“I don’t like what you do,” Kelshar admitted. “It’s unnatural.”
“I could argue that. I could argue what I do is wholly natural. That I’m simply a cook, mixing and blending materials that only occur naturally. Materials that have been provided to us by the gods. I never have, as far as I know, disturbed the tapestry, Kelshar.”
Kelshar grunted. “Well, I want you to know… I realize you saved us from The Gift.”
Ahhhh. Eles had been waiting two days to hear someone say that.
“How?” Kelshar asked with only semi-disgust. One must crawl before walking, after all.
“Luck, mostly. The boy wizard was very clever. He knew that if he manipulated the tapestry in a way that directly endangered Dargon, Dargon would sense it. So instead, he manipulated and greatly enhanced the potency of the natural lethargy-inducing quality of the drink his girl served us, while we drank it. Individually, the drink itself was harmless, as was his Magestic alteration. But together, quite debilitating.”
Kelshar scowled. “Villain.”
“I almost didn’t realize it in time, I was so tired already,” Eles continued as he held up his snuffbox. “This powder is a powerful stimulant, created from a mixture of selected southern flora. Quite useful if you need a natural jolt of energy, and most potent if inhaled directly through the nose.”
“I breathed that?”
“You did.”
Another scowl.
Eles smiled. “You’re welcome.”
The mists on the waters of the bay slowly evaporated in the morning sun, but still, Venaisin did not reveal itself.
Eles ran his fingers gingerly up his singed arm. “This burn is going to hurt for a while, despite my balms. What was it that burned me?”
Kelshar peered at him and shook her head, looking troubled.
“When I was an apprentice, I heard stories of the Ring of Binding. I wasn’t sure if they were true,” Eles said, hoping to spur Kelshar to respond.
“Too true.”
Two words. Progress.
“Tis said the Loderns have powerful agreements, through pacts of some kind, with beings from the Folke realms, among other places. Pacts forged over centuries and sealed into the ring. Also true?” Eles asked right out.
Kelshar sighed. “It is not my place to say. Ask him these questions.”
“Is it dangerous?”
Kelshar scrunched up her face as if sniffing something foul. “Keep your wits if he should ever use the ring again, alchemist. Don’t mistake a summoning as your ally. Keep your distance,” she warned. “There are more dangerous things than fire spirits bound to that ring. Things bound by his ancestors. Ancestors who were less… selective.”
The wind picked up and Eles could taste the salt in the spray from the bay water. Kelshar leaned on the rail and seemed lost in thought as she spoke quietly, “As his ally I’ll follow him to the underworld to find this flower and keep him on the throne. But as his friend… I half hope he loses the throne, and all the dark pacts and obligations that go with it.”
“You do know Volans would take the lead seat?”
“Yes. The truce with Deeprun would crumble and Volans would undoubtedly begin planning a siege on Rhoane,” she replied darkly.
“He doesn’t possess half of Dargon’s pragmatism.”
“I said I half hoped, didn’t I?”
A shout from the upper deck broke the quiet and the crew scrambled. In the distance, a stone spire protruded from the water. It had an embattled top wider than the rest, and Eles couldn’t help but imagine some massive stone giant reaching out of the water in desperation, doomed to the legendary serpents of the depths. The last remnants of the morning mist encircled it, but from a distance. Even sea mist had the good sense not to get too close. Barnacle and green slime covered the lower half but became gray lichen as it creeped closer to the top. A dinghy bobbed nearby, moored to a spike protruding from the side of the spire, and as they approached, Eles spied several men in the boat looking up at them warily. Eles didn’t like the looks of them at all. They looked guilty and lean. Eles even felt the urge to conceal his identity even though his galley dwarfed their boat and moved quickly enough to soon be past. Once safely past that hazard, the galley slowed. Ahead, Eles spotted a dozen more ancient stone towers standing vigil over Venaisin’s bay. Approaching the city’s entry canal, now coming into view, required an attentive eye and experienced helmsmanship.
