Elestran was listing, and ranking in order of importance, all the potions he would attempt to craft once they were in his possession. His rankings would need to be blessed by Dargon, of course, but why would the man doubt him?
He was the alchemist, not Dargon.
If not for him, Dargon would be searching out red monkey root! He told himself that he could die happy if he only had the chance to create with dormu-lilies. That he didn’t need the recognition for all the breakthroughs he would make. But still, images of members of the Alchemical Guild showering him with adulation and bowing in reverence kept creeping into his thoughts.
Elestran the Base. Elestran the Redeemed. Elestran the Prodigious.
Elestran the Great.
Those guild members who had ostracized him would chant it as a mantra to their own misjudgments.
As they travelled north, back to Greyarch, countless questions and scenarios rifled through his brain. He wondered why it was him, and not his brother Ke’van, who was here. Would he be reappointed a Royal Alchemist? He had witnessed much at The Tears.
Too much.
Perhaps Dargon Lodern intended to dispose of him once his usefulness had expired. It would certainly be simple. Lodern had ensured that. Was he capable of murdering someone who had helped him? A man who would conspire with the Autumn Folke was capable of much.
They walked in silence under a canopy of twisted firs as the first light of dawn cast the eastern sky in subtle pinks and cold blues. Eles was exhausted. His legs and back ached from struggling to find his footing in the wet earth all night, and it made him irritable. “May we rest?”
“Hours? I’m ready to drop.”
“You’re woefully unfit.” Dargon’s claim was obvious, but that didn’t lessen the sting.
“Exercise is a luxury of the wealthy and idle.” Eles couldn’t help it. The indignity of his treatment had been building for days.
“O-ho!” Kelshar hooted with a smile. She looked to Dargon for his reaction, but Dargon never turned.
“Fitness is a combination of physical endurance and mental strength. Your circumstances are your own doing,” Dargon lectured.
“You find me wanting, and yet, I am here and not my brother.” It was forward, he knew, but he didn’t care. “It should be the Royal Alchemist who counsels you.”
“It appears treachery runs in the family, Elestran the Base.”
Eles’ jaw clenched. His blood boiled. Treachery. Nobody had said anything like that for so many years he had forgotten how painful it was. Elestran, of all people, knew the depths of his brother’s ambition, but he never imagined Ke’van turning on the Loderns. He was too in awe of them, particularly Dargon. “Where is he then? What have you done to him?”
“In his chamber, I would presume,” Dargon answered. “I have no intention of tipping off that I know of his plotting. Not yet.”
“If your advisors continue to turn their back on you, at what point do you start to point to yourself as the reason?”
Dargon paused before replying, “You deem to counsel me, eh, alchemist?”
“Forgive me, milord, but death has a way of loosening one’s tongue. Is it wise to support the ambitions of the Autumn Folke?” If he was going to challenge Dargon, he knew this challenge wouldn’t bring down the wrath of Kelshar, at least.
“You know nothing of it. I know what I’m doing.”
“Many might disagree.”
“Many are not in my seat,” Dargon replied. “I don’t rule by the opinions of the many.”
“What do you rule by then?”
Without pause, as if by rote, Dargon shot back, “I rule by divine insight. Do you doubt it?”
Always the end of reasonable debate, Eles thought. “Omniscience is reserved for the gods themselves. Mortals do well to listen to the wisdom of their counselors. Even the chosen.”
“The position of counselor must be earned.”
“Very good, milord. And what of me? What will you do with me now?”
Even Kelshar didn’t seem sure of the answer as she turned to hear his response.
“You’re coming with us. I’ll have need of you, and you proved some worth at The Tears.” Dargon turned to look at Eles for the first time. “Your instincts and knowledge were impressive.” The words, accompanied by the pointed look, struck with a jolt. Eles wanted to be able to shrug off the comment, but he couldn’t. I don’t care what he thinks, he told himself, but it wasn’t true. He cursed himself for allowing his pride to swell like an overstuffed cask. Damn the man, but after all this time he couldn’t deny the fact that Dargon’s opinion of him still held command.
Kelshar laughed. “He has a point there. That ship has sailed.”
Dargon nodded. He appeared a man that had held a secret so tightly it was hard to break the habit. “It’s time to visit Gi of the Gift.”
