The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  These thoughts rushed through Einar’s mind while he hurriedly walked to the inn nearest to his home. He passed through a series of short side-alleyways to block the incessantly bitter wind before coming to the inn. The Blighter’s Laugh seemed to be nothing more than a squat, two-story, plain wooden building. Years ago, it had been painted a stark white, but time and weather eroded the color, leaving a drab grayness with splotches of white here and there. Several small, four-paned windows along the second story gave off no illumination, yet a meager light shone through two large, eight-paned windows opposite the main wooden door. From several paces away, the blurriness of the glass did not allow Einar to discern who sat inside the inn.

  He stepped closer to the window, focusing inward to the common room. Through blurred streaks, Einar could make out vague shapes filling the room. Most villagers ate breakfast slowly since the winter months meant that the bulk of the work could be completed at a more leisurely pace. Very little effort was used to create light during the winter months since the long nights needed more artificial means of illumination. A few hanging lamps and a large fire in a massive stone fireplace opposite the main door abated the darkness.

  Einar chuckled wryly to himself as he recalled a conversation from many years ago in this common room. He had argued well about allowing himself to increase the light in most of the buildings as part of the duties of his position, but the townspeople vehemently disagreed to the use of his powers until a dire emergency required his attention. He remembered some folks muttering that he would burn the entire town down even if he used his supposed skills in Alteration. Of course, as time passed there never seemed to be any emergencies requiring his attention, and after many years of disuse the villagers all but forgot about his skill. Well, at least bookbinding is not a feared trade.

  Sudden movement from someone standing up behind the bar caught Einar’s attention. Even through the darkness and the blurred glass, he recognized the figure as his oldest friend, Saen Lorst. Long, reddish-brown hair hung tied behind her back. While not beautiful, she had grown more attractive while maturing into her mid-thirties. Her simple dark red, long-sleeved blouse and long skirt of fine-spun wool confirmed her presence. Einar moved to the stout wooden door, opened it, and stepped into the room.

  Conversations, dulled by after-breakfast smoking, almost completely stopped when he passed through the doorway. Smells of burning wood and sweat hung thick in the air; the smells nearly gagged him after he left the fresh, clean air. Letting the air whisk into the room, Einar heard someone yell out sharply, “Shut the door!”

  Einar quickly closed the door then wound his way through the crowded room, trying not to catch anyone’s eyes. He managed to locate an empty seat close to his friend. Knowing Saen had already noticed his entry, Einar sat and waited for her to approach. This business was her livelihood and he knew better than to disturb her while she worked.

  Just a few breaths passed before Saen placed a metal tankard on the bar before Einar. The liquid inside the container sent tracers of steam into the already-hazy air. Glancing up, Einar saw Saen standing before him, gazing with those gray eyes. They seemed to always hold joy, luring patrons back regularly just to see them, if not also to order food and drink.

  “By your look, I would think you lost a loved one,” Saen offered in a light tone. A slight smile crossed her lips as she waited for a response. Einar searched for the right words, but grief flooded his mind. He forced himself to maintain his composure. As his eyes glistened, Saen’s smile faded instantly into an apparent concerned frown. Saen’s forehead creased with worry. She moved closer, grabbed Einar’s hand, and whispered fiercely, “What is the matter?”

  Choking back tears, Einar finally uttered, “I didn’t lose one loved one, but all of them.” Now that he said it openly, the reality of the event crashed upon him. Looking into Saen’s eyes, Einar whispered, “They left because of me, Saen.”

  Einar noticed Saen’s grimace. “I’m sorry for the pain this news brings to you Saen.”

  Through gritted teeth, Saen replied, “Yes, the pain’s fresh from your words, but your grip brings even more pain.”

  Einar looked down. His hands nearly enveloped Saen’s smaller, petite hands in a white-knuckled grip. While her thin hands and arms belied a strength that had protected her several times from drunken louts who did not know when to quit, Einar’s grip pushed even beyond her limits.

  He instantly let go and began to feel her hands for broken bones. “I hurt everything around me, it seems,” Einar muttered as he examined them.

  Saen pulled her hands back and rubbed her fingers gently. “You did no permanent damage to me.” The dazzling grin returned to her lips. “You reminded me that I should not upset you. Anyway, it is nothing that a little ice and time can’t heal.”

  They stared at each other for a moment before a patron at the end of the bar yelled out, irritation plain in his tone, “Saen, are you going to stand there washing your pretty little hands or are you going to bring me my ale?”

  Turning to face the man, Saen replied, “I’ll be there shortly.” Looking back at Einar, Saen grabbed his chin and forced him to meet her eyes. “You’ll make it through this, as you do with all the other difficulties in your life.” Staring at him, Saen seemingly expected an answer. Einar nodded, barely able to move his head.

  “Good. Now drink the spiced wine. It’ll do you some good to warm up since you look nearly frozen to the bone. Then we will talk more.” Saen did not wait for a response before she walked away to help the other man. Einar brooded as he sat drinking the wine. He knew that if he dwelled upon the past day’s events then he would completely break down. He had let that happen so many times in the past that his family was no longer a refuge from his mental lapses. Letting his senses dull, he waited.

