by Damien Lake
“Sorry, old boy,” Dietrik directed at Hilliard this time. “But safety first, after all. Besides, if we stop at all those soirees your peers keep inviting you to, we’ll fail to get back to the inn before dawn. And you need to be at your best tomorrow.”
Hilliard refrained from response. Instead he only shifted so he faced firmly toward the raised patio. Marik decided that was the closest to an agreement they would likely get. With nothing else to do, he mulled with Dietrik the security precautions they would need to engage during the trip back to the inn.
Kerwin, eyes alight, closely studied the other nearby participants and speculated on their abilities. He struck up a conversation with a personal guard for contender one-hundred-eighty in front of them and soon learned most of their names. During the torturously slow advance to the patio he gleefully compared his observations with the Swan’s Down’s listed odds on each fighter, every one of which he had, incredibly, memorized. Landon joined him in his speculations, but only with an air of polite interest.
It was not the first day of summer for no reason, Marik bitterly reflected. Dressed in full mail with his corded sword slung across his back, the midday sun bore down on him with an anvil’s weight. He would pay a month’s wages for a sliver of shade. The line held him prisoner along with Hilliard, who took no note of the heat as far as Marik could tell. Three marks of brutal sun finally dampened Kerwin’s enthusiastic rewriting of the odds.
When they were thirty-seven contenders from the patio, Marik recognized Sloan’s narrow profile ascending the steps. That must mean…yes. Eberhard led the way, a quick glimpse of whom Marik barely snatched before they passed behind the living wall. From the fast glance he had, though, he understood quite a lot. They walked together, yet the pompous noble had put as much space between himself and Sloan as he could. At a guess their journey had failed to foster a bond of love and friendship between them. Edwin brought up the rear, his bow strung, encircling his body. The string cut across his back, the bow curving diagonally around his front. It was a ceremonial way to carry the weapon in the presence of the king, same as the binding cords around all the swords present.
Two minutes later, Valerian ascended the steps, accompanied by Kineta. She was all business, as usual, and the few moments of observation lent Marik no insights on that particular front.
Finally, after another mark, the one-eighty-one group climbed the patio steps. As they passed Marik noted four separate royalguards checking with their eyes that the cords on their weapons were in fact tightly bound. With nothing now obstructing the view, Marik could at last see the people standing around the thrones. There was the seneschal, of course, as well as the ruling couple. The broad man with gray hair in a military uniform and fifty pounds in rank insignia over his chest must be the knight-marshal. Though Marik had ridden under his command, Marik only ever had a single glimpse of the man before.
Other faces were familiar, each a person Marik had seen briefly in Tollaf’s mirror during the frenzied rush to organize a war. One face in particular stood out from the others. He struggled to understand why.
As they approached the king, Marik studied her intently, ignoring the royal pair. He placed the memory after several long steps. She wore a simple skirt today, and a silk shirt with a high collar nuzzling her graying hair. In his memory she wore different garb. Then, she had worn a heavy cotton tunic and an embroidered vest with riding leathers. Her name finally surfaced from the murky sludge of his memory. Celerity. One of King Raymond’s court mages.
She, as did everyone else, let her eyes wander over the five men in the new group. Despite the conformity, Marik felt certain her eyes rested on him longer than on Hilliard or the other mercenaries. A disquieting tingle ran through his spine.
Hilliard knelt without direction. His knee came to rest on a small square pillow that seemed the worse for wear after one-hundred-eighty previous knees had squashed it against the gray stone. Arranged in a line behind the first were six others. The four mercenaries each knelt as well, leaving the two outside pillows empty.
“To defend Galemar’s people, to stand in the light,” King Raymond recited to Hilliard while Marik watched Celerity from the corner of his vision. “To uphold the justice of your king with your strength, both physical and moral. To protect Galemar’s innocent where others would falter. This is the duty demanded of the Arm of Galemar. Do you stand ready to wield the Arm?”
