“What?” the warrior asked.
“No, nothing,” the actor said, smiling to himself.
With that done, they set off. Behind them was the abandoned Othenor, run aground in a muddy river. The sight of it in the mud stirred up melancholy in Léti’s chest. After all the days they had spent on her decks, to be left behind, she thought, and she sighed as she turned her back on the sloop. Again, their numbers were diminished.
In the form of a ten-foot-long electric eel, the god Usul circled tirelessly in his cave. His eternal prison. He stirred, though not out of boredom or desperation. For the first time in longer than he could recall, he was enjoying himself. He was thinking about the mortals.
His last visitor had been one of the more interesting ones he had ever met, and their meeting had muddled the future like never before. From his cave, Usul watched and listened, silently following each of the major actors who would shape the future. As he watched, he pondered, gambled, and imagined the thousands of constantly evolving possible futures.
Little by little, Usul discerned a few constants. No matter what these people did now, the Upper Kingdoms’ story was already written. That much seemed certain. Arriving at this end pained Usul—he did not want his game to end so quickly, and he wondered if he could intervene somehow. He was the master of his domain; inside his cave he was He Who Knows. Beyond his walls, though, he was powerless. He pondered his situation over in his mind for a moment before abandoning it.
No matter, he thought. He still had many destinies to watch over, and every one was as consequential as the fate of the Upper Kingdoms. He was impatient to see the forces clash. Even if the overwhelming probability suggested that the victor was already crowned, Usul’s encounter with the visitor had woken his curiosity, and now the question loomed large in his mind: What could humans hope to accomplish against immortals?
Though the roads in Romine were crowded and busy, the heirs were unable to slip through the crowd unnoticed. In the capital of the Old Country, the Rominians stared at the interlopers with obvious scorn. Following Grigán’s advice, the heirs kept themselves from responding to these muted threats. Except for Rey, who let slip a string of insults on the strange way people dressed in the city.
The Rominians’ dress seemed to mix that of all the other kingdoms: Kaulien tunics, Junian robes, Lorelien shirts, Goranese coats, and capes, furs, woolen vests, and other clothes were thrown together in a complete cacophony of styles. And though the styles were strange, they were nothing compared to the colors.
Though they used every possible type of clothing, each Rominian wore only one color at a time: red, yellow, blue, green, or any of a myriad of other shades. Often these garments were weighed down with embroidered patterns and excessively large brooches, which looked surprisingly like butterflies, Manive roses, Gyole dolphins, crowned eagles, or the cross of Jérus.
“Those are the symbols of each province,” Grigán explained. “Romine’s and Uranie’s symbols are both the crowned eagle. You’ll see how, based on these symbols, the Rominians will ignore anyone who doesn’t bear a matching symbol.”
“What’s the point of the colors?” Yan asked.
“No point, at least that I know of,” said Grigán.
“They reveal affiliation with certain military castes,” Lana answered. “I suppose the tradition has been passed down in some families, and that others are content to imitate the nobles.”
The Maz had studied the Old Country’s history when she had studied Ithare’s own history. The two nations had been enemies for centuries. Now that she was in the capital, Lana realized how different their cultures were. And noticing the hostile glances directed at her robes, she knew it had been a good idea to follow Grigán’s advice regarding her mask.
Léti, who had also seen the way the Rominians looked at Lana, asked, “Which gods do the Rominians pray to? Not Eurydis, I imagine.”
“Unfortunately, no. Odrel, I think, has the most followers here.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Rey commented, without further explanation.
The small line of foreigners followed a progression toward the neighborhood said to be the old imperial city, where Zarbone’s friend lived. He was their key to entering the Deep Tower. In this section of the city, even the houses were painted in bright colors matching their owner’s affiliation. All were adorned with at least one crowned eagle.
