by Ember Lane
“Stoor Broderick,” Merl said softly. The soaked drunk his father had become was scrubbed from his mind and transformed into a brave knight—a knight like Frank—a Knight of Tintagel. “Are they all dead?”
“Who?” the seer asked, walking past him and into the mausoleum.
“The Knights of Tintagel.”
“Well, apart from Frank, but I believe he’s renounced his oath.”
“Then we must begin there,” Merl said.
The seer twiddled with his mustache, as was his habit. “You have many places you must start. Perhaps you should weave them all together and set out on the path that will accomplish all?” The seer walked toward the sarcophagus. “Come, look upon your mother. Let her spirit know that you came—then perhaps she can rest. Her path here was perilous. Her plan to swipe you from under Arthur’s nose was ambitious. But it had to be done. You see, Arthur wasn’t the same man at the end.”
“How so?”
“It was like he just wasn’t interested. I can’t explain it. He just didn’t want to live anymore. Yet at the same time, he cared enough for our lands to plan its future.” The seer huffed. “It is hard to judge a man without knowing his motives.”
“It’s not that hard,” Merl said, staring at his mother’s effigy.
Merl approached it. His steps were hesitant at first, though deliberate in the end. As he closed, he recognized her. He remembered her staring down at him. She’d smiled. Her face had shone bright. “Mother,” he said, the word like a teardrop, and he fell to his knees. “Mother.” Merl bowed his head, sorrow riddling him. He exhaled, trying to gather his courage through his own mother’s conviction. “She hid me in Morgan Mount. From what? From my father or from Daemon Mercer?”
“Your father was Stoor Broderick—he was the one that raised you. Never forget that.”
“But he wasn’t, was he? Stoor Broderick was a Knight of Tintagel. The father I knew lusted after Walinda Alepuller. The real Stoor Broderick died because he had to take care of me. He became someone else—all because of this Arthur17549? What of him? What happened to him?”
“Like I’ve told you, he vanished. One day he was, the next he’d gone. Though that doesn’t tell the true tale of his demise. Don’t forget, he cloaked all the power of the lords into wards that we might use them. Perhaps in doing that, he could no longer be.” The seer rested a hand on Merl’s shoulder. “Some say that the lords were not of this land, that they fell from the stars and that one day the stars took them back.”
“And is that right?”
The seer didn’t answer for a while, but when he did, his voice was filled with sorrow. “I don’t know, but I do know this: I think you’re the only one.”
“One what?”
“I think you’re the only fruit of a coupling between a Lord and one of their subjects.”
“Oh,” Merl said, and it was all he could say.
“It makes you unique, Merl, one of a kind.”
“I’ve been told that plenty of times.” A smile cracked through Merl’s sorrowful veneer. He stood, coming eye to eye with his mother. Painting the gray stone to flesh, imagining her stone hair flowing in the wind, Merl pictured his mother standing tall. She held her thin, curved sword aloft, smiting her enemies down with every swing while her silver armor shone in the sun. “Her eyes,” he whispered, “what color were her eyes?”
“They looked like steel mirrors. Your mother’s eyes were gray—the same color as her magic.”
“Steel, the color of her sword.”
The seer took Merl’s hand, bringing him around so that they faced each other. “I have yet to complete my story.”
The seer sat, cross legged, and Merl sat with him.
“Stoor Broderick hid you away in Morgan Mount, and to all, Daemon Mercer included, you vanished. Though whether any looked for you is another matter. This was no quest trail, no find the missing prince, this was supposed to be an end, but your mother was diligent in her preparations. She knew that half of your make up belonged to a Lord, and that there was every possibility that you would be able to do what lords did: create great cities, raise vast armies, forge a huge civilization.”
“But so can Frank,” Merl said.
“And a few others. When the Lords fled, we think some of their power spread throughout the land. Some likely received parts of the knowledge. Frank, for instance, found his calling in battle. You are not like that, Merl. The power is in your blood, and it woke one day. Stoor recognized it for what it was, but his mind was mush by then, lost to a life of servitude. You are not like Frank, Merl. You are not like any of them.”
