The Adventurers Guild

by Zack Loran Clark

  Frond kept the same quick pace the whole way, never once looking back at the three apprentices. Eventually, even the houses disappeared from the street, replaced by a steep climb to the castle itself. Then, before Zed knew it, the palace gate stood before them.

  It was a monstrous, gorgeous thing. Golden as the sun and reeking of magical protections, it towered over even the strapping knights who stood sentry out front. The two Stone Sons remained perfectly still until Frond was just before the gate. Then one held out a plate-gloved hand.

  The guildmistress stopped.

  “State your name,” one of the knights demanded, as Zed and the others caught up.

  Frond grinned her lewdest grin yet at the man. Then she hawked and spat onto the ground.

  An uncomfortable moment of silence followed. Apparently that was the only answer the knight was getting.

  An exasperated noise echoed from within the helmet of the second guard. “Just let her through. Oy, Rafi!” he called up at the parapet beside the gate, where the face of a young squire was watching from above. The boy disappeared over the ledge.

  A few moments later, the gate began to rattle and creak.

  Frond waited until the bars had parted wide enough for one, then swept forward into the palace grounds. Zed and the others followed awkwardly, slipping through the gate one at a time.

  “Poor scuds,” Zed heard one of the knights mutter on their way past.

  “The girl’s a noble, no less…” the other replied.

  Zed’s ears burned as they hurried after their guildmistress.

  The palace grounds were lovely. Flowering bushes framed the entire enormous estate in spectacular colors, and a few large trees even dotted the yard, a rare sight outside the timber lots. Members of the Knights Guild patrolled the grounds. Their metal armor gleamed in the midday light, making them look every bit the radiant warriors from the romantic tales.

  Zed took in as much of the view as he could, but Frond continued without pause. Soon they arrived at the door to the palace, where a trim young man in a fine uniform stood waiting for them.

  “Welcome, Guildmistress Frond.” The young man fell into a deep bow. Zed had never seen anyone treat the Basilisk with such courtesy. Frond scowled impatiently at him.

  “His Majesty is waiting for you in the council room,” he continued. He turned to Zed and the others. “My name is Peter Magniole. I’m his majesty’s seneschal.”

  “It’s good to see you, Peter,” Liza said with a small smile.

  “And you, Messere Guerra. I’m…glad to see that you’re in good health.”

  “Enough,” Frond grunted.

  Peter paused a moment, then cleared his throat. “Please follow me.” He opened the palace door and motioned them inside.

  “It’s so good to see you, Peter,” Brock whispered sourly.

  Zed restrained a chuckle. Then, as he passed through the doors, he gasped aloud.

  The inside of the palace was the most beautiful place Zed had ever laid eyes on. Rivers of multicolored light poured from stained glass in the ceiling. Statues of the Four Champions lined the great hall, each more exquisitely detailed than the last—and certainly more so than the ones in the market.

  At the far end of the room a single throne loomed before a great, wide window, illuminated from behind. Zed realized that any who addressed the king there would have a hard time staring directly at him, which was perhaps the point of the design.

  Zed had never felt so out of place before, even among the rank and rowdy adventurers. His clothes were plain, if not ragged. He’d barely had time to scrub his face before they’d headed out, and his hair was still a mess from the previous night. He felt like a living blemish scurrying across the pristine hall.

  Frond looked even stranger. Her dark leathers were scuffed and scalded, but the many weapons she wore appeared sharp and pristine. And her scars…

  Zed had almost become used to them in the past day. But here in the palace, surrounded by such unmarred beauty, each puckered blemish seemed especially red and vivid.

  Peter led them down the hall to a clean white door. He opened it and stood aside, motioning for them to enter. “The king’s council is very eager to speak with you,” he said.

  Frond hesitated for the briefest of moments, tapping her fingers against the points of her throwing stars. Was she steeling herself?

  Then she stepped inside.

  “Something tells me I’m going to enjoy this,” Brock whispered as they followed her in.