The darkest day in Venaisin’s dark history also happened to be the architect of its greatest defense. In the days of the Great Awakening, there lived an alchemist-mage, Hemboldt (now named The Reckless), who experimented with explosive materials and fire Magesty he hadn’t fully mastered. A massive explosion detonated beneath the center of Venaisin, sending hill-sized chunks of the city up into the air and leaving a gaping crater in its place. Some myths claimed that those colossal chunks of city floated above Venaisin for decades, buoyed by the enchanted residue of the blast, before crashing back down. Those myths were now widely disregarded as attempts to romanticize the cataclysm that claimed the lives of all but the most powerful, Magestically-protected residents of the city. Great fissures in the earth cracked open, snaking out from the epicenter of the blast. One of the fissures reached the bay, inundating the crater and the web of other fissures with bay water. That fissure became the Passage of the Reckless. Today, the only way to get to the docks, and the heart of Venaisin, was to slog your way through the submerged dangers of the bay and into the well-defended passage.
Slog they did; around sunken towers and past other ships and fishing boats following the same route. The captain ordered the raising of their flag as they approached the ominous turrets that flanked the entrance to The Passage. Apparently, the flag passed inspection because a horn rang out from one of the turrets, a signal to proceed. No doubt there would be a closer inspection before they reached the docks.
The city landscape dazzled with an uneven crush of exotic towers of all shapes and sizes. Three major hills skirting the edges of the central lake demarcated the city. Even from here, Eles could see that a mishmash of castles and keeps that looked decrepit and uninhabited stood shoulder to shoulder with newer structures showing all the signs of well-kept habitation.
The Passage of the Reckless had been built up over the years with fortified walls on both sides. A copper-gilded, ten-foot-high, engraved inscription came into view on one side: Woe be to those who disturb our dreams.
A partially decomposed body bumped up against the side of the hull and twisted and bobbed in its wake, so much ghoulish jetsam.
Dargon sidled up at the rail and looked out at the letters, “Wise words. We’ll do as little disturbing as possible. We’ll get the location of the dormu-lilies and depart as soon as fate allows.”
“How?” Eles whispered, still gazing ahead.
“I know of a seer of great talent who inexplicably considers this home. If the gods are kind, she’s still alive. She may be willing to aid us.” He looked at Kelshar as he said it, as if looking for verification.
A rare moment of sharing for Dargon, and Eles had no intention of wasting the opportunity. “Do you trust her?”
“I’ve never met the girl.”
“I have,” Kelshar added. “If there’s anyone in this accursed place that’s good for their word, it’s her.”
“Who is she?”
Dargon and Kelshar shared a look before Kelshar replied, “A woman.”
And just like that, the conversation generosity dried up. The two friends left the rail to return under deck, while Eles stayed. After all, he may never again get a chance to visit Faros’ mysterious capitol. Like everywhere else, manipulating Magesty was supposedly verboten here, but unlike other places, Venaisin was said to be awash in a Magestic miasma. It had a two-fold effect. First, it made connections to the tapestry significantly more accessible and potent. Second, it concealed such activities from the Autumn Folke. Those foolish enough to seek to play in that arena came here from all over the world, knowing they would usually go unpunished by the dark Folke. The city law, such as it was, generally turned a blind eye to these pursuits, so long as a person had the backing of one of the nobles and had sense enough to work discreetly and with the utmost caution. Those without the backing of a noble very quickly found themselves enslaved to one. Even those with backing could be hanged if they were foolhardy enough to flaunt their work beyond the cabals of their associates. And get caught, of course.
This combination of conditions meant that the unusual, and sometimes even the bizarre, could be witnessed on the streets and canals of Venaisin, if the stories of drunken expatriates and émigrés in the dives of Greyarch could be believed.
Once through The Passage, and the required inspection of goods, they emerged into the city’s central lake and found their spot on the docks. The docks on the rim of the lake were built so far out into the water a visitor struggled to determine the full size of the lake. It seemed like half of Venaisin rose up out of the water. Closer to the passage, shipyards, markets, and seedy-looking taverns choked the lake edge, while the far side appeared to be reserved for private mansions that all seemed to be competing for the title of most eccentric. Star-shaped archways and towers carved in the shape of owls and leering demons sparked the imagination. Dragon gondolas and merman-adorned paddleboats bobbed sedately while moored to private docks.