“What about Daemon Mercer?”
“We think he’s the very last Lord. We think he might be trapped here.”
“Think? You think all of this, but you’re not really sure of anything, are you? You know my mother hid me away. You know she gave Stoor Broderick instruction to hide me, and you know the part you played. The rest is all your wonder. Why did my father let Stoor take me? Did he turn away from his bastard? Did he know? Did my mother tell him, or was that too perilous? You don’t know any of this. Is there anything you do know?” Merl was taken aback by his own venomous tirade, but he also let it hang between them. He was right. He was sure of it. The seer was trying to make a story out of a few snatched verses. “Well?”
The seer didn’t answer at first. He got up and bounced on the balls of his feet like he was coming to a choice of whether to beat Merl to a pulp or cede defeat. He took the latter option.
“I know that you are our last hope, Merl.”
Merl slumped. The weight of the seer’s words was too much for him to bear. They pressed down on him. He struggled to breath. He slowly raised his head, forced his tired legs up, and staggered out of the mausoleum. Gasping at the chill night air, Merl sat on the stone ledge, his legs dangling over the edge of the island.
“No!” he cried. “Why?”
The seer joined him. “Perhaps just because,” he said. “You can’t change anything, Merl. What has passed has passed. Sure, you could slip off this isle, plunge to the land below, and shatter your bones to splinters, but who would look after Gloomy Joe? What if he got his foot stuck in a hole and you weren’t there to pull it out like the giant did first time?”
Merl harrumphed. “How do you know about that?”
“I had a long chat with your dog while we waited. He loves you—thinks you’re the best friend a dog could ever dream of.” The seer shuffled in his robe and held up a simple copper band. “This was your mother’s. It is more than it looks. You wanted a ring like Frank’s, but this is a bracelet. If you put it on, there’s no going back. It will awake more within you. But I can tell you this: if you accept it, it is the first of your mother’s gifts that I can give you this night. Then tomorrow, you must venture to carve your destiny.”
Merl stared at the copper band. It was about half an inch thick, a flattened oval with a break on one length. The copper wasn’t even bright. It was scuffed, dull, and scratched. He was stunned by its simple beauty, and he thrust his arm out, allowing the seer to snap it around his exposed wrist.
The band settled into position, molding and tightening in place.
You have received Soorafell’s Band of Holding. The band is soulbound and contains the following;
10 Weapon Slots
10 Potion Slots
10 Armor Slots
20 Miscellaneous Slots
All items held with the band will have their weight reduced by one hundredth.
A lump grew in Merl’s gut. His grief had now congealed to a fledgling pulp of determination. He found he was desperate to complete whatever path his mother had laid for him, though was still unsure as to its end. He knew the start, and that this detour to the island Desmelda had insisted on, was somehow part of the plan. It was like he was living a prophesy that had never been written down, merely passed by mouth. “What’s next?”
“Next? That’s more like what you’d expect to hear from
the son of Soorafell.” The seer pushed himself away from the edge. “Next, we turn you into a warrior. Whatever path you decide to take, it will be in need of a warrior’s skill.” The seer jumped up and marched back into the mausoleum. He was filled with new energy. “Come, come now, we haven’t much time. What do you know about armor?”
Merl swiveled around and sprang up, buoyed by the seer’s sudden burst of enthusiasm. “About as much as a sheepherder should know. Oh, and sometimes it molds to you, and sometimes it doesn’t.”
“Ha! This”—the seer pointed at his mother’s armor—“This is her gift to you. It is not, as you probably imagined, her armor. She had it made specifically for you knowing you would probably come here a novice. Soorafell had a nose for the future.” He approached the mannequin and began undoing a number of clasps and buttons before removing its burgundy jacket. He held it out to Merl, who took it, surprised by its light weight.
“This is armor?”