“Yes, your majesty. I stand ready to serve my king and homeland, at whatever cost is demanded of me,” Hilliard replied in a tone usually reserved for those experiencing religious ecstasy. It drew Marik’s attention back to the king, where he noticed what he had missed in his preoccupation with Celerity.
Between the two thrones stood a low stone block placed there to hold drinks or snacks. Today it held a long glass case that contained what must be the very thing itself. The Arm.
At the far end, the case had been propped so it rested on an upward angle. Clearly visible from their kneeling positions, the sword stole Marik’s breath. Hilliard, he knew, was in purest joy over the prospect of becoming the ultimate servant of justice. Marik briefly thought that if the tournament were still open to the common citizens, he might enter only for the chance of winning the right to wield this sword.
Exquisite, captivating, yet simple at the same time. It was clearly a ‘working sword’, devoid of such elaborate dressings as a jewel-encrusted hilt or scenic etchings. Leather wrapped, the hilt had been molded to the hand, with dips in the surface to allow fingers a firmer grip. All three points on the T-guard ended with a forest green metallic sphere that possessed a fragile quality, but which Marik suspected were actually hard as the blade’s steel.
As for the blade… Four feet of liquid silver. Water-reflected moonlight somehow captured and made solid. A single etched symbol, probably the swordsmith’s mark, graced the blade five inches from the hilt. Double edged, mere description failed to impart the difference between this blade and his own. The technical details might be similar, except the two were as different as ducks from chickens.
From long ago, Maddock’s words on the road to Kingshome surfaced in his mind. The master swords are on a higher level still. They are produced by the truly skilled swordsmiths, and are only created on demand for those who can afford them. Usually only a noble will ever bear a master blade. They take long to create and are exceptional weapons.
Exceptional weapons. This, if ever any sword had, deserved such a description. Every inch testified to its creator’s talent. The edge, surely no sharper than his own blade’s, looked as if it were. In a talented fighter’s hands, the sword named Arm of Galemar could be a force unto the natural world.
“Yes, your majesty. I stand ready to defend all the people of Galemar,” Hilliard replied to a question the queen had asked him. Marik had been so taken with the sword he never heard her speak.
“Rise, then, and take your place among your brothers. May you all ride together, as one, should darkness ever descend upon our home.”
Her lilting voice finished the statement as she took a cloth band from her attendant. Waist-length brown hair rippled like a flowing stream, threatening to spill forward over her shoulders from her movement. Long practice steadied it, allowing her to manage her mane without drawing attention to the fact she needed to.
Hilliard rose with his left arm already cocked. Queen Ulecia wrapped the green band around his upper arm. She tied it quickly by the twin cords dangling from each end. The green band displayed a large black number stitched into it, one-eight-one, bordered in gold thread.
“We wish you luck and thank you for your service,” she finished.
The mercenaries stood while Hilliard bowed, then turned to exit. Marik cast one last glance back at the sword. He caught Celerity in his peripheral. She definitely looked at him.
So what? You were looking at her and she probably noticed. You stare back at people staring at you, don’t you? And she has met you before, if only in passing. She’s proba
bly trying to remember why you seem familiar.
Probably. Marik pushed the extraneous thoughts from his mind. Hilliard joined the crowd of Thoenar’s upper classes. A scattering of nobles persisted in watching the king and queen. Most had formed into subgroups, each chattering away, putting birds in springtime to shame.
Marik found it interesting in a peculiar way. From across the lawn these people had appeared to be a large crowd. Up close, the illusion fell apart when he noticed it was hundreds of small groups clustered together, never quite mixing into a whole.
The moment Hilliard entered the fray, a few broke off from their separate clusters and surrounded the young noble like a bizarre flower that bloomed in reverse. Most were other young men who were either too young to enter or too dainty to survive long. One, with more lace than actual clothing by first impressions, kept exclaiming over Hilliard’s armband while holding a silk handkerchief to his mouth. Marik doubted whether the rapier at his side had ever been drawn since leaving the shop. It possessed the distinct feel of costume, only donned since the tournament for the Arm of Galemar would be an event where everyone wore a weapon.