  Compared to the palace entrance hall, the council chamber was more subdued. Which made it only the second most opulent room that Zed had ever been inside.

  A thick slab of a table took up most of the space. It looked as if it had been cut from a single gigantic piece of wood, but the idea of a tree that large made Zed’s head spin.

  Unlike the painted plaster in the receiving hall, the walls of this room were all stone brick, giving the chamber an austere and chilly atmosphere. Curtains decorated in rich brown brocades were pulled closed over a dozen windows. The main sources of light were torch lamps and an enormous metal chandelier that hung over the table. The entrance hall was all splendid grandeur, but this was clearly a place of serious business.

  To underscore that point, the five most important figures in Freestone all sat together at the far end of the table, staring directly at Zed and the others as they entered.

  Frond led the way in, then paused at the foot of the table. Closest to her (which was not close at all) were the Luminous Mother Brenner and Lord Borace Quilby. Beyond them, Ser Castor Brent sat at the right hand of the king, and Archmagus Dafonil Grima at his left.

  His Royal Majesty, King Gariland Freestone himself, waited at the table’s apex. His chair was raised a full head above the others. As the king of Freestone, he was the de facto guildmaster of the Stewards Guild, though he didn’t usually participate in public life as such.

  Zed had only ever seen the king twice in person, when the children of his younger sister, the princess, went through their Guildcullings. Those years had been especially nervous ceremonies, with stiff pronouncements and muted applause.

  This was by far the closest Zed had ever come to him—and frankly, it was the closest he ever wanted to come. His face was all sharp edges, including the grimace he now directed at Frond. Zed could see what Liza had meant about the king being stern. Even his crown was a severe loop of heavy-looking metal.

  “Alabasel,” King Freestone said.

  “Your Majesty,” Frond returned. Zed couldn’t see her expression. “I hear you have some questions.”

  The king chuckled. It was not a cheery sound. “I hardly know where to begin. Perhaps I’ll start with the least disquieting of the things I’ve heard, and work my way up from there. One of your apprentices was attacked during his initiation into your guild. Is this true?”

  Frond shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “It is,” she said. Zed ground his teeth to hear her speak so brusquely about Jett’s injury.

  “I am aware that the members of your guild undertake great dangers for the sake of our city, Guildmistress,” the king said slowly. “But surely even you can agree that mangling apprentices on their very first day is a troubling practice.”

  “More than troubling,” Ser Brent spoke up, his voice a growl. “Unconscionable.”

  “And imagine the outcry if it had been the young Messere Guerra,” Lord Quilby added. “Instead of a dwarfson.”

  Zed bristled at the insinuation. He glanced at Liza, whose eyes were narrowed on Quilby.

  “It’s an affront to chivalry that we allowed her recruitment at all,” Brent said. “The battlefield is no place for a gir—”

  King Freestone raised his right hand and the knight immediately cut off.

  “Alabasel,” the king said. “Perhaps you would like to comment on this sad accident.”

  Frond nodded. “The initiation was the same as it’s always been. The apprentices were watched by the guil
d, with bows ready to fire if needed, which they weren’t. The apprentices handled themselves well, and that night were positioned inside the wards when the beast attacked. They…should have been safe.”

  “On that much we can agree,” the king said icily. “I’d like to hear from the brave apprentices who witnessed the attack on their friend.” Freestone’s gaze turned from Frond to Zed and the others. “Perhaps you have something you’d like to share.”

  Zed’s ears grew hot. His face grew hot. Oh, no. They were expected to talk? What should he say? Should he speak now? Why were the guildmasters all staring at them?

  “Your Majesty,” Brock said. He moved forward fluidly, until he was standing right beside Frond. “We have only our gratitude. Without the help of the Luminous Mother and her healers, Jett likely would not have survived.”