“It is made from dathrel and will mold to your frame. Dathrel will turn most blades. If you unequip it, it will vanish into its armor slot in your new band of holding. If you equip it, it will replace your sailcloth tunic, and you will see it within the panel in your mind. That is the nature of all things now that the band and your mind are linked. The same will go for this.” The seer handed Merl a pair of burgundy gauntlets.
Merl unequipped both, and they appeared in his copper band occupying slots one and two. He tried equipping the gauntlets, and they appeared on his hands. He then slid the brown panel within his mind out, and saw the gauntlets occupied a single square. A familiar voice sang in his mind.
“Dathrel Gauntlets: level 1. Armor—ten. Slashing resistance—ten. Piercing resistance—ten. Weight—2.6lbs.”
He unequipped them, and they vanished, reappearing in his wrist band’s inventory. Merl equipped the jacket. His sailcloth tunic now sat in his band’s inventory and his dathrel jacket appeared both on him and in a square on the panel.
“Dathrel Jacket: level 1. Armor—twenty. Slashing resistance—ten. Piercing resistance—ten. Blunt resistance—ten. Weight—4.4lbs.”
By the time he’d re-equipped his sailcloth jacket, the seer was handing him a chain mail undershirt. “Layers, Merl. Armor is all about layers. This sits under your jacket. If you ask the giants to make you a sailcloth vest and you might turn even the sharpest blade.”
Merl took the chainmail vest and held it up. It dropped all the way past his groin. He stowed it in one of his armor slots.
“Chainmail long vest: level 1. Armor—ten. Slashing resistance—ten. Piercing resistance—ten. Blunt resistance—ten. Weight—17lbs.”
“How does armor have levels?” Merl asked, stowing the dathrel pants, boots, and helm as the seer passed them to him.
The seer shrugged. “That was a matter for the Lord who equipped his citizen with it. All we know is that the Lords could upgrade many things to level two, three, and so on. How, well is unknown, but maybe you’ll find out, one day.”
Merl accepted his explanation, becoming overawed by all that was happening to him. But the seer wasn’t finished with him yet and moved away from the mannequin and across the sarcophagus to the sword rack. “Here,” he said, and handed Merl a long, curved sword. “The Lords called this a katana. It was Arthur14579’s and your mother’s choice for their main sword. Frank is versed in its use, although he himself prefers a straight sword. He will train you in its use.”
“Katana. 2.5lbs. Two hundred and twenty-six to three hundred and seventy-four damage. Heavy swing—slashing damage—four hundred and seventy-four to seven hundred and ninety-eight, twenty-two action required. Stab—piercing damage—three hundred and twenty-two to five hundred and one, fifteen action required. Bonus: Critical chance eight percent. Slashing damage plus sixty-four percent.”
The seer turned back to the rack. “The Lords called this smaller one a wakizashi, and they used this as their secondary sword. Master the katana first and one day, perhaps, you may learn to use this one as well.”
“Wakizashi. 1.2lbs. One hundred and eight-four to two hundred and sixty-nine damage. Heavy swing—slashing damage—two hundred and eighty-six to three hundred and eighteen, nineteen action required. Stab—piercing damage—one hundred and fifty-five to three hundred and sixty-one, twelve action required. Bonus: Critical chance six percent. Slashing damage plus forty-three percent.”
Merl gripped the weapon. It was sure to the touch. A fine blade, just like the katana. He stowed it away. “Thank you.”
The seer grunted. “Thank me? I have just presented you with the means to die. Don’t thank me—chide me, berate me, yell at me with every last breath, but don’t thank me. You are right, I do not know everything, and conjecture is merely dressed-up gossip. But I do know a few things. You don’t walk the land for as long as I have without picking up some useful knowledge. Would you like a piece of advice?”
Guilt teased Merl into answering yes. The seer continued.
“A path that only leads to vengeance is a path that can only end in darkness. You must use your hatred to move you forward when you can’t walk another inch and no more than that. Vengeance is not a quest; it is an admission you have nothing left to fight for.”
“But what should I think about my father?” Merl asked.