* * * *
To the south of Greyarch, along the coast of the Bay of Serpents, settlements were sprouting up like toadstools in a sodden fen. There was precious little space on the upper crest of Greyarch, so those industrious souls who were looking to use newly found wealth to build were forced to look at other alternatives. As a result, in recent years castles, homes and shoppes propagated in an area known as The Bluffs. The residents of The Bluffs boasted of its cleanliness and spaciousness when compared to Greyarch, but the oldest families seized any opportunity to point out that The Bluffs were too far away to properly hold influence in Greyarch. That didn’t prevent them from profiting off the area, of course, but still, the newly wealthy residents of The Bluffs had to understand their place.
It was in The Bluffs that Gi of the Gift had built his tower. The tower caught the eye of approaching travelers, having been built at the top of the cliffs overlooking the bay. It’s shape compelled viewers to lean their head to one side, as if tilting their perspective might somehow appease their sense of order. Anchored by a wide and solid base, the single tower leaned slightly to one side. A roofless balcony protruded from the top in the opposite direction that the tower leaned, giving the whole thing the appearance of a pristine cobra looking out over the bay. Dargon explained that Gi had been almost finished with the tower when the ground underneath shifted unexpectedly, tipping the whole thing to the west. Rather than start over, Gi decided to alter his plans to make it work. Gi now took great pride in the shape, saying that the unorthodox architecture reflected his ability to look at things in new and unique ways.
Eles couldn’t help but roll his eyes.
“You take issue with his ability?” Dargon asked, as he once again put his alabaster mask on.
“Which ability is that, milord? His ability to convince you that his error in planning was somehow an act of divine inspiration?”
“Jealously doesn’t become you,” Dargon answered. “His considerable gifts are pledged to the Loderns, and it would be well for you to show him proper respect.”
“As you command, milord. Will we see him now?” Eles was ready to drop, and he would gladly get off his feet in this tower, askew or no.
“No. It would not do to present ourselves as we are. We’ll clean up, eat, and rest a bit first.”
Spatters of rank blood soaked Kelshar’s cloak, and all their boots and cloak bottoms cracked and flaked with dried mud. The smells of roasting pork beckoned Eles to a nearby tavern. The newly painted sign above the door read The Blotto Eel and it reflected the mid-morning light like a beacon of hospitality. The taverns Eles patronized prior to his imprisonment suffered in the dank bowels of Greyarch and so were cramped and creaky with age. The Eel felt quite different. Spacious, with an arched ceiling and open windows allowing a breeze to blow in off the bay, one wanted to breathe here. The heavy wooden tables and benches could confidently be eaten off without fear of dysentery, still relatively unscathed. The early hour meant few diners, and they took the table farthest from the front door.
Before long, their boots and cloaks had been tended to, and a meal of fish and potatoes replenished their strength and spirits. As much as Eles ate, Kelshar wolfed down double. The woman from Rhoane was short but well built, and although she had clearly been taught the fine art of dining, she was still a woman more comfortable seizing and devouring a meal as if it would be her last. Kelshar filled her cup with an ewer of fresh water when Eles noticed her stiffen. He followed her gaze to see four soldiers entering The Eel, a crossed sword and axe symbol stitched into their tunics.
Darkbridge.
By now, midday patrons nearly filled the place, and heads turned. It was not uncommon for men of Darkbridge to frequent the taverns in Greyarch. But The Bluffs?
Wolf masks concealed the nose and mouth of two of the four soldiers. The Order of the Silver Chain. Generations past, the Order formed to hunt down lycanthropes. But it had been decades since the last sighting of a were-beast in Ghault. It’s been said the Order has lost its way while waiting for the return of those sickened souls. Once highly respected rangers, they had fallen in recent years to nothing more than bounty hunters for hire. The iconic sliver chains the Order were known for dangled from loops on their thick leather belts, clinking softly as they moved. One end of the chain linked to a silver blade, the other end to a tangle of severe hooks.
The four men crashed down onto some benches at a table by the door and called for service. Chainmail byrnies and silver chains scraped against the wood as they settled into place. Eles couldn’t help but notice how young the two unmasked men were. In Greyarch, he had learned to avoid young soldiers. They always ended up being the ones to cause trouble. Maybe because they felt the need to prove themselves, or maybe the corrupting power of the position spurred them to be overeager to have a go with that sword at their side.
His instincts proved right. One of the Darkbridge soldiers, a young man with round cheeks and curly black hair that tapered down to pointed sideburns, spotted a lone Greyarch guard eating at a nearby table.
“You,” Sideburns called.
The Greyarch guard looked up from his bowl and looked around. Even though the man sported a full beard, it was clear he didn’t have more than a few years on the Darkbridge boy. “Me?”