  Xavier Keltander had watched the man sitting at the bar for many years. Xavier moved only to take an occasional sip from his tankard. He could not see the man’s face to tell what thoughts ran through his mind, but Keltander’s goals lay firmly placed upon the man’s shoulders. Without the man called Einar Amakiir, Xavier Keltander could not bring his own plans to fruition, plans that he had toiled over for many years. Time had slipped glacially by over those years. Decades had faded into centuries which, in turn, washed into millennia.

  Keltander had whispered in the man’s mind for so long that failure became an impossibility. I will not fail, he thought with such conviction that the inn’s patrons closest to where he sat looked around in surprise. With wide eyes, patrons peered directly toward where he sat, but their eyes passed over him without notice.

  Xavier Keltander’s piercing blue eyes observed every action of the woman behind the bar. She paced back to Einar, reached over the bar, and grabbed his shoulder in a tender grasp. The man glanced at the woman who had said something, causing him to nod vigorously. Keltander could have heard everything as clearly as if he sat next to them, but the change the runes wrought upon his environment would attract unwanted attention. Yes, make your plans, he thought.

  “We have the children and the woman,” whispered a voice from across the small table, if broken rocks eroding in the rain could be a whisper. The voice carried hints of anger and frustration. Keltander took his eyes from the man and the woman at the bar to face the newcomer. The man across from Keltander sat with an uncanny ease as he had to be the strongest man alive. His inhuman muscles grew stronger with each passing decade. His strength always gave the man’s enemies the impression that he held no intelligence or grace, yet they had not made that mistake twice.

  Those deep-set black eyes reminded Keltander of the sharp intelligence of his companion—nearly matching the man’s strength. The man’s face, seemingly carved from stone for all its hard angles, hid the emotions belied by his voice. The face, still holding its kindly visage, held unhealed scars despite the many years that had passed since their origin. One scar spread the length of his neck came from a wound that should have killed the man, yet Keltander re
membered he saw the man just get up from the ground and strike his attacker down.

  He wore only a plain black cloak with a hood pulled back far enough for light to show his face. Strands of his shoulder-length, brown-black hair hung limply around his face. A steel-hilted sword edged up from behind his back, showing enough to remind brigands and thieves that he was not defenseless.

  Keltander turned in his seat, the chair groaning at the shifting weight, to study the man. He smiled, but the man opposite him would not see it due to his own blood-red cloak and hood shrouding his face. “Jonathon, thank you for your diligence. You have never failed me, and I knew this task would not be difficult for you.” Looking back to his quarry, Keltander continued, “Now finally, our reason for living all these years will be fulfilled. Can you wait a bit longer?”

  “I do not have much of a choice, do I?” the man named Jonathon answered. The frustration had reignited itself. “Why don’t I just kill the two where they stand? We can finish it without him and his human weaknesses,” Jonathon stated fiercely, forcing Keltander to realize that even his mountain-like patience had been worn down. The years had fractured and eroded the mountain’s wide base.

  “Do not worry, old friend. We will not fail. We cannot fail.” Keltander said the words attempting to convince Jonathon, yet to his own ears they sounded hollow. He really did not know if they would succeed, since he had realized long ago that nothing is certain.

  Keltander heard an almost-inaudible grunt come from the man across the table. The chair groaned in protest as Jonathon slightly shifted his massive bulk. Placing his left hand upon the table between them, Keltander noticed that the man’s gauntleted hand glistened in the firelight. The tinge of fresh blood coated most of the chainmail gauntlet, yet to Keltander, the man seemed not to notice or care. That has always been the man’s final solution, Keltander thought bitterly. If a plan falls through, his fists will create and finish a new plan. He did not care to recall how many times he had to clean up Jonathon’s messes.

  Shifting his focus back to Keltander, Jonathon saw where his companion’s gaze lay. Breaking the silence, he let a slight chuckle slip. It was enough for Keltander’s jaws to clench tightly as he attempted to hold his tongue. “So, where then should I take the light-spawn?” Jonathon whispered, keeping his tone neutral to stifle Keltander’s growing anger. He watched the man visibly take control of himself before exhaling in one long breath.

  Keltander’s blazing blue-eyed gaze bored into Jonathon’s black eyes with a determination so fierce that Jonathon could never hope to match. As he spoke, Keltander’s voice sounded like the drawing of a sword from its sheath. “You will take the wretches to Amant’s hold. There we will complete the task set before us thousands of years ago.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Jonathon uttered. He stood from the seat and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. He faded from Keltander’s mind as he turned back to his prey still speaking at the bar. Keltander placed his right forefinger across his lips, tapping them while deep in thought. Just the mere sight of the bared hand would be enough for anyone in this place to try and capture him.

  Will this finally be over? Keltander pondered. Can it be over?

  Einar waited at the bar until mid-morning. The bar’s patrons slowly trickled out as Sol moved farther into the sky. Only the laziest and ne’er-do-wells remained in the bar until Saen told them drink and food would be served at midday. One particularly stubborn drunkard required the end of her broom handle. Drunkards this early did not bode well. Handing the broom to today’s only server, Dellia, Saen moved to the bar to clean up. Einar stood from his barstool to help her finish her duties. I must keep my mind and body busy or I’ll collapse, he thought determinably.