Hilliard drifted from group to group, his bodyguards trailing behind. They stopped a servant long enough to claim cups from the tray she carried. Unfortunately, hard-punch or wine were the only drink available. If Marik drank enough to quench the thirst that had built during the long wait under the blazing sun, he would be out cold on the grass. Food also concerned him. The next server’s tray only held a crumbly sort of crud purported to be cheese, thin pink strips of raw fish, and tea bread.
Walsh better still have his kitchen open when we get back, or else I’ll make him open it!
After awhile the knight-marshal strode past, his gait purposeful in a crowd of fops. Marik could see the living wall around the patio’s edge had dispersed and the royal pair gone when Hilliard’s current clique neared the lawn’s edge. The last contender had received his armband.
Servants lit multi-colored lanterns around the gardens as well as the permanent iron-dish torches placed along the pathways. Evening did little to drive off the heat. Perhaps they should leave soon if they wanted to make it back to the inn before midnight. While that thought still finished forming, Celerity arrived, greeting Hilliard in a rare moment when no others clung to him.
“Hilliard Garroway,” he replied, and bowed. He held back any flinches at her admitted profession.
“I recall your father Carrick,” she stated in a soft, melodic tone. Celerity blended well with the sycophants around them despite her plainer clothing, except Marik remembered her other side. This softer woman could never have looked hard enough to strike sparks from at the Cracked Plateau if she were truly so pleasant as she made herself out to be. “He and his men held fast during the final battle, inspiring many others to do the same. The northern front around the central catapult may have collapsed under the pressure before the tide could be turned, were it not for the soldiers giving their all.”
The young noble stood tall, the words stiffening his spine with pride. “My father has never done less than his best for Galemar. I strive to follow his example.”
“And I see the barony of Stonescape will continue to be as reliable as the stone it is named for,” she replied, without a hint of falsity. “I am glad to have met you. If I may, I would like a word or two with your bodyguard for a moment.”
That surprised Hilliard, and no less so than Marik. “Well, yes, of course. I have no cause to restrict with whom he may and may not converse,” he said, making Marik wonder if all these ego-bloated crustaceans were rubbing off on Hilliard. Or probably he thinks we’re going to talk mage business and shrugged it off. Is that what she wants?
With trepidation, he faced Celerity, who had introduced herself as the head of King Raymond’s court mages. “Yes?” He winced when he heard the suspicion ringing through his voice.
Celerity smiled slightly. “Marik Railson, I believe?”
“Yes,” he repeated, not liking the fact that she knew him. “Why do you know who I am?”
She raised an eyebrow at his tone. “Quite a number of people know your name. You hardly remained unobtrusive during the war, did you?”
“If you mean that stupid song, I was never named in that!” Marik was glad the sun had disappeared. It might hide the flaming color in his face.
“I did not refer to that. But that aside, I want you to describe to me the men you called up during your scrying effort.”
Marik felt his jaw drop. “How…”
“Tollaf and I know each other very well. As soon as he replaced the mirror, he contacted me. His concern is great over what transpired, and his own researches have failed to alleviate it. He sought my advice.”
“That sneaky old bastard!” he erupted. “He’s been blaming me the whole damn time when he knew it wasn’t my fault? That conniving, scheming, son-of-a-bitch!”
This time her expression did change, to one of severe disapproval. Her eyes lost their softness to become lethal stilettos. “Mage Tollaf is your master, Apprentice Marik. You may not be fond of him, but respect is the least you owe.”
He started to retort that he and the old man would be the happiest pair in the world if Torrance would allow them to never see each other again, but her expression froze him. It held an edge that Tollaf’s angriest moments fell short of matching.