“Look at him look around. Who else would I be talking to?” Sideburns asked his comrades, and they laughed as they removed their helms. The men of the Order kept their wolf masks on. “What’s your name?” Sideburns called.
“Harman.”
“You’re a Greyarch man-at-arms, are you?”
“Aye,” the guard replied, going back to his stew.
“Don’t worry, that food’s not going anywhere. Look at the belly on this one. They feed you good, do they?”
“Better than you lot, I’m sure,” Harman threw back.
The four men exchanged looks before Sideburns responded, “Oh, you’re sure, are you? Everyone’s fat with riches in Greyarch, I see. Aye, fat off the work of Darkbridge and Iron Falls.”
Kelshar’s grip on her cup tightened, but Dargon shook his head no.
Harman looked up, annoyed. “If you’re so envious, pledge your service. Always looking for men here.”
“And leap onto this sinking ship? Ha! I don’t think so. Ere long you’ll be taking orders from me, Harman,” Sideburns replied before taking a long swig from his tankard.
“There’s an unlikely turn of events.”
“Unlikely, is it? Haven’t you heard? They say Lodern is a coward.”
This time Kelshar pushed her bench back to rise but Dargon whispered no. The show of restraint after such a slanderous disrespect surprised Eles. Not that he disagreed. He abhorred the unpredictability of violence.
“Certainly not I. I merely repeat what I hear on the streets. But where is Lodern? Do you really think we will allow Ghault to be ruled by his Rhoanish she-pig?”
Dargon’s hand shot forward and grabbed Kelshar’s wrist.
Harman pushed back his bench and stood. “The Loderns rule Ghault, and as long as you tread here, you will do well to remember that.”
“Are you standing, sir?” Sideburns asked, his breath quickening. “Do you threaten me?”
“I am standing, sir. That is all. Take it as you will.”
“It appears you stand with purpose. Your meal is not finished. Your cup is full. I can take your standing no other way,” Sideburns warned as he rose. “I rise to defend myself.”
“It is punishable by death to assault me. Do you rise in aggression, sir?”
“I rise. Take it as you will.”
Eles watched as both men stood facing each other, five paces apart, and he reflected on how difficult it was to avoid trouble, should trouble come looking for you.
Dargon still didn’t move.
With a jerking motion, Sideburns feinted forward, causing Harman to instinctively grab his pommel.
“He’s gone for his sword!” On Sideburns’ cue the other unmasked Darkbridge soldier shot up. The two men of the Order stayed seated. Several nearby tavern patrons stood up and quickly moved out of the way, and the barkeep, desperate, called, “There’s no need for swords!”
“We have no choice but to defend ourselves.” Sideburns stepped forward, hand on his pommel.
Harman took a step back, outnumbered. The area around was clear now as the two men circled him.
Dargon cursed under his breath. “We will not intervene,” he whispered.
Sideburns pointed at Harman’s hand. “If you mean us no harm, hand over your sword.”
“Only death will disarm me,” Harman shot back.
“So be it. Your threat leaves me no choice,” Sideburns said hungrily as he drew his long sword.
The crowd gasped.
Drawn steel.
That changed everything. Now, the two Order of the Silver Chain stood.
Harman’s sword screeched out of its sheath in reply.
The remaining three Darkbridge soldiers drew.
Five blades. Death was imminent now.
Kelshar leaned forward and whispered to Dargon, “You once told me that if matters of the military should ever conflict with matters of politics, I should speak up. I’m speaking up.”
Kelshar popped up onto her feet.
She was actually disobeying Dargon, Eles realized in horror and fascination.
“This hardly seems a fair fight,” she called out as she approached the five armed men.
Everyone turned their attention to the woman who would dare approach unsheathed blades.
Sideburns barked to Kelshar and the rest of The Eel, “Anyone who interferes will be cut down! Sit down, girl.”
Kelshar’s voice was low and gravelly and sure. She drew her broad sword and spoke directly to Sideburns. “Say goodbye to your friends.”
Sideburns turned to her. “And who are you?”
“I go by many names. The Butcher of Deeprun. The Left Arm of Ghault. Kelshar… Rhoanish she-pig.”
Whispers fired through The Eel like lightning.
Kelshar’s neck was covered in as much muscle as the rest of her, and it twitched in anger.
The bravado, if not the aggression, seemed to drain out of Sideburns all at once. “You lie…” But you could tell he only hoped it was true.
In a flash, Kelshar lunged forward and carved the wrist of Sideburns’ sword hand so deep she cut it half off. The man’s long sword bounded off the wooden floor, but Eles couldn’t hear it. The man screeched too loudly. Kelshar faced the other three, barely able to restrain herself. “Leave, quickly. Before I change my mind.”
