On one hand it was a terrible thing to say, he had spent 15 years in that wasteland for her. But it didn’t feel right to let him go back to suffer in Shillvii for a moment longer all because of a doll.
When he looked back to her there was a smile on his face. “I know we haven’t seen each other in 15 years but have you forgotten who I am?” he asked.
“You are Arrdum and you always keep your promises,” she said as if speaking from a dream, remembering the taste of those words in her mouth. As a child she had said similar words to so many, often defending Arrdum’s actions, putting himself in all sorts of danger just so he could keep whatever promise he made.
“I can’t ask you to keep that promise Arrdum,” Elheria said as softly. She had seen him leave once before, assuming he had fled because of the dragon, she had been right about that but not because of the reason she had always thought. She thought about Herial’s father, the man who claimed to have once loved her. The man who had fled this city under his own selfish desires. Now a man was standing before her, a man that had left the city for completely selfless reasons.
“You never asked Elheria,” Arrdum said, his smile widening. “I was the one to make that promise and I intend to keep it.”
In that moment he sounded exactly like the child from her memory, the brave boy who always kept his word.
“It doesn’t matter if you promise someone to cook them dinner or promise to conquer a kingdom, a promise is a promise.”
She remembered these words so very well, the same words Arrdum had used in so many of her childhood memories. She knew that it was pointless to say anything but, “Goodbye Arrdum, I hope that we will see each other again.”
He waited until she smiled back before he said, “I promise we will.”
He could see the sadness in her eyes, he understood it as well, there was a part of him that would’ve loved to stay within the city. But he knew he wouldn’t find the doll here and so he walked through the hole, back into the slicing wind of Shillvii. He had a Mull Man to find.
THE END.
ESSENCES by Jim Lee
Orem spun round at the warning shout. He tossed what he had been holding aside, instinctively freeing his hand and reaching for his sword. It flashed out just in time to deflect the first thrust. His wrist swung in anticipation, blocking a second lunge.
The attacker wore a dark brown burnoose, making him almost invisible in the murky alleyway. But the man’s eyes gleamed with desperate courage and something in them told Orem to be ready for the sweeping arc designed to take his head off with a flourish.
Orem blocked this blow easily and immediately countered with a short, economical slash. It was not artful, but it proved effective and the attacker yelped.
The grey-clad would-be killer jumped sideways, dropped his sword and clawed in vague surprise at his suddenly gaping neck. He fell in the gutter with a sickening gurgle. It took him three full minutes to bleed out.
But Orem did not pause for even three seconds to consider his work. Instead, he completed a spin on the balls of one leather-wrapped foot. His sword was poised in front of and across his chest, ready for the next attacker to dive at him from the darkness.
There was a second warrior, also in a brown burnoose and no more than fifteen seconds behind his partner. His opening lunge was hesitant, reflecting his astonishment at Orem’s quick moves. Oren deflected the blow, suffering a minor cut above the wrist but giving his opponent the same in return.
The grey-clad man backed a step then broke and ran.
Orem did not pursue. Di’Sun was not his city. Its twisted, narrow, unfamiliar avenues would give a fleeing native the advantage—and very possibly encourage ambush.
He shook his head, peered at several figures dimly illuminated at the alley’s lip by light from the nearby tavern’s open door and windows. Some of the place’s patrons had stopped to witness the attack, but only one had called out in warning.
“Who do I owe a mug of ale?” Orem asked, cleaning his sword with a handy rag. When no one spoke up, h frowned and glanced about him in the murk. One of the city’s half-wild dogs had already claimed his hard-cooked egg, but the salt packet was worth retrieving if still intact. It was, and Orem warded off the dogs with the side of the foot then stood upon the packet to be sure they respected his claim.
Yipping as if offended, the ill-kept mongrels slunk around to lick the dead man’s blood from the gutter.
Orem watched the onlookers begin to drift away, most returning to the tavern. Not one claimed the offered reward.
“Yes,” he told himself. “No doubting it. I’m in the right city—on the right trail, at last!”