Nobody paid any attention to the three sepia acolytes as they slipped through the Mariner’s District. If they had, they would have noticed that the three wraiths moved with a purpose. They might have asked why they didn’t stop to study the last persevered remains of ancient fallen towers, now monuments to the era of the Awakening. Curiously, Kelshar led the way, not Dargon. As they passed out of the Mariner’s District and onto Descendant’s Hill, they walked right past an ominous stone manor with bricked-up windows and doors. The macabre architecture of the place came of a different era, a wholly uninviting era.
“What is this?” Eles asked as he looked up at the dusty structure.
“A living tomb,” Kelshar replied without stopping. “Intruders are forever cursed.”
“Not that it matters. Intrusion is punishable by death,” Dargon added.
“If caught,” Kelshar clarified. “And even if not, their kin will be cursed.”
Dargon gave a look of doubt. “Some structures were said to have survived Hemboldt’s blast, but the residents were not so fortunate. It’s said they still tread the halls, as haunts, but there’s plenty of theories as to what might really be going on inside those manors.”
Eles’ imagination ran amok on that for some time while Kelshar disappeared into an armory. When she emerged, she nodded to Dargon, and they resumed, following Kelshar’s crisp pace.
They came to the gated entrance of a large, wooded area. Unlike the carefully pruned shrubbery and fountains of the parks in the noble districts of Greyarch, this was dominated by massive pines and carpeted in ankle-deep needles and cones. The canopy of pines cast the area in a hushed shadow, muting the eclectic cast of visitors coming and going. Their feet crunched fallen pine needles for several minutes until Eles heard the roar of a crowd trailed by applause from ahead. They emerged from under the shady pines into a vast amphitheater. A thick iron cage dominated the sunken center stage. A respectable number of captivated adults and children occupied the surrounding raked stone seats.
Inside the cage, an enormous brown bear with bony spikes protruding from its spine circled a woman holding a staff. The woman focused intently on the bear and swung her staff to direct the beast’s path. The woman moved with great athleticism, and her sharp features struck Eles as both stunning and fierce, framed by jet-black hair held back in a long ponytail segmented by several strips of green leather. By her ruddy skin, she spent much of her time outdoors.
Dargon stopped short and stared. Kelshar couldn’t help but look back at her friend, prompting Eles to wonder who she was.
“Exum Bears are extremely territorial,” the woman shouted loud enough for the gathered viewers to hear. “It takes years to earn their trust, and only seconds to lose it.” She thrust the staff high, and the bear rose on its hind legs to a terrifying twelve-foot height and roared in objection. The audience gasped and instinctively leaned back. The woman quickly kneeled and tapped the staff to the ground, cueing the bear that all was well.
The three men took seats in the back row.
“These bears will eat almost anything, when hungry,” the woman continued, as the bear descended and moved to the corner, “so if you’re thinking of challenging the counsel’s laws, don’t. You may find yourself to be tomorrow’s breakfast.”
The crowd chortled as she turned to them. As her gaze swept the crowd it stopped dead on Dargon.
Her smile faded.
As if reacting to an empathic trigger, the bear growled and became restless, as the woman momentarily lost focus.
She gathered herself and focused again on the beast. “I’ve earned the Exum’s trust through years of proving my reliability. And loyalty. Let me demonstrate. Can I have a volunteer?”
Many arms rose, but she looked over all and pointed her staff up at Dargon. “You. On the end. Priest, is it?”
Dargon exhaled through his teeth.
“Come down here,” she demanded.
Dargon adjusted his cowl and stood. Kelshar moved to stop him, but Dargon waved her off. He marched down to the cage under the woman’s withering gaze.
When she moved to open the iron cage door, the bear hopped up and began pacing, growling, and Eles got the impression this was unchartered ground for the beast.
Dargon stepped in slowly and the iron gate clanked shut behind him.
The bear rose and bared its teeth in protest.
