“We harbor no renegades here, Slayer.”
Gisella took the woman’s hands. Soft and clean, they contrasted the worn and calloused hands that held them. “That’s not why I am here.” She offered a smile to put the priestess at ease. “I am Gisella the Golden. I have come seeking Renewal and perhaps assistance from my sisters of the faith.”
A ritual cleansing performed by the clergy of Aurora, Renewal washed away the stress and grime from a long journey or battle. Because priests and priestesses rarely ventured far from their temples, they rarely required it, unlike the traveling faithful.
“If you have come to us from the Four Watches, then you have completed quite a journey. Renewal is appropriate.” Cressida clapped her hands together. Several acolytes garbed in white gowns rushed to her summons.
“Draw a Renewal bath for our sister.”
The acolytes bowed and left to do her bidding. She turned to Gisella and smiled. “You will soon feel fully refreshed, though if you continue wearing that heavy armor here, it won’t last long.”
Although the Golden Slayer appreciated her clothes were unsuited to the warmer northern climes, fashion advice was not the assistance she required. “Have you heard of Bekkhildr, the Iron Witch?”
Cressida closed her eyes for a moment. “The name is familiar, but…” She shook her head. “I don’t think I know her.”
“The Lich Queen.”
The color drained from the priestess’s face. She swallowed and took a deep breath. “What of her?”
“I have heard whispers, rumors, that she is trying to reenter this world. A third crusade against the living.”
“I have heard nothing.” Cressida stood, crossing her arms and staring at the ground. “But, there have been…incidents.”
She turned and regarded Gisella. “Why come here, Slayer? The Red Crypt seems more suited to harboring such rumors.”
Gisella had not heard of the Red Crypt, but she suspected it to be the temple of Aita. She assumed Pancras would visit it after he checked in at the Arcane University. “I’ve been traveling with a bonelord. Simple division of labor. Tell me of these incidents.”
“The dead are restless in the necropolis.” Cressida hugged herself and shivered. “There have been reports of them clawing their way out of their tombs and patrolling the grounds at night. No attacks, though.”
“That’s very strange.” Gisella never encountered undead who didn’t attack the living.
“Sometimes, they leave the city, too.” The priestess shook her head and gazed at the statue of Aurora. “They just march right out, ignoring any attempts to stop them. The Council of Lords has decreed we are to just leave them be.” Cressida spat on the ground. “They’re more concerned about the overcrowding of our necropolis than the implications.”
Gisella flipped her damp hair off her neck, allowing the breeze to cool her. “They don’t think the dead rising and marching out of town is any cause for concern?”
“I believe they see it as our problems getting up and leaving. Our lords are very narrow-minded and shortsighted. After all, they view us as high-class prostitutes.”
Gisella snorted, familiar with misconceptions about the priests and priestesses of Aurora. Those misunderstandings extended to a lesser extent to worshippers of the goddess of love. “Optional donations are not a fee for services rendered.”
“Few here in Vlorey have the patience to perform our rituals and ceremonies properly, so most men and women looking for those sorts of carnal pleasures find the city’s brothels to be more accommodating.” Cressida returned to her seat alongside Gisella. She turned the Golden Slayer away from her slightly and held her hair as she bound it with a ribbon she withdrew from a pocket inside her robes.
Gisella closed her eyes as the priestess’s hands rubbed her neck.
“Do not worry about such things now, however. Your Renewal will begin shortly. You must put your concerns aside and give yourself over to the glory of our lady.”
The priestess’s words resonated with Gisella. It’s been too long. She allowed herself to forget her responsibilities and surrendered herself to the ritual as the priestess massaged her shoulders.
Chapter 9
Kale sat in the cavern alongside a flickering lantern as his only companion and stared at the dragon egg. The lantern provided the only source of illumination this early in the morning, before the sun began its daily journey across the sky. Each time he descended the stairs, he hoped the sconces would flare to life for him as they did for his sister, but each time, he was disappointed.