Now only one figure remained at the alley’s fringe, half-in and half-out of view. Orem frowned, recognizing him without wanting to—and feeling the bond, the innate mental connection. Was it possible that this so-familiar stranger felt it too?
“Minstrel,” Orem called out.
The man took a step backward, but halted when Orem raised his hand.
“You helped me when others would not.”
“I only called out by reflex,” the man answered. His voice was totally different, his accent that of native Di’Sunni. Yet the cadences and emotional undertones, the very essences of how he spoke and thought and expressed himself—these were just what Orem would’ve expected.
“More than others did,” he pointed out, sheathing his weapon. He turned to the lifelessness sprawled beside him. “Could you bring me a lamp?”
The minstrel hesitated, and Orem nodded understanding. His attackers served a master strong enough to cause normal folk to quiver fearfully. He understood that: Like his native Paenelle, Di’Sun was a City of the Magic Sciences.
But at last the minstrel stepped into the tavern and emerged with a glowing oil lamp. He came down the alley slowly, his face pinched.
It was a new face—but one drawn tight in the same way when facing potential danger.
Orem ached inside, made himself busy turning over and examining the corpse. The clothing beneath the hooded cloak was stitched in a distinctive manner, multi-colored symbols positioned at key points. “The soldier of a High Wizard,” he muttered. “Which one?”
The minstrel, known as Boyce, closed his eyes and took a breath. “I cannot say.”
Orem bit back a curse. “You are from here. Surely you know each High Wizard’s pattern by heart. Or do you mean it to be of foreign origin? A High Wizard of another city?”
He knew full well this was not the case. But it was a ploy to test this so-familiar stranger and perhaps gain fresh insight into the coming confrontation.
Boyce frowned. “I feel conflicting loyalties,’ he admitted. “Yet I cannot understand why! You are a stranger to me. I don’t even know where you’re from. Though your accent and foot-wrappings—oh, yes. You are of Paenelle—to the north?”
“Correct.” Orem could not withhold his smile. He offered Boyce his name then the light press of his fingertips to the minstrel’s forehead.
Boyce responded in kind then frowned once more.
“We are strangers, indeed. Yet I feel drawn to you. In the tavern, when you watched me play. And when you departed, I felt the urge to follow. And then—”
“You had to give warning?”
Boyce nodded. “Like a compulsion. Are you a sorcerer yourself, Orem? Or do you have one in your employ?”
Orem snorted. “No to the first; to the second, yes and no.” He gestured when the minstrel rocked back, ready to withdraw. “That’s not what draws you to me, though—nor I to you. I bought a certain Wise Woman’s help before leaving Paenelle, it’s true. But only to protect me against dark magics.”
“Then what is this bond I feel? It cannot be quite natural.”
Orem pursed his lips. “You speak of conflicting loyalty. You are more than fearful. You are indebted to a certain High Wizard in some way?”
Boyce straightened his back, swallowed slowly. “I am not free to discuss it.”
&
nbsp; Orem thought about how like Drov he was—and why not? They were two different men, with different memories and lives. But now, the soul of one—the very essence of him!—was encased in the other.
“You were ill,” Orem stated more calmly than he would’ve predicted. “Seriously so. About three months ago, yes?”
Boyce stared at him, made no reply.
‘You were in the sleep that never ends?” Orem persisted. “Your soul was missing, huh? It had wandered in your sleeping dreams, the way all souls do. But it met with some misfortune and could not return. Admit it, Boyce—admit it!”
“Yes,” Boyce whispered. “Yes, that’s true. I would’ve died—”
“But you did not.” Orem took the minstrel’s chin in his cupped hand, shook the tears away. “Someone—your family, perhaps?—brought in a High Wizard. This sorcerer set a magical snare, trapped a new soul. A compatible one. Not yours, but not so different. And this High Wizard took this wandering soul and gave it to you?”
“For a price,” Boyce murmured. “And such a price! My family—we were wealthy merchants. It took all our savings, all our resources. But it saved me.”