“She doesn’t like you. She doesn’t trust you. You’re not welcome here. Can you feel that?”
“Yes,” Dargon said clearly.
“With a flick of my staff I could have her tear you to pieces. Do you believe that?”
“Yes.”
This did not appear to Eles to be part of her act. Her focus was split on keeping the bear from attacking and addressing her volunteer.
“I’d like to see her tear you to pieces. I think these people would like to see that. Would you like to see that?” The crowd howled in affirmation. Half the audience probably believed it a jest, while the other half genuinely wanted to see it. The Exum Bear seemed to really take to the idea as it moaned and paced and slammed its front paws on the ground.
“That would be a mistake,” Dargon stated while keeping absolutely still.
“Would it? A man of your learning should know that the strong take what they need to survive. You are the weak here, sir.” The great bear seemed to feed on her vitriol and grew even more agitated. She struggled to keep the bear on its side of the cage. “Why shouldn’t I let her devour you and spit up your wretched remains?”
Tense seconds passed before Dargon responded. He used a humbled voice Eles had never heard before. “I now know enough to respect her power. Respect her beauty.”
The woman seemed momentarily off guard while the crowd waited breathlessly. Still, Dargon stood motionless, staid. Even the bear seemed to be waiting for some sign.
“Get out.” Her tone changed. The words were to the man, and the man alone.
Dargon reached back, while keeping his gaze on the two she-bears and lifted the heavy iron bar on the gate.
Eles turned to Kelshar, aware that he only had seconds before Dargon would rejoin them. “Who is that?”
“Nadja Kavital, former keeper of the grounds and bestiary for the Loderns. She and Dargon were once deeply in love, until he married my sister.”
Dargon Lodern, in love with the groundskeeper? The kind of rumor Eles might’ve heard in the brothels and scoffed at. He couldn’t imagine the circumstances that might have led to such a turn of fate. Dargon’s marriage to Kelshar’s sister forged an alliance with Deeprun, secured Ghault’s southern border with Rhoane, and solidified Dargon’s standing as the most indispensable of the Council of Seven.
It was politics. It was Dargon. Love? Never stood a chance.
* * *
Nadja Kavital, wearing a brown tunic topped with a hood that concealed her eyes, and a fine crossbow slung over her back, hurried into the shadows of the pines where the three men waited.
Dargon moved to intercept her. “Nadja…”
She didn’t slow down. She talked while she walked, and now that Eles neared, he realized she was quite tall. The men had to hustle to keep up with her long strides.
“I prayed to the Alabaster Queen that I would never again see your face,” Nadja grumbled. “She’s a cruel bitch.”
“Could you bother to stop for a minute?”
“No. Your decrees don’t hold sway here, your eminence. In fact, your head would fetch a handsome price in Venaisin. I’m still weighing my options here, so speak quickly”
Dargon swept a few pine branches out of his way as he followed. “I only need a minute.”
“It’s hard for you to wrap your throne-addled brain around, tis true, but common folk still need to earn a pence to survive. I’m late for my next job.” Nadja was already exiting the pines and jogging into the city streets.
“I need your help,” Dargon conceded.
“I’m enthralled. Really, the main reason I didn’t kill you in the cage. What could drive the Lord of Lies, Dargon Lodern, liege to a land of lechery, to such despondence?” She still hadn’t looked at him. They must have been nearing a market district because the cobblestone streets were getting crowded with foot traffic.
“I need to find Rakana. I need her help.”
Nadja spun around and slapped Dargon with enough force to snap his face back over his shoulder.
“How dare you!” she hissed.
A few heads turned to see whether the strike would escalate.
“Nadja…”
“How dare you ask me about Rakana.”
Sensing the spat wasn’t going to lead to further blows, the disappointed onlookers went back about their business. As did Nadja. She, like everyone else, dodged the ever-increasing fleet of carts and carriages, lest she find herself trampled by a draught horse, ox, or worse. It became increasingly more challenging to keep up with her on this main thoroughfare.
“Do you think it easy for me to ask you to help her?” Nadja asked as she looked about. She searched the streets for something, distracted.