The two masked men of the Order did not hesitate to leave their companion and walk out. Whether it was out of fear, or out of lack of motivation, Eles didn’t know. Once the men of the Order left, it wasn’t long before the other armed soldier sheathed his blade and backed out, cowed.
Sideburns was on his knees, clutching his bleeding wrist. Kelshar reached down and grabbed the hand that was only half attached and dragged the man out of The Blotto Eel by it.
The scream threatened to break glass, causing the hairs on the back of Eles’ necks to stretch for the ceiling. His wrist twinged in ghost pains. He felt nauseous. He turned to see Dargon’s reaction, but Dargon was already gone.
* * * *
Dargon waited for them at the front of Gi’s tower.
“That was unwise,” he said to Kelshar. Eles didn’t need to see through the mask. The tone was enough.
“Forgive me, milord. I couldn’t let them kill the man. He was defending you,” Kelshar replied.
“You’ve jeopardized my position, my state, for what? One man?”
“Our man.”
“I can’t allow one man’s fate to jeopardize the fate of Ghault,” Dargon replied with a sure voice.
“I agree with Kelshar,” Eles added, and almost immediately regretted it.
Dargon’s eyes were daggers, stabbing him in the throat.
“Nobody asked your opinion, Base,” Dargon warned, “I shouldn’t expect you to understand suppressing your personal feelings for the greater good, should I?”
Dargon stepped closer to Eles and looked him in the eyes. “I don’t cross those lines.” He turned so that he could speak to both Kelshar and Eles. “This is a political visit. Political. My directives are followed without question. Understand?”
“Yes, milord,” Kelshar said firmly.
Without Kelshar’s complicity in defiance, Eles’ confidence shriveled. “Yes, milord.”
If he didn’t know any better, Eles would have thought that Kelshar shot him a look of admiration as she rapped on the immense front door to Gi’s tower.
If the annals of history are to be believed, the first thaumaturges to tap into the weave of Magesty were the ancient mystics of the Eastern lands. Some claim their fluency is driven by bloodline. Others argue it’s their singular ability to block out earthly distractions and focus. Those revered Eastern sorcerers are now groomed from birth. They forsake everything in life to relentlessly pursue a connection to the Tapestry. It’s rumored many crack. The many that break are a small price to pay for the few that come through, masters of their craft. Royal advisors.
The legend of Gi of the Gift spread throughout Ghault. At five, he had illuminated strands. At nine, he was authoring scrolls. To those in his camp, The Gift referred to his abilities. To the cynics, The Gift referred to his being given to the Loderns by the Eastern Empire. In return for what, one could only speculate.
A teenaged girl wearing a sheer, black, silk robe with yellow butterflies embroidered on the sleeves welcomed them in. Her face was stoic porcelain. Her hair collected high on her head, held by a tiara fashioned with grey devil horns that curved up. She looked at (through?) the three visitors for a long time before bringing them in. Eles speculated about what the exotic young girl could see. What she might be detecting. He felt naked. If she somehow deduced who Dargon was, however, she didn’t show it.
Gi obviously spared no expense in the construction of his home. The polished marble of the floors sparkled in the sunlight streaming in from the arched windows. The place struck Eles as immaculately clean. Sparse. Cold by its recency, with very few adornments to evidence a life lived. The chosen few originated from the Eastern Empire, judging by the Praying Mantis motifs.
As they walked the main hall, something tiny buzzed over their heads. A dragonfly? And then another. And another. All about the size of a man’s thumb. One flew close enough to Eles for him to make out that they were locusts. They whirred by in a brilliant array of colors: fire reds, yellows, and jade greens. By the time they reached the far end of the hall there must have been hundreds of them pouring out of the rafters and filling the hall. Eles couldn’t help but twitch and swat at the things as they invaded his space. Apparently, Kelshar felt the same way. The young girl and Dargon seemed unfazed.
They arrived at a circular room with eight archways evenly spaced all the way around. Above each archway was a stained-glass window depicting different colored locusts, topped with human heads with smiling faces, resting on sarcophagi. The interior of the room lay bare save for several oversized, round pillows, embroidered with gold dragons looking pensive. The men sat and waited while the she-devil poured tea. It seeped down Eles’ throat like warm molasses, sweet and thick. Eles sat cross-legged for fear of dozing off into the down pillow that threatened to envelop him.