“So now you work as a minstrel in a tavern.”
“It seemed worth it. It is worth it to live! But you—”
Orem let his hand drop from the minstrel’s chin. “He was my brother. He faded as you would have. Nine days and nights unwaking, without his soul—then he died.”
Boyce trembled. “They say I’ve changed. Natural, I suppose, with a new soul inside me. But my parents—they merely loved me enough to save me. And my life—I am sorry for your loss, Orem! But I want to live, as I am.”
Orem nodded. “You shall, Boyce. I thought perhaps I’d kill you, too—or at least your family. But I cannot. You—you are too much like him, too much of him! But this high Wizard is another matter.”
“Revenge.” Boyce touched Orem’s elbow. “It is not something I would wish my brother to pursue, if I had one.”
Their eyes met.
“This is justice,” Orem said. “A crime has been done. More than property, Boyce—a man’s inner essence has been stolen, his life ended! Such an offense must be punished.”
Boyce swallowed hard then drew himself rigid once more. “The High Wizard is known as Rand. I will show you his Great House. But—your Wise Woman’s magic had better be quite potent. He is protected by many soldiers and his powers put him almost above the Law.”
“Even the Law of other sorcerers,” Orem muttered. “Yes, my Wise Woman warned me that might be true. Or else he would never feel free to employ such dark power!”
“Come,” Boyce said slowly.
Orem shook his head. “I must go to my room first. I have something to confound Rand’s powers and disable his guards without doing them lasting harm. If possible, I shall spill only one more man’s blood tonight—the criminal who dares call himself a High Wizard!”
Boyce grinned, embarrassed and conflicted, but also admiring the other man’s courage.
They passed the tavern and walked two blocks to a shabby inn. Orem’s room was on the second floor.
Boyce stared at the array of charms that dangled from the four corner-points of the straw pallet and at the rectangle of candles arranged beyond.
“The charms keep my soul from going far in my sleep,” Orem explained. “I wasn’t about to risk him sensing my purpose somehow and doing what he did to Drov.”
“And the candles?”
“Very special. They fog men’s minds and scramble complex magics almost as effectively as an Eastlander’s Sacred Talisman.”
“Alder Catkins,” Boyce whispered the mild oath without shame. “You left these candles burning, as you slept on a straw bed?”
Orem nodded. “A risk, yes. But worth it, should I succeed.”
“I owe this man,” Boyce pointed out. “And know his powers well enough to fear him, too.”
“I don’t expect you to do more than point me in the right direction.” Orem gathered up the longest of the candles and his fire-starting flint.
“Not my point,” Boyce stepped into Orem’s path, met his gaze straight-on. “I could betray you. Easily.”
Orem sighed. “I feel the soul-bond, same as you do. I believe and trust you.”
Boyce shrugged, let Orem to the southeast quarter of Di’Sun, to a huge Great House surrounded by jagged walls and a garden such as only wizardry could maintain on the very fringe of the Howling Desert.
“He knows you’re coming,” Boyce remarked.
I must’ve been too indiscreet in my earlier inquiries. Or else my magical precautions caught his notice and he put it together that way.”
Orem knelt with his flint, drew a spark and nursed the candle’s flame. “Stay back,” he warned. “I’ve been rendered immune to its effects, but your wits would be scrambled for some hours, if—”
With matching shouts, three swordsmen in dark brown burnooses jumped from the shadows. Their swords were drawn.
Fighting one-handed, Orem held off two until the wispy smoke reached them. They sniffed the sweet scent involuntarily and stumbled backward. Blinking and unsteady, they dropped their weapons and began stumbling about.
Boyce had neither a magic candle nor a sword. But he had had a dagger hidden somewhere, it seemed. Orem turned to him, saw the third man dead and Boyce bleeding only mildly from a pair of superficial wounds.
They embraced then touched fingertips to foreheads.
“Even if you cripple his guards and magic,’ Boyce warned before the candle fumes left him senseless, “Rand is dangerous. He knows the sword, perhaps as well as you!”