He contemplated the harness lying alongside the egg, intricate leather straps Kali purchased a few days earlier during one of her trips to the market. She paid Katka to enchant them to decrease the perceived weight and bulk of the egg. Kale tightened the straps around the egg and hefted it, swinging it over his back. Kali had affixed a leather flap to conceal the egg, completing the illusion of a backpack. Carrying the egg still felt awkward, but it was not as unwieldy as transporting it suspended in a cloak. He returned the egg to its makeshift nest and removed the harness before retrieving from his pouch one of the sun-dried fruits he and Kali purchased at the Festival of Apellon. On the one hand, he wanted to breathe on the egg, start a fire, and incubate it. There was plenty of room in the cavern for an infant dragon. On the other hand, he admitted Terrakaptis was better equipped to deal with such a creature.
Little natural light crept into the cavern from Grannock’s Gorge as the sun filled the canyon with its brilliance. Deep shadows shrouded all but a small area directly in front of the passage leading to the gorge. Kale stood and stretched, rubbing his aching butt. I should have brought a chair down here. I don’t remember sitting on rocks being so painful.
The drak paced the floor, staying within the boundary of the lantern’s light. Try as he might, he couldn’t sense the egg, except by smell, and that was only because he knew what it smelled like. I need time. I need to talk to Deli about this. She’s off doing wizard things, and I’m stuck here with this egg. I want to help Terrakaptis and the other dragons, but this feels like wizard stuff.
The door creaked open from above and footsteps descended the stairs. “Kale? Kale, are you down there?”
Kali. He sighed and stretched his wings, picked up the lantern, and met her at the bottom of the stairs. She tilted her head and regarded with him with bleary eyes.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, fine. I’m just trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do now. Delilah’s off being an archmage. Pancras is on the other side of the world, and I’m stuck here all by myself with this egg.”
Kali embraced her mate and nuzzled his neck. “You’re not all alone. I wish you’d stop saying things like that.”
A stone formed in the pit of his stomach as he realized he had failed to consider his mate. He turned and wrapped his arms around her. There were many things he thought about saying at that moment, but they all seemed like excuses.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about the egg. It’s not going anywhere, and nothing is going to happen to it.” Kali held him at arm’s length and looked him in the eyes. “The entrance from the gorge is damn near impossible to get to if you can’t fly, and it’s so well hidden no one else knows it’s here. I’ve waited a long time to be able to live for myself, and it’s time we did that.”
The drak nodded. “You’re right. You’re right.” He took her by the hand and led her upstairs. Despite the work they still needed to do to their home, Kale’s thoughts returned again and again to the egg, his sister, and Pancras. I’m missing something. There has to be more to my life than this now.
***
Pancras greeted the day with high hopes but low expectations. His experiences in Muncifer prepared him for an unpleasant assignment at the Arcane University, and although free of the geas placed on him by Archmage Vilkan, the slayer could still force his hand.
The Arcane University occupied an L-shaped is
land near the center of the river delta. Its towers, among the tallest buildings in Vlorey, provided distinct landmarks from anywhere in the city. Although the waterways served as physical barriers in lieu of walls, one could only access the grounds from a single direction. Pancras supposed someone truly dedicated might swim across the tributary to gain access to the island, but he sensed wards in place to prevent unauthorized access.
Two guards stood watch on the bridge. Watchtowers stood above them, and movement within alerted Pancras that those two guards were not alone. They wore breastplates over light, short-sleeved tunics and kilts. Greaves protected their lower legs. Despite their relatively light armor, sweat glistened on their brows.
Wary, light blue eyes scrutinized Pancras as he approached the guard on the left. The dark-skinned man’s hand dropped to the mace on his belt, but he didn’t remove the weapon from its harness.
“You have business here?” The guard’s deep voice bore a heavy accent, although similar to others Pancras had heard in Vlorey.
I guess I’m really the one with the accent here. “I’m reporting as ordered by Archmage Vilkan.”