“You must judge him yourself. Like you pointed out, I do not know all the facts, but I know the Lords lived by their own set of rules. Some were arrogant and thought they could defeat the whole world. Others were only concerned with their own slice of the land. Why Arthur14579 did what he did, I cannot judge. Perhaps you are right, maybe he was unaware the child was his. Ashamed? I can’t believe there’s any truth in that. Predict the future—not I, you will have to walk that path yourself.”
“But isn’t predicting the future what you do?” Merl asked.
“Since I am a seer? I see the future, yes, but the future I have seen has now come to pass. What follows from now on is closed to me. My task is done, Merl. You were it, and it has been my pleasure serving. It is up to you now. It is up to you, Frank, Desmelda, and Billy.”
“Is that it?” Merl was stunned. This wasn’t how a great seer was supposed to be.
“It? All these revelations? You must find your answers yourself. Go, go find your companions.” The seer waved him away. “I think I may sit here a while and reminisce with an old friend. A simple goodbye is all you need. She wasn’t a big one for partings, and now, through sword and armor, she will always be with you.”
Merl backed away, mouthing a silent goodbye to his mother. The seer’s presence gathered about Merl, pushing him away until he found himself on the stone walkway. He hesitated, knowing the seer’s path, understanding it, but helpless to do anything about it. He spun around and marched away knowing he’d never see the blind man again.
Quaiyl was waiting for him just by the building. The construct fell in step beside him.
“Just met my mother,” Merl told him as dawn broke. Merl didn’t expect, nor did he get, an answer. “Just met my mother, Quaiyl. It’s time to start over. It’s time to fight back.”
Sweat soaked Merl’s brow. His breath came in short gasps. “Fifty,” he said, stopped and finally dropped to Wave Walker’s deck. The ice and snow cooled his head, melted around his neck, throwing up wisps of curling steam. “Fifty,” he repeated, a goal met. Again.
“Gerr up, ya lazy sod!” Farwatcher bellowed down from the crow’s nest.
“Least I don’t sit around all day doin’ nothin’!” Merl shouted back.
He waited until his breaths evened, then went again, circling the great deck, running past each of the masts, hurdling a thick coil of fat, giant-sized rope, and running his trailing fingers over the frozen Jacob’s ladder. He dashed on to the forecastle, along that, then back down the other side. “One.”
Three days had passed since they’d left the seer’s isles, and they were now journeying south east. This time, they were headed for Quintz, and had no plans to detou
r. Merl was nervous, but in a good way. It was a brewing storm in his gut, an itch that spurred him around the deck time and again. He wanted to be ready, he was sure of that. It was ready for what he was unsure about.
Merl and Quaiyl had returned to the white house just as the others were rising. Frank had looked at them but said nothing. He’d waited until Merl had spilled all, shown them the copper wrist band, the armor and swords, and then he’d said they would talk later. Merl was still waiting for that moment. The seer hadn’t returned, but Merl had known he wouldn’t. An unwelcome feeling had settled around the group, then herded and shoved them off the island. Merl had the sense of unbearable grief and knew that the seer had completed his life’s work, but was wholly unhappy about the path the old man had to take.
Without another option, they’d left the Hidden Isles and sailed back into the maelstrom.
Merl had trained each day, just like his mother had, dressed in full armor—armor that had, as the seer had promised, molded to him. Merl had trained all day while he waited for Frank to talk to him, but the Wizard of Quintz had apparently needed to mull over something in his mind. As Merl completed his fifty-third circuit, Frank appeared on the deck. He sat on a basket watching in quiet contemplation. After a few more circuits, he bid Merl over.
“How many?”
“Fifty-six.”
“Sure?”
Merl nodded. His counting was steady now. He could make it past one hundred without straining his brain too hard and couldn’t see that he’d have too much need to go farther. According to Frank, four figures in a row was one thousand or more, and then stuff started repeating. The long string of figures on the ear of corn that sat in the corner of his mind was a million and something, and the ones over the brick made a number of a similar size. Merl fancied mastering the really long figures so he could see how much corn and bricks he had, but fancied it would take a lifetime to count that high. Big numbers could wait. Words were more important now.