Orem nodded, started to urge Boyce to bind his wounds. But then the man’s eyes clouded and Orem knew it was no use to say more. The injuries were quite minor, in any case, so Orem left him outside the Great House’s gateway.
Eight more of Rand’s sword-wielding soldiers met him—another trio just inside the gate, two pairs at various points in the garden and a solitary guard outside Rand’s bed chamber. All ended their night in a stupor, shambling blindly about.
For his trouble, Orem found himself bleeding from a dozen minor wounds. He was still able to fight, but his left arm was so weakened he could barely hold the flickering candle.
He pushed into the room nonetheless and found the High Wizard naked on a vast mound of luxuriant silk pillows. He was in the company of three lovely courtesans, also nude.
The women retreated to a distant corner in fright, but Rand smirked as if unsurprised. He reached into the mass of silk to draw out a long and slightly curved sword. The wizard paused, careless of his nudity but gesturing in the air. He spoke strange words as he gained his feet and Orem recognized them.
Rand had used the moment to give himself the same immunity to the candle smoke that the Wise Woman had imparted on Orem. The sorcerer brandished his fine weapon and inched closer.
“You could’ve made your men proof against the smoke,” Orem said, eyes narrowed as he found a safe place to site the candle holder.
“I thought it would be more amusing to see how far you got with that advantage,” the High Wizard replied. “I’ve been waiting just for you. Or did you think those sluts enough to hold my interest this late into the evening?”
Orem’s eyes narrowed again. He had occasionally enjoyed the attentions of Paenelle’s courtesans when he was between lovers and found them as a class far more worthy of respect than the powerful criminal now before him. He said as much then added a gallant nod in the unclothed women’s direction.
“Do it,” Rand taunted.
Orem bit his lower lip then lunged forward in measured attack.
Rand parried and struck back like a master. Blow followed blow and the well-rested sorcerer inflicted more small wounds on Orem than the reverse. The faint sweetness of the magic candle’s smoke took a while to waft through the vast bed chamber, but upon reaching the courtesans they were reduced to a giggling pile of flesh in their distant corner.
The men fought on, until Rand backed his tiring opponent into the pile of pillows. Orem fell backward and the High Wizard lunged to finish it.
Oren turned aside, taking a deep slice along his side. Desperation sent him sprawling, sliding across the polished tile of the floor. A bloody trail marked his passage.
Impatient and angry, the Wizard rushed him again.
At the last instant, Orem seized the sputtering candle. Its magic wick was all but exhausted and the fumes were of no use beyond limiting Rand to the sword.
But the candleholder was moderately heavy metal. Thrown hard against the charging man’s face, it put Rand’s thrust just off target enough to let Orem spring free with yet another minor wound.
The young man clamped both fists around Rand’s extended arm and wrenched the sorcerer’s wrist sideways. Orem doubled his enemy over, used Rand’s momentum and the last of his own strength to force the High Wizard forward, impaling the man on his own blade.
Orem stayed conscious long enough to watch his brother’s killer die. Then he slumped into what he thought might be his own never-ending sleep. His soul wandered and for the first time in three months he dreamed with complete, unguarded freedom.
He was pleasantly surprised to wake the following afternoon atop his straw pallet with a lovely young woman bent over him. Boyce was in the background, two other women nestled against his sides and a smile on his face. Orem recognized the three courtesans almost immediately.
“Ah, Boyce said. “So you shall live, after all?”
“Very possibly.” Orem gestured greetings for all. “But what of the Wizard’s Council? How much trouble am I in?”
“For killing one of their own, you mean?” Boyce stroked a soft, provocatively bared arm. “In brief, none. Once I pointed out the scandal that would result if Rand’s illegal actions became widely known, they grew quite reasonable. Officially, High Wizard Rand has died of Misadventure of His Own Cause. Or I think that’s what they’re calling it. My family will even get its property back, since it was extorted from them by way of a forbidden form of magic.”
9 Tales From Elsewhere 6 Page 10