The other guard approached them and nudged Pancras’s maul with his foot. “Do minotaur mages always carry such weapons?”
Pancras lifted it, pulling in just enough arcane energy to cause the head of the red steel weapon to glow with an emerald hue. “I can’t speak for others, but I do. I am also a Bonelord of Aita.”
“Bonelord, eh? What of that?” The guard pointed to Pancras’s withered arm.
“Battle injury.” Pancras hoped the guard didn’t demand a more detailed explanation.
“I thought you wizards tried to avoid battles.” He continued examining Pancras’s arm.
“‘Try’ is the operative word there. Obviously, I am not always successful.” Pancras rubbed his shoulder, now self-conscious about his deformity.
The guard grunted and returned to his post. “The headmaster’s office is at the top of the central tower, the White Tower.” The guard wiped his brow with a dirty rag. “Any of the students can direct you.”
Pancras bowed and crossed the bridge, breathing a sigh that he wasn’t once again accused of carrying plague. He felt the wards lift as he passed. I have no idea how to create this effect… and they want me to be defenses master and teach wards? He laughed at the absurdity of it.
In contrast to Muncifer’s squat, blocky structures, the buildings on the grounds of Vlorey’s Arcane University were curvaceous, with tall spires. He passed a pair of towers that curved like horns toward one another and another, a spiral, reminiscent of Aurora’s Sanctuary in Almeria. Grassy plazas separated the buildings, and stone-lined paths wound through the park-like grounds. Pancras located the central tower without requiring help from any of the students and stood outside it, taking in its architecture.
The White Tower’s angular contours appeared almost as though they were chiseled from stone. Windows accented each of three distinct levels, but from the outside, Pancras couldn’t tell if more levels nestled in between. He entered the tower and searched for stairs.
A trio of brown-robed students rushed past him in the foyer, bowing their heads as they passed. Another clad in grey robes shook her head at the brown-robed initiates and eyed the tower’s central shaft before floating to her desired floor and stepping onto a platform.
Pancras frowned. He’d never learned levitation magic. He approached the central shaft and stepped onto a smooth stone disk, stepping off after it didn’t move, and glancing upward.
“You’re new here.” The statement came from behind him. Pancras turned to face a tawny minotaur with dark brown patches of fur. He cradled a spear in his arms and wore armor similar to that of the Arcane University’s guards, but the symbol emblazoned on his chest, a triangle and cross inside a circle, was one with which Pancras was not familiar.
“Yes,” Pancras tore his eyes away from the symbol on the minotaur’s chest. “I’m trying to get to the headmaster’s office, but I never learned how to levitate.”
“Huh, a wizard admitting he’s not all powerful.” A lopsided grin spread across the minotaur’s face. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“Quite.”
The minotaur led Pancras by the shoulder and guided him onto the stone disk. His hand lingered as he looked upward. “Just speak where you wish to go. That’s how we non-magic folk do it.” He eyed Pancras’s arm. The wizard braced himself for the inevitable.
“Does it pain you?”
Pancras blinked. It was not the question he expected. He flexed his withered hand. “I notice it. It feels different, but no, it doesn’t hurt, not exactly.”
The armored minotaur stepped backward and tapped the disk with the butt of his spear. “Try it.”
Pancras cleared his throat. “Headmaster’s office.”
The stone disk rose into the air, gliding upward through the central shaft of the tower. He peered over the edge, toward the armored minotaur. “Thank you!”
He soared past landings and portraits of wizards whose facial expressions seemed to warn observers that magic was serious business. Up ahead stood an opening in the ceiling the exact size of the disk, and Pancras double-checked to ensure none of his belongings nor any part of himself hung over the edge. It slid into place inside a semi-circular room. He stepped off the disk, and it fell away.
Seated behind a desk at the far side of the room, a woman sorted through a stack of papers. A silvery globe sat on one corner of her credenza. She glanced at Pancras as he oriented himself. “May I help you?”