  Zed noticed a flutter of movement from the far corner. When he caught sight of the source, he fought to contain his surprise. There was another person in the room! A woman dressed in the gray smock of the Servants Guild stood away from the rest, listening silently from her nook and tapping a finger to her nose. Had she always been there?

  The woman watched Brock with a blank expression, but made no effort to hide that she was staring. Zed’s mother would never have been so brazen. Were all the palace servants this impudent? Everyone else in the room ignored her.

  “It’s Brother Pollux who deserves the credit,” Mother Brenner replied humbly. “He did everything he could for that boy. I’ve never seen a monk pour so much of himself into a healing.”

  “Please offer him our thanks,” Brock said. “I only wish that the Golden Way had been able to intercede sooner. Perhaps Jett…” He let the thought float there.

  Frond was silent, but Zed could read the tension in her body. She didn’t like the direction this was heading.

  The king made a thoughtful noise. “Alabasel, why didn’t you call on the healers earlier?”

  The guildmistress clenched her fists. “We had a physician working on him, Your Majesty,” she said. “Our own guild is very familiar with the toxins of the Dangers. I…thank the Mother for her help, but I do not believe the result would have been different were the Golden Way not summoned.”

  Mother Brenner stiffened at this slight. If the table hadn’t already been against Frond, it certainly was now.

  “And yet you did call them,” the king said.

  Frond nodded. “I wanted to give my apprentice every chance.”

  The king turned his attention to Brock. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us, Messere…”

  “Brock Dunderfel,” Lord Quilby answered for him, his eyes beaming with pride. The guildmaster of merchants licked his lips, then sighed woefully. “He was our first choice of apprentices this year. He gallantly volunteered for the Adventurers Guild when his young friend here was drafted from the mages.”

  “A brave and selfless act,” the king said. “Those who risk their lives for the people of this city are truly the paragons of Freestone.” The king’s eyes fell once again on Frond. “I will try to remember that.”

  Frond was losing her patience. She bent into a churlish curtsy.

  Brock took his former place beside Zed, looking as meek and demure as he was likely feeling satisfied.

  “I suppose that leads us into what is unfortunately the more crucial issue,” King Freestone began. “The city’s wards have been punctured. I would know how, and how to fix them—before some enterprising monster slithers past Frond a second time.”

  Frond moved to speak, but the king raised his hand and brought her up short. “I believe we’ve heard enough from you for the moment,” he said. “I am hoping the archmagus can shed some light on this very pressing problem.”

  Even from behind her, Zed could tell that Frond was scowling. Then, to his horror, she hawked up a wad of spit, and turned her head to the side to—

  “Don’t. You. Dare.” The king’s eyes burned with fury. The assembled guildmasters all watched Frond with varying levels of shock and disgust.

  Frond was totally still. The room was totally still. Then she swallowed the wad with a single noisy gulp.

  King Freestone watched her a moment longer. Slowly, drawing on his composure, he turned to Grima. “Archmagus, please tell me you can end this council before anything drastic happens.”

  “I certainly hope so, Your Majesty,” the wizard said. Of all the assembled guildmasters, the archmagus had yet to contribute. Considering the wards were the purview of the mages, Zed expected her to be a bit more nervous. But she was as aloof and composed as he’d ever seen her.

  “From what I have heard,” she said, “the Danger that attacked the city used a natural ability to dispel magic. Normally, the wards would be far too strong for something like that to work, but my mages have discovered something troubling. Our focus is degrading.”

  The adults at the table looked as if Grima had just spilled ambrosia on the king. Lord Quilby actually recoiled.

  “Excuse me, Archmagus…” Liza asked. “What do you mean by our focus?”

  Grima glanced patiently at Liza and the others. Zed felt a thrill when their eyes briefly met. “The wards to our city are created through the use of a focus for the spell. We maintain them by regularly adding our own magic to it. Normally, the focus should last for thousands of years without issue. But ours is weakening. No matter how much mana we add to it, the gem can’t seem to contain it. If it becomes completely exhausted, the wards will expire.”