Next in entered a barefaced boy, no more than sixteen, wearing a plain white linen shirt and pants. As he circled past, Eles held out his teacup to be taken away, but the boy simply wrinkled his brow and knelt on the pillow at the head of the room, cupping his hands on his knees.
This was no servant. The Gift was even younger than he imagined.
The boy stared at them in silence until the she-devil left the room.
Dargon lifted his mask.
“Forgive me, Lord Lodern. Had I known you were coming, I would have been waiting for you,” the boy said. His eyes shifted from person to person, taking them in.
The boy was so young, yet so still…
“Yes. Circumstances did not allow me to forewarn my arrival,” Dargon said with a sip.
“I can see that. You’ve… changed.” Gi’s perfectly straight bangs of jet-black hair hinted at a life of practicality and efficiency.
Alchemists and wizards often crossed paths and Eles knew wizards in his youth. They had an annoying way of talking to you while not really being present. Eles got that sense now. Gi sat looking at the three of them, physically there, yet mentally very distant.
Dargon stiffened slightly. “Yes. A plot of my enemies.”
“Hm. Powerful enemies.” Gi of the Gift glanced at Eles. “Shall we speak alone?”
“No, these are trusted allies.”
“Kelshar,” Gi said with a nod to her. “But this one… I’ve never seen before. May I ask who he is?”
“An old friend,” was all Dargon offered.
The Gift looked from Dargon to Eles again. “Old indeed. Be careful who you take counsel from, Lord Lodern. Men of his years will tell you anything to remain relevant.”
Eles had an overwhelming desire to throw the boy over his knee and thrash his bottom with a cane.
“If only that were true with this one,” Dargon replied with a wry smile.
“How can I help you, Lord Lodern? I’m here to do your bidding,” The Gift nodded in reverence as he spoke.
“I’m looking for something. I need you to discern its location.”
“What is it you seek?”
“Dormu-lilies,” Dargon whispered.
Again, the boy seemed far away. Several seconds passed before he replied, “Dormu-lilies?”
“Very rare flowers. And I need them. Can you locate them? With only the name?”
Gi closed his eyes and whispered a few words in a language that was foreign to Eles before asking, “How do you know they exist?”
“I know,” was the whole answer. End of conversation.
“I see,” Gi opened his eyes and looked at Eles again.
He’s uncomfortable, Eles thought. How often is he put in a situation where he doesn’t know exactly what’s happening? When he doesn’t know whom he’s talking to and why? The long night without sleep pulled Eles deeper into the paradise of the pillow. His legs felt heavy.
“Of course I can find them,” he said with a smile. “I am the Gift.” He closed his eyes again and whispered a stream of unfamiliar words. “I see things, Lord Lodern. I see things others cannot ever hope to see.”
“What I see is troubling,” Gi continued without opening his eyes. “The winds of change have blown in from the west. An old regime will die. Another will sweep its ashes from the hearth.”
“What is this you speak of?” Dargon asked with labored voice.
Just past Dargon, Eles could see that Kelshar’s chin had fallen to her chest, her eyes closed. Eles’ heart started to pound as he realized what was happening. He cursed himself for not detecting it earlier. He shook his head again, but his thoughts were like clouds, soft and dissipating. He was only partially present in the room. Part of his mind bobbed up and down, adrift on a sea of memories that threatened to engulf him.
“The gods have forsaken you, Dargon Lodern…” Gi whispered as if in a lullaby, “…and so must I.”
Dargon muttered, “…how dare you…” with slurred speech. Trembling arms surrendered and his head lowered to the floor.
Eles thrust his fingers into one of his belt pouches. Images swirled in his head beckoning him to let go. Harpies cooing sweet memories.
His first kiss with that cook’s daughter whose name escaped him years ago. Qolor’s reassuring hand on his shoulder.
He collapsed to his side, his back to Gi. He only had seconds.
His father’s hand. His father’s mustache.
His fingers found something.
His mother’s smile.
He drew his hand up to his face as everything went black…
The warm, soothing washbasin of his youth.
He breathed.
The powder on his fingertips shot up through his nostrils like a lightning bolt. His eyes shot open. His head buzzed. Blood and piss surged through him, but he forced himself to lay still. He heard Gi’s feet softly treading on the marble floor.
“Xiang!”
A door opened somewhere beyond the room.
“Bring them in!” Gi ordered in a rush.
Eles knew he would only have one shot at this. His hand slipped down to the pommel of his knife. He clenched it harder than he needed to. His heart pounded. He shot to his feet and pulled the dagger free.
One shot.
He rushed forward.