  They did not speak as they cleaned. Within a few scant minutes, the bar appeared as though it had never been used except for a few deep cuts and scratches in the polished wood. The inn had a reputation for cleanliness and prompt service unmatched by any of the other inns in the small town. Its reputation had spread as far as Torent’s Gap and Molston, and in turn, its business had grown considerably over the years. While Saen worked day and night at the bar, she did not take all the credit for the inn’s success since her employees knew their duties and performed them well. If they did not, then Saen could find a replacement readily enough. Patrons were always asking if their wife, daughter, or son could get work.

  Saen finished wringing out her dirty rag and laid it on a wooden rack to dry as Einar placed the final tankard on another drying rack. She sighed contentedly, poured two glasses of ale, and brought them to a table in the middle of the room. The constant scratching of the broom filled the room as Saen sat on a squat wooden stool. When Einar looked at her, she beckoned for him to sit. She looked to see Dellia’s progress and noticed that the server had nearly completed her task.

  “Dellia, you have done enough. Take the rest of the morning off. I’ll see you at midday.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Dellia replied in surprise. Bowing her head in appreciation, she untied her nearly spotless apron and set it on a hook next to the swinging door leading to the kitchen. After placing the broom against the wall, Dellia grabbed a plain wide-brimmed straw hat hanging from another hook. After placing it on her head, she adjusted her shoulder-length black hair. She strode through the common room and departed without a second glance. The early morning’s chill remained strong as it gusted into the room when Dellia quickly open and shut the common room’s door.

  Seeing that they were now alone, Saen began, “Ah, now we can finally make our plans.”

  She took a sip from the ale while watching Einar take a seat across from her, his eyebrows angled upward in apparent shock. Despite the seriousness of the situation, she had to suppress a laugh at his bewilderment. Instead, she let a slight smile flash before taking another sip. Einar’s cheeks reddened in either anger or embarrassment; Saen could not tell which. He grabbed the handle of his glass, put it to his lips, and drank it in one long swallow.

  Gently setting the glass upon the tabletop, Einar licked his lips and stated, his incredulity exposed, “What do you mean, ‘our plans?’ This is my problem, Saen. It’s been forming for years and now I must find a solution.” He swept his hand in front of him. “Besides, you have this inn to take care of. You haven’t taken longer than one day’s break from it in many years. And that was only because you came down with the Writ. Between that illness, and me taking care of this place while you lay stricken in your bed, my family had nearly walked out then.”

  “Are you finished?” Saen asked dryly.

  Einar nodded fiercely and pulled the glass back to his lips. Eyeing the empty glass when nothing reached his mouth, he placed it back upon the table with a sour look. She continued, “Einar, everything you say is true except for taking sole ownership of this problem. You shouldn’t act as though I’m not involved in this situation. You told me this morning your family is gone, yet you pretend that I’ll just sit back and let you hunt for them without me. I’ve been there for those children throughout their entire lives.”

  “I know, I know,” replied Einar. “But you cannot expect me to put aside your livelihood to help me fix my problems, do you? I came to you only to listen to your advice, and so that someone would know where I am in case there is an emergency.” The last word came out in such an angry tone that Saen finally realized what also affected her friend’s mind.

  “Einar, I know you think that you’ve wasted your life in Durik’s Pass. You have created a family here, and while one of those family members may not love you anymore, you have three children who adore you. And you have me to help get you out of this mess.” She noticed the set look upon Einar’s face and frowned. His jaw clenched and a seemingly permanent frown etched itself upon his face. This is not going to be easy, she thought irritably.

  “Besides, I’ve been looking for an excuse to take a holiday for many years. Baolia is almost as good as me at taking care of this place. She has made it clear that if I e
ver want to sell this place, I would have a buyer.”

  “That is all fine and well, Saen, but I am not simply going out to find my estranged wife and children. I am going to possibly confront the underlings of the greatest Blighter that the world has ever seen. If the stories are true, he’s not just a Blighter—he’s something much stronger.”

  “Yes, I realize that.” She turned to face the fireplace and its still-warming heat. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I’ll not see my best friend go alone. You need someone to watch your back since you have not been particularly good at it for years.” Saen knew the words would strike deeply at Einar’s core, but she knew that there was no other way to convince him otherwise. She did not watch his face to see the effect her words had upon him.

  For several long moments, there was no movement in the room, except the gentle flickering of the fire. The smell of burning wood permeated the entire room, washing out the smell of sweat, spilled ale, and wine. The wood popped occasionally, sending sparks upward into the stone fireplace. The wood’s heat warmed Saen’s front, yet a chill crept up and down her back. Sipping at the still-warm ale, Saen waited patiently for her friend to make his decision. She knew there was nothing else to say.

  Out of the corner of her vision, Saen saw Einar push backward from the table. His chair scraped softly on the worn floor as he stood up. He stepped around the rounded edge of the small table and placed his hands upon Saen’s shoulders. Through her simple blouse, she could feel heat from his strong grip.