“Why is he so concerned all of a sudden?” Marik asked, shying back yet refraining from taking an actual step away. “I tried getting him to help a hundred times after the mirror broke.”
“A shattered scrying mirror is not a first,” she replied, her eyes still boring into his skin, her words curt. “But the instances of such occurrences are few and far between, and usually only in cases of separate workings combining with the scrye to work a backlash of unrestricted etheric energies.”
“So…what? I’m not a mage, except by chance. You need to speak simply to me.”
“Aren’t you?” Amusement dulled her steel gaze. “According to Tollaf you are exceedingly gifted at thinking like a mage when it suits you. He has had much to say on that particular matter.”
The fact that a pair of mages, one highly placed in the king’s court at that, were spending their free time gossiping about him caused his scalp to itch. “That…that wasn’t mage work. That was…something else.”
“You seem determined to believe you are not as smart as you truly are. So be it, then. It is of no concern to me. What is of concern to me is this man you found while searching for your father.”
Did Tollaf tell her everything? “Why not about my father?”
“I would hear about him as well, but Tollaf’s description, which was your own secondhand words, suggests it is the other who is most likely at the heart of the matter. This may prove to be nothing at all, but I haven’t seen Tollaf this agitated since he left the court’s enclave.”
He was a court mage? The information shocked, yet somehow did not surprise. All the contacts Tollaf had among the court enclave should have suggested it earlier. But why did he leave the court, which must have been a dream position, to become a mage for a mercenary band? Celerity’s polite cough jerked him from his startled musings.
It felt strange to be in the midst of a crowd discussing the event that had culminated in Tollaf’s mirror exploding, but she wanted what she wanted, and Marik sensed a wolverine would sooner abandon its kill to a fox before Celerity would let him escape. Nothing about the description Marik gleaned from the few moments of studying the stranger with his father caught her interest until—
“You are sure they were red eyes?”
“Yes. Not the whites, but the center. The iris. The whites were normal.”
“What sort of red?” A troubled expression darkened her features.
“Like glass. Or a jewel.”
“Not red like blood?”
“No. It was a transparent kind of red. Like bright blue eyes, only red instead.”
She was unmindful of
the crowd flowing around them while her thoughts consumed her. Finally, her lost awareness forced Marik to ask. “Why?”
“Hmm?” She fingered her chin.
“What does it matter what color they are?”
“Have you ever seen red eyes before? Red like that?”
“No, but everyday I find new things I’ve never seen.”
Celerity’s slight smile returned. “Eyes are windows to the soul, for the most part. Loose Devils can assume human forms and cause tremendous mischief. Every case chronicled I’ve ever read describes their eyes as blood red. It seems to be the one aspect of their beings they can’t alter, no matter their power.”
“What?” Marik almost shouted the word. Was his father in danger? He certainly had not looked healthy!
“Or described as completely red, with no white at all. A strong Devil might be able to sense his image being scryed with magic, so this man’s sudden awareness, where he looked straight at you, could have been that.”
“But—” Marik’s mind whirled, full of hideous thoughts.
“Don’t worry,” she said. How can she say ‘don’t worry’? “I’m positive this is not such a case. The eyes don’t sound right, and any rogue Devil with power enough to shatter a scrying mirror from the far side of the link would have no need to disguise itself as a human.” She shuddered briefly at the idea of such an entity loose in the world.
Marik would not toss the idea aside so quickly. “But you could deal with a situation like that, right? Couldn’t you?”
“I handled a loose Devil once. The sorcerer who conjured it lost control and it escaped. It was relatively small, but it had full access to its powers. That made it difficult to deal with. Don’t worry. I know what I speak of. Whatever that man might be, he is not a Devil. But that begs the question of who he is. Have you any idea why your father might have a connection with this man?”
“No. I don’t know anything at all.”
“When the seeking serpent located your father, it pointed to the west, did it not?”