At the front of the group, Yan and Bowbaq turned each corner with the curiosity of children. Lana moved ahead torn between two attitudes: one where she did her best to hide her profession as Maz of Eurydis, and the other where she proudly displayed it—though neither was acceptable according to the Moral. Rey, who could see her uneasiness, teased her by exaggerating how important it was to display herself correctly. Léti, Corenn, and Grigán guided the group from the back, following the directions Zarbone had given them.
The warrior tried in vain to hide his fatigue. The walk from the lock to the imperial city hadn’t been far, but he was out of breath, and waves of vertigo periodically washed over him. In front of an enormous five-storied building, encircled by a sprawling park protected by an outer wall, Grigán stopped and put his hands on his knees.
“Here we are,” he announced to the group, between breaths. “At least, this place fits the description.”
Reyan whistled in admiration, giving voice to the emotion they all shared. Zarbone had described his friend as being wealthier than he. To own a place like the one standing before them, he must be. Maintenance of the park alone would require three full-time gardeners, working every day of the year. The lawns were manicured, and the hedges perfectly sculpted. Not a single flower was out of place. No unwanted sprout troubled the perfect alignment of the moon-grass imported from the Baronies. No rebellious branch deformed the magnificent sculpted shrubs, which, of course, were all cut in the image of a crowned eagle.
“Let’s enter,” Rey proposed. “I can’t stand these eccentrics staring at us anymore.”
“We can’t just walk in on someone’s home like that!” Bowbaq objected, clearly offended. “That would be deeply impolite.”
In Arkary, the word impolite had a much stronger meaning than in any other kingdom, Yan remembered, amused. And a stronger meaning for Bowbaq than for any other Arque.
“There’s no bell,” Corenn noted.
“Let’s go. Enter!” the actor decided, putting action to words as he walked through the garden’s entrance toward the entry door. “We are already unwanted in Lorelia, Junine, and the Land of Beauty. Personally, I’m not too worried about the Rominians.”
The others followed Rey as he led them to the mansion’s doors.
“If the gate to the gardens wasn’t locked, maybe this one isn’t either,” Rey suggested, with a knowing smile.
“Perhaps we should—” Grigán started to say, still gasping for air.
The sentence died in the warrior’s throat. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed heavily. Only by the grace of Bowbaq’s quick hands did Grigán avoid smacking his head on the stone pathway. Corenn rushed to his side, putting a hand on his chest. Under her fingers she felt his heart still beating, and she breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
Rey opened the door and offered to drag Grigán inside, but before anyone could protest, two men appeared in the doorway and drew their swords. The guards swung wildly at Rey, who survived thanks only to his attackers’ clumsiness. The heavy swords breezed through the air, catching nothing but the heavy wooden door, where they stuck with a thud. The actor swore and jumped straight at them, knocking both guardsmen on their backs. An instant later, he had his knife at the throat of one, while Léti subdued the other with the point of her rapier. The two men were dressed in red, but they weren’t Züu. They were Rominian.
“Get out, thieves!” a quavering voice yelled from the hallway. “Or I’ll pierce your hide!”
A tall, skinny, balding man stood in the hallway several feet away. From where the heirs stood, he didn�
��t seem that impressive. But he was pointing a crossbow at Léti, and that was enough to make him an enemy.
Without thinking, Yan launched his Will. The crossbow’s cord snapped, and the Rominian shouted as the cord whipped across his hand. But the languor for this impromptu spell was so strong that Yan felt his legs quiver. For a moment he lost his grip on reality. His eyes went dark, and the sound of Léti screaming for Bowbaq to grab the final fugitive drowned in his ears.
“Bandits! Thieves! Marauders!” the newcomer moaned, when the giant gingerly pulled him toward the group. “This is why we are suspicious of foreigners.”
“We are not thieves,” Corenn assured him. “We are Zarbone’s friends, Zarbone of the Land of Beauty. You must be Lord Sapone?” She handed him their recommendation letter.
The Rominian ripped the letter open and glanced at it sideways. Even if it were all true, he wouldn’t be happy about it.