  The room was silent as the gravity of this statement sunk in.

  Before the others could respond, Archmagus Grima held up a calming hand. “There is good news, however,” she said. “My researchers have been poring over the problem, and discovered in an ancient text that there may be another suitable focus near the city.” She laid her hands on the table. “Southeast of Freestone there was once a shrine inhabited by a sect of benign druids—nature priests. The druids are long extinct, but we believe that they had a focus similar to ours for their rituals…a large crystal. It may have survived.”

  “Do you know where this shrine is?” King Freestone asked.

  The archmagus nodded. “We even found a map. The Scribes Guild will have a copy produced by sundown.”

  The king nodded approvingly. “I’m disappointed it took this tragedy for you to discover the weakness in the wards, Grima,” he said. “But I appreciate your quick response.”

  “I cannot apologize enough,” Grima said contritely. “Frond…is correct. Her apprentices should have been safe.”

  The king thought on this for a moment. He turned to Frond.

  “Then there is a chance yet here to make things right. Or as right as they can be. Alabasel, I assume you can handle an expedition to this shrine.”

  Frond was silent a moment, her fingertips racing across the points of her stars like a minstrel playing a lute. Then she seemed to catch herself, and curled her hand into a fist. “Your Majesty, may we speak privately for a moment?”

  King Freestone watched her stonily. “You can say what you must here.”

  Frond looked around the room, then nodded. “I believe…something is happening here that we aren’t seeing. Something malign.”

  The king let out a long sigh, which was echoed by the other guildmasters. Frond stood up straighter and narrowed her eyes.

  “I’ve no patience for your paranoia today, Frond,” the king said. “Perhaps it would have been better served protecting your apprentices. Don’t speak of this again. Now go, collect this focus and return to us when you have it. No more secrets. No more hesitations. And I trust you can do this without injuring any more children?”

  Frond answered the king with a single nod, perhaps not trusting herself to speak further. Then she turned on her heel and brushed past Zed, Brock, and Liza, out of the room.

  Her expression was furious.

  Brock was somber and silent on the walk back from the palace. He doubted whether anyone found that unusual, since he certa
inly had enough reason to sulk. As he and Zed and Liza hurried along in Frond’s wake, the townspeople they passed gave them a wide berth, and though it was Frond’s ruined face that caught their eyes, it was a reminder to each of the new adventurers that they were outsiders now.

  But beyond that, Brock’s mind was fixated on the servant woman in the council chamber. She had remained silent, but when she saw him watching her, she had repeated Quilby’s gesture from days ago, tapping her nose as she smiled a small coy smile. It had made his skin crawl, and when he’d looked around at the others, he’d seen no indication that anyone else found her presence unusual.

  He would have to sneak away today. The lower level of the guildhall was lined with locked doors, behind which could be any number of secrets juicy enough to satisfy Quilby. Once Frond had no more skeletons in her closet, Brock would have no further use as a spy.

  He just hoped there weren’t any actual skeletons behind those doors.…

  But Brock’s plans for the day were dashed when Lotte met them at the front door. She registered Frond’s mood, stood well out of the guildmistress’s way, and then pulled Brock and Zed aside.

  “It’s Jett,” she told them. “He’s awake, and he’s asking for you.”

  Jett had been moved to his own bedroom, identical to the tiny room Brock had been given, but darker. The candles were all extinguished, and heavy curtains blocked out the sun. Brock thought their friend must be sleeping again already, and to his shame he felt some momentary relief at the idea that they’d have to delay their visit.

  He was all twisted up inside. Guilt and gratitude and pity churned together in his stomach, leaving him sour and miserable. He was supposed to be good at this sort of thing—his bravado and bluster allowed him to barrel through any situation, however awkward or scary or odd.

  But now he stood frozen in the doorway. He kept second-guessing what he should say, how he should act. Was it better to put on a happy face, to tell jokes as if nothing had changed? Or would that be tactless, belittling to Jett and whatever he was going through?