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“One thing I asked you for. One. Selfish bastard,” she spat.
Who was this woman? Nobody in all of Ghault would still be alive having spoken to Dargon like this. In Eles’ estimation, that counted for something.
Dargon risked grabbing Nadja’s arm, albeit gingerly, “Nadja, is she still here? Is she still alive? Please. I need you.”
The phrase froze Nadja, catching her off guard. But the moment didn’t last. Something over Dargon’s shoulder caught her eye.
“You want to know where Rakana is, eh?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “I will tell you. But first, you must stand here, right here. Don’t move.”
“What?”
“I’ll be right back. If you move from this spot, you get nothing.” In a blur, she dashed into a narrow alley.
“What trickery is this?” Kelshar asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Should I follow her?”
“No,” Dargon said, but with little conviction.
Almost immediately, a horse-drawn cart came to an abrupt stop when the driver realized Dargon wasn’t moving out of his way.
“Move yer arse, ya stupe!” the man in the front seat hollered.
Behind him, a richly adorned covered carriage was also forced to stop. People all around turned their heads to see the source of the commotion.
“We can’t stay here,” Kelshar warned, but Dargon only looked down into the narrow alley, expectantly.
“Are ya deaf or dumb?” the driver yelled, “Move!”
The blockage jammed traffic in the other direction now. The intersection pulsed with a knotted mix of the angry, the confused, and the curious as everyone focused on the three sepia priests standing in the middle of Peddler’s Pathway. “Get the guards!” someone yelled.
“This is not good,” Kelshar growled as she tried to shield Dargon from multiple directions. The din of the mob intensified, and still Dargon’s feet remained planted.
Figures appeared at the far end of the narrow alley, carrying shields painted with the image of a robed man reaching up to Helene and Hella, the seal of Venaisin. City guards.
“There!” one of the guards called as he pointed, “The spies!”
“Damn her,” Dargon whispered, more in disappointment than in anger, “run.” They bolted through the crowd. As they did, Eles looked over his shoulder for a sign of their pursuers. Whether fate, instinct, or simply dumb luck, he didn’t know, but in the clamor of the chaos, Nadja dropped from an adjacent rooftop onto the richly adorned coach trailing the horse-drawn cart that had first stopped to avoid hitting Dargon. The traffic started to move again.
“Milord!” Eles called out as he reached forward and grabbed Dargon’s sleeve.
Dargon turned in time to catch Nadja disappearing into the driver’s seat. His eyes narrowed.
“Kelshar!” he called out as he doffed his priest’s robe. Eles followed his lead. “Draw them away.”
“What?”
“I need a distraction,” Dargon said gravely, “don’t get caught.”
“Thank you for that advice,” Kelshar quipped as she looked back at where the guards spilled into the street. “Damn. I hate running.” She sprinted back towards the guards just far enough for them to catch glimpse of her before racing into a side alley.
Dargon and Eles pushed back through the crowd toward the covered coach. It rolled ahead, picking up speed. A six-inch wide carriage stop protruded from the side of the coach directly under a small wooden door. They raced alongside until Dargon leapt up and grabbed onto the silver door handle and deftly landed his left foot on the stop. He grabbed onto the roof with his other hand and swung the door open. He peered in to assess the interior of the coach. Whatever he saw, it didn’t deter him. He reached a hand down to Eles, a dubious invitation. Eles doubted he could get his foot on the tiny part of the carriage stop that Dargon’s foot didn’t already cover.
“I can’t…” Eles gasped as he ran. Although, he didn’t know what his other options were. If he didn’t move now, he would lose the carriage.
“Yes you can!” Dargon reassured him, “I’ve got you.” He seemed so sure.
Eles reached up with both hands and grabbed Dargon’s arm and launched himself as hard as he could. His boot bounced off the side of the rung and he floundered, hanging there. Pain fired up his burnt arm while his legs suffered from the bludgeoning of the huge back wheel. Visions of a painful, crushing death flashed before his eyes.
With a tremendous heave, Dargon used his own weight to fall back into the carriage, pulling Eles in with him.