“Which one of you is Grigán?” he asked, when he had finished.
“He is,” said Lana, who was supporting their sick leader.
“You’re lying! It says here that Grigán has a mustache. And yet, this man has no such thing!”
Trying to avoid an angry quip, Corenn took a deep breath. She, who had a reputation for being as impassive as stone, wanted to ruthlessly humiliate this straitlaced Rominian. She was fine with stupidity, but since she was often called to arbitrate Council disputes, she couldn’t stand bad faith.
“Lord Sapone. We are not your enemies. We need your help to get into the Deep Tower.”
“I don’t—” the Rominian started to yell.
“We are ready to pay for it,” the Mother interrupted him.
Sapone regained his calm, and made it look like he was thinking it over. Then he peeked outside, verifying that no one had seen the strangers enter. Satisfied, he closed the door behind them.
Yan meditated at Grigán’s side while Corenn and the others planned with their host how they would penetrate the greatest library in the known world. As his comrades planned for the future, Yan silently wondered if there would even be one.
Grigán’s rapid return to health had made him hope, but now only disappointed him even more bitterly. The warrior’s wounds had mostly healed, the deep gashes in his skin closed and scabbed over, but Yan knew that a deeper, more sinister evil had penetrated his friend. The sickness was clear to him, horribly clear.
Usul had predicted Grigán’s coming death, knowing full well that by speaking the future he might change it. The future could be molded by He Who Knows, and by He Who Asked. Yan knew Grigán’s fate; what remained a mystery was whether he could save his friend. Doubt clouded his mind. Even if he warned Grigán, the warrior couldn’t do anything against the illness that assailed him.
Yan saw only one way to change this future. A dangerous way. A way that was just as likely to kill his friend as it was to save him. Usul was right. Yan was reacting exactly as predicted. The young man cursed the omniscient god.
The only way to heal Grigán was to work with magic. Water magic. A specialty he had never practiced, nor even studied.
Water is life, Corenn had said. The indispensable element that gives movement to your body, and allows your mind to reason. To heal the warrior, Yan would have to work on the water element of his being. He must activate, protect, and reinforce it.
At least that was the theory. The young magician had touched only the earth element, and he had no idea if water worked in the same way.
He decided to do a test, to simply brush by this part of Grigán. If he could feel the water in him, surely he could heal it.
Slowly, calmly, carefully, he began to concentrate his Will. One by one he lost his senses: taste first, then smell, touch, hearing, and, finally, vision. The world fell away, and all that was not Grigán disappeared. With great care, Yan focused on the warrior’s essence.
The complexity of elements that made up a human intoxicated him. Up to that point, he had used magic only on inanimate objects. But for the first time, he focused his Will on a living being. He could see earth, the first element he had learned to recognize, but somewhere at the edge of his understanding, he could also see the other elements.
He could see water, and he immediately realized that he would fail. Though it was only a spiritual representation, he saw it as a stream of pure water flowing over a sculpture made of ice. The image frightened him, and he vowed to never use his Will on something so fragile. Not, at least, until he learned more.
He could see the devouring fire. Fire, the tendency in all things to become something other. Caterpillars into butterflies. Babies into adults. The living to the dead.
Grigán’s fire was melting his water, and Yan thought perhaps he could blow back the fire. Perhaps he could keep it at bay, maybe even extinguish it altogether. But what would happen if he did? Yan had no idea. Surely such an action would permanently alter his friend. Yan would never dare take on such a responsibility. Corenn’s warnings reared up in him: the study of fire was the most dangerous, even though it seemed like it would be the easiest to master. It was black magic.
Finally, he saw the wind. Grigán’s spirit. He saw the warrior’s soul, his dreams, his emotions. Though fire was the most dangerous of the disciplines, it was wind that was the most complex. Yan perceived it as a fog surrounding the ice sculpture. Despite his fears, he couldn’t resist the desire to touch it. As soon as he did, a string of images and feelings invaded his own mind. Contact was a revelation.