Her grey-streaked black hair hung loose around her shoulders, framing her rich, coppery skin. A jeweled stud pierced the side of her wide nose. She adjusted the high collar of her sapphire tunic as Pancras approached.
“I am Pancras of Drak-Anor.” He stopped before her desk and bowed. “I’ve been sent by Archmage Vilkan to fill the master of wards position.”
“Have you now?” She picked up the wand from the top of her desk and tapped the silvery orb three times. The wall alongside her desk shimmered, and a portal opened, dilating like the iris of a great eye.
“The headmaster’s office is just through there.”
Pancras ducked through the opening. Occupying the larger part of the circular area that formed the top of the tower, much of it open to the air, the office beyond featured a cluttered mess of bookshelves, papers, desks, and stacked chairs. A gentle breeze stirred the air without rustling the papers, although Pancras could not detect what mechanism accomplished this.
A thin, balding man whose skin resembled the color of dark amber peered around a stack of chairs. “Yes? Who’s that?”
Pancras bowed. “Pancras of Drak-Anor.” He told the man of his mandate from Archmage Vilkan. “Are you the headmaster?”
“Yes, yes.” The man emerged carrying a stack of scrolls. He dumped them on the nearest desk and approached Pancras with an outstretched hand. “Lewin. Headmaster Lewin Stormwind.”
The minotaur extended his hand to clasp old man’s, half the size of his own. Headmaster Lewin’s eyes widened when he noticed Pancras’s arm, and he recoiled.
“It’s an old injury, not an affliction.” Pancras didn’t wait for the question this time. The answer seemed to satisfy the headmaster and he grasped Pancras’s arm.
“I would like to hear that story someday, when you feel comfortable sharing it.” Headmaster Lewin gestured toward a chair near the desk and procured one from another desk for himself. “Come, sit, sit.”
“The atmosphere here certainly is different from Muncifer.” Pancras glanced around the room. Apart from the clutter, being able to see a clear blue sky above the green-blue sea from a room overlooking the entire city was not what he expected when Archmage Vilkan sent him here.
“Well, you’re half a world away.” The headmaster raised an eyebrow. “Now, I no longer need a master of wards. I made that request last year.”
“Oh.” Pancras’s stomach knotted up.
“I was assigned this post as restitution for being delinquent on my guild dues.”
“Yes, the Manless’s idea of cleaning up the guild. The new archmage rescinded those decrees right away.”
The minotaur blinked. He had not expected a university headmaster to refer to the archmage in such a disrespectful manner. The rest of Lewin’s statement hit him like a brick to the head. “Wait, what? A new archmage?”
“Yes. She won the position through the Rite of Combat, if you can believe that.” The headmaster leaned forward and smacked Pancras on the knee. “I appreciate that you’ve come a long way, but that position is no longer available. There is something else, though, if you’ve the training for it. The alchemy master needs someone to fill in for him. His health is failing, you see, and I’ve also the need for a deputy—”
Pancras held up his hands. “Wait, when did this happen? With the new archmage? I’ve been on a ship; I’ve not heard anything.”
“Oh, well, you wouldn’t, would you?” Lewin held up a multifaceted crystal, which Pancras recognized as a Herald Stone. “Just three or four days ago, maybe a week? A drak challenged him to the Rite of Combat and won!”
The headmaster cackled. “He worked so hard on the aggrandizement of humans to the exclusion of all others, to move the guild and the university to a more disciplined—crueler, if you ask me—time, only to be undone by rules older than The Sundering.”
He hooted and howled with laughter, holding his sides. Pancras rubbed his right horn and stared at the headmaster. It can’t be. “You said the new archmage was a drak? A… a female drak?”
“Yes, that’s—hey, I didn’t say she was female.”
Pancras felt nauseated. He closed his eyes and swallowed. “You said ‘she.’ What’s her name?”
Headmaster Lewin clicked his fingers. “Oh, it is a pretty name. Something flowery. Delilah. Yes, that’s it! Delilah Windsinger, I think it is.”
Salvation (Scars of the Sundering Book 3) Page 12