The coach interior looked quite comfortable. Deep purple velvet with silver trim covered the seats and walls. Silver tassels bobbed as they dangled from the window edges, jarred by the uneven cobblestones of the road. The only blemish on the pleasantry was the man with a bolt protruding from his right thigh. He looked alive but in shock, his eyes glazed over, and he gasped for air as he clawed at Dargon’s shirt. The quality of his face powder and hair color marked him as a man of means.
The front of the carriage body opened to the driver’s seat. Through the opening, Nadja peered back at them while holding the reins.
“Outstanding. One of you climb up here and take the reins. He’s actually worth more alive,” she said as she nodded at the man with the bolt in his thigh.
It was absurd, but what else could they do? Cued by a nod from Dargon, Eles climbed up onto the now-crowded front seat. A second man slumped down in the seat, a bolt in the middle of his chest.
“Where am I going?” Eles asked as she handed him the reins.
“Straight would be wise. Best not to stop,” she advised as she slipped down into the coach.
The conversation that followed was heard, but largely unseen, by Eles as he struggled to remember whether you pull the right rein to go right, or the left.
“What are you doing?!” Pure disdain and anger.
“Fetching a tidy sum.”
“As a killer?”
“Not that your opinion matters, but I prefer bounty collector. Move him off the seat.”
Eles heard the thud of the stricken man being moved off the back seat. He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance back and see that Nadja had lifted the top off the back seat and revealed a very young girl, tied up and gagged. The poor girl wore a yellow cotton dress, and her eyes were wide with fear.
“Get her out of there,” Nadja ordered Dargon, with disgust in her voice.
“Who is this man?” Dargon asked.
“Oh, he’s a lovely man, you’d like him,” she said. “By the way, thank you for the lovely distraction.”
“Distraction? Kelshar might be dead!”
Eles heard a thud. He looked over his shoulder and spotted a drop of blood dripping from Dargon’s nose.
“Don’t touch me!” Nadja warned, “I don’t care about your butcher sister-in-law, Dargon. And I don’t care about you, or your problems. Touch me again, and I’ll drive this bolt through your throat and drop you on the doorstep of the Inspectors.”
Eles pulled the horses to a stop to wait for a crossing wagon. He strained to hear Dargon whisper. “I’m sorry.”
No response.
“You promised you would direct me to Rakana. I stood in that spot for a long time…”
“A lot longer than I expected, really…”
“Then help me. Please.” Dargon had always been unshakable to Eles. It jarred him to hear Lord Lodern’s voice so plaintive. So vulnerable.
“I came to you for help once. You ignored me.”
“I need to speak to Rakana.”
“No.”
“Nadja, you need to bring me to Rakana.”
“Maybe your age has affected your hearing.”
“Promise me one thing. Don’t make the decision for her. Go to Rakana. Ask her if she’ll see me.”
“She won’t.”
“Maybe she won’t but let her make that decision. She deserves that.”
The crossing wagon rumbled by, so Eles spurred the horses forward. The clatter masked the hushed voices behind him preventing him from hearing what followed next. After a few minutes, Nadja climbed up to the seat.
“I’ll take it from here,” she said, as she took the reins.
Eles gladly climbed back into the comfort of the carriage’s interior. Nadja’s prey slumped low, passed out with chin on chest, but the cloth bound the puncture in his thigh, and it no longer bled. The little girl sat on the seat with her knees pulled up to her chest, spooked.
Eles gazed significantly at this newfound vulnerable Dargon Lodern, smiling. “How are you?”
“You nearly pulled my arm out of its socket, Base. Get stronger or die.”
The new Dargon. Joy.
“What now?” Eles asked.
“Now, we visit Rakana,” Dargon whispered, one eye on the little girl. To Dargon, everyone was a spy.
“What if she says no?”
Dargon plucked an almond from a bronze up and popped it into his mouth. Eles knew the man was hanging by a thread, but still he seemed unflappable.
“Where is she?” Eles pressed.
“The House of Pleasures.”
All Eles could do was pray the name wasn’t some kind of sadistic sobriquet.