Something distracted him, and reality violently imposed itself. Yan realized he had let his Will grow throughout the entire exercise. He had no choice but to unleash the accumulated force against a wall and wait for the languor to follow.
The horrible feeling settled over him. It wasn’t exactly painful; though regaining his senses was always a brutal moment, it never lasted very long. Cold and weakness seized him, becoming his inevitable masters. The feeling was so strong he thought he might die.
Some time passed, though he couldn’t be sure how much. His body fought a long battle with the rest of the world, until the two came to an equilibrium and the turmoil passed.
Lana was at the room’s entrance, her face ashen. Her eyes drifted to a gaping hole in the wall, then to the young man, pale and crumpled on his armchair. For her, the whole thing had passed in an instant, but for Yan it had been among the most grueling trials of his life.
“The Eclectic Library is forbidden to foreigners,” announced Sapone, who was comfortably settled in an armchair large enough for three people. “I can already see that this kind of argument doesn’t mean much to you, as you didn’t hesitate to break into my home. But that’s no longer a problem.”
“In our strange kingdoms,” Rey retorted, “it’s customary to open the door for visitors who stand in front of it.”
“In Romine, Mr. Adventurer, it’s customary to not visit someone until you have been invited to do so,” Sapone responded, clearly not amused. “As such, everyone stays at their own home, and we all abide by this decorum.”
“Forget about our intrusion, if you would,” Corenn interjected. “How do you do it? How do you get in?”
“Oh! Me, I’ve never been. The place is truly haunted, you know. I’ve already lost one librarian in there; I would never personally risk going inside. The librarian who works for me now has been there for ten years. I see no reason to expose myself to the ghosts.”
“Could we meet this man?”
Sapone stared at Corenn with a strange grimace. They all could see the greed plain on his face, as if the word itself were tattooed there.
“Not before we come to an agreement,” said the Rominian. “I need to know exactly what you plan to do down there.”
“Buy some fishing line, of course,” Rey said, mockingly. “Our healer just ran out.”
Corenn ignored the actor’s quip and answered seriously. “Research. How does it concern you?”
“Currently, less than twelve people enjoy the royal privil
ege to visit the Deep Tower. As you know, it is normally forbidden to everyone, and has been so ever since the ghosts invaded its halls. It was sealed off for more than a hundred and fifty years.
“That is, until our good sovereign, who needed gold to protect the kingdom’s provinces, had the idea to sell it. Of course, he never wanted to sell the whole tower. No one could amass a sum massive enough to buy the entire library. Instead, he sold it floor by floor.
“He only found eight takers,” continued Sapone. “For my part, I own the entire eleventh floor of the Tower, and all its contents. I paid dearly for the privilege. Three times more than I paid for this manor. For this reason, you must assure me you won’t degrade the property in any way.”
He finished his last sentence with a hostile stare at Frog, who was playing with the fringes of a rug. Léti realized what he was looking at and shooed the cat, who fled into another room.
“You have my word, Lord Sapone,” Corenn assured him. “Now, could we meet your man?”
“All in good time,” he responded. “First, though, I would like to speak a little business.” And with that the negotiations were under way.
Seeing the spectacle of the Rominian merchant distractedly bartering with the Mother, then more violently with Rey, Léti thought to herself that if Loreliens were specialists in commerce, the Rominians had them beat for venality. Finally, when they had agreed, Sapone led them through his labyrinthine halls to his personal librarian.
“Of course, our deal holds only if he agrees to escort you,” the Rominian clarified.
“But . . . isn’t he in your service?” Corenn asked.
“He is, this is true, but he has a particular personality,” responded Sapone. “I put up with it because, other than that one fault, he is very competent.”
Sapone had been leading them while he spoke, but with these final words, he stopped in front of a tall door engraved with the customary crowned eagle. “Master Hulsidor?” he called out, while gently tapping the wood. “Could I disturb your peace for a moment?”
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