seafaring days. A device that will help hone the Nexus’ location.”
Goodricke’s jaw dropped. “How…” he muttered, shaking his head. “Only sailors know of tritants.” He shook his head, eyeing Lavan, “I’ve no idea how you’re doing this, milord, but you’ll not convince me Magus Verity is reading my thoughts.”
It was late morning when they reached Pembok, where they stopped briefly to sup. Later, a few miles short of Broughton, they angled off the road and headed into the wastelands. Small woody plants and stunted trees littered the terrain, forcing a meandering route. They successfully circumvented every obstacle until they reached a canyon. A crevasse, perhaps a hundred feet deep, stretched side-to-side as far as they could see, leaving them no choice but to backtrack. “Turnabout Goodricke—find another route, and quickly, lest we be late.”
“I see you’re planning skills are as fine as ever,” Jarek chided.