by T. S. Church
“I will ask a servant to escort you to your rooms, master dwarf, if you care to wake your friend,” William offered. He peered outside and gestured to a man who waited nearby.
Gently, Doric shook Ebenezer’s shoulder. The old man awoke with a sharp intake of breath.
“Oh-ho! You’re back,” he said groggily. “What time is it?”
“It’s half past ten,” Doric said, looking at the intricate clock that hung above the fireplace. “Although it feels a lot later. I for one need rest. Lots of fresh air and being bungled about on a wagon is enough for me. Now I know how a potato feels on its way to market. Come on, alchemist!”
Ebenezer stood delicately. As he did so a book slipped from his lap and onto the cushion.
“A history of the lives of the kings of Varrock?” William said as he picked it up. “Well, that’s enough to send anybody to sleep.”
“Oh, yes. I found it on the shelf over there. I remembered my childhood when I was forced to learn all their names from the Battle of the Salve down to the present day.” The alchemist smiled sorrowfully. “I must have had a better memory then than now, I fear. I had forgotten the names of the four princes who were lost at that battle.” He shook his head. “Never mind. It is ancient history. Now, what happened in Varrock tonight? Were your fears justified?”
Theodore nodded.
“They were. Another slaying. I don’t know how many there have been so far, but this time the killer left a message-and it was more public than any so far.”
“Tell me about it, while we find my bedroom.”
“We must not talk too freely, my friend,” William cautioned. “This knowledge is prohibited in Varrock by the highest authority.”
“I will tell you, when we get you to your room,” Doric said. “Theodore told me all on our return to the palace.” The dwarf took the alchemist’s arm and led him from the room, following the servant, while Theodore moved to extinguish the lights.
“Are you going to bed Theodore?” William asked, rubbing his own eyes and yawning.
“Not just yet,” the squire answered. “I think I will spend a moment in the chapel, in prayer. Will you join me, to ask for guidance in this matter?”
William shook his head.
“No. I am sorry Theodore. I find the chapel to Saradomin a very cold place indeed. I am aware of its importance to your order of course, but I prefer the guise of the roguish nobleman. Goodnight, good knight!”
The nobleman walked toward the door, then turned before leaving, his eyes holding Theodore’s for several seconds.
“I am sorry about my outburst at the inn today, Theodore,” he said earnestly. “Truly I am. Please believe me when I say that I will always be your friend.” He closed the door behind him quickly, preventing Theodore from replying.
After a moment of careful thought, the squire extinguished the final candle and left the room to make his way through the dim corridors of the great palace and to the cold chapel upon the second floor.
There, alone with his doubts, he knelt in prayer.
3
The yak stopped dead.
Its youthful owner gave an exasperated grunt and tugged on its lead from his position in the saddle of his horse. Reluctantly the yak took a few steps, and then stopped again, snorting in disagreement with its master.
“But we’re nearly there!” the blue-robed wizard argued, gesturing east toward Varrock. They were only a half hour’s journey away, and he was eager to enjoy a soft bed for the first time in several nights. Even in the last few moments of twilight, he could see the grey walls of the city beckoning him. Torches were lit at regular intervals along the parapet. Somewhere from the west, a bell rang out. He counted the carillon’s cry.
Was that ten, or eleven? Probably ten, for the light is not yet gone.
He sighed and tugged the yak’s lead again, while urging his horse on.
Neither animal moved this time.
“Oh, come on!” he cried.
The yak stared dolefully at him.
“If you don’t move, I’ll turn you into an ass,” he threatened. “How would you like that?”
The yak didn’t move.
“Could you really do that?” a voice called from the left, under the trees.
The startled wizard dropped his right hand to the pouches that were fastened to his belt. Something chinked, sounding like a number of pebbles being jostled together.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
A dark figure moved under the boughs, and the wizard thought he detected the faint sound of… jingling? Quickly he grabbed the wooden staff which was secured at his horse’s flank. Deftly he undid the straps and raised its knotted tip. A red glow sprang forth and illuminated the scene, basking the shadowy stranger in comfortable warmth.
Startled, the wizard arched his back.
It was a jester, dressed in a red and black, close-fitting outfit. He held a sceptre in his hand and wore a three-pointed hat upon his head, bells jingled at the end of each of his three liliripes. His age was hard to guess, he seemed neither young nor very old. He was tall and skinny and his long legs reminded the wizard of the storks that frequented the shore near the Wizards’ Tower.
The outlandish character bowed, and as he did so he tripped. Head over heels he went, landing directly before the unamused gaze of the critical yak.
The wizard laughed involuntarily. That earned him a comical frown.
“It’s not nice to laugh at someone else’s misfortune,” the jester chastised, clambering to his feet as a second figure stepped into the red light. Uttering a small cry, the wizard swung the glowing tip of the staff in the direction of the newcomer.
It was a goblin. He carried a broken-tipped spear and sported ill-fitting chain mail that was too big for his small frame. As he moved, the dented bronze helmet he wore slipped down over his eyes. The creature gave a strangled gurgle in his confusion, and righted the helmet.
“Do not fear him,” the jester said. “He lives by the roadside, and begs off strangers.”
“I do not fear him,” the wizard replied, his composure regained. “From the look of him, he’s certainly not a fighter. But he should be careful not to make a nuisance of himself, for if he does, most likely he shall be slain.”
“He knows,” the jester replied, his expression serious. “But that is neither here nor there, my friend. Travellers of your order are rare indeed these days.” He paused, and his expression lightened. “Would you perhaps join us for a late supper? I’ve roasted a chicken over a fire.”
He’s certainly a friendly fellow, the wizard mused. Then he glanced in the direction of the walls, which the darkness had reduced to little more than a black outline.
“I would like to get to the palace soon,” he admitted, “for I have spent three nights under the stars.” The wizard eyed the yak. “Thanks to him!”
“Then we shall eat first,” the jester insisted, “and then I will take you to the palace, for I am heading there as well. But tell me, what is your name, wizard of Saradomin?”
The wizard dismounted stiffly. His legs ached after hours of riding.
“My name is Castimir,” he answered. “And you?”
“Castimir? The companion to the famous Kara-Meir? Then you must be a friend of Theodore’s.”
“I am.”
“My name is Gideon Gleeman. Jester to King Roald Remanis the Third,” the fellow said, extending his hand. “I am honoured to make your acquaintance.”
“Yours is a fitting name for a man whose trade is laughter.” Castimir smiled and took the jester’s hand in his own, content to spend a few more hours under the stars-as long as it was in good company.
It was an hour before midnight when Castimir entered the city. He led his horse, while the jester led the yak, for despite the wizard’s offer he had not dared to mount the beast. The yellow-clad guards at the gate knew Gleeman well, and when they saw Castimir’s blue robes they smiled broadly. It seemed to the wizard that their express
ions were somehow hopeful.
“Did the Tower send you?” asked the first. “Have you come to stop the creature?”
Creature?
Despite his confusion, Castimir nodded purposefully.
“I help wherever I am able,” he replied, trying not to sound as uncertain as he felt. “But I come at the invitation of Squire Theodore, of the Knights of Falador.”
The guard who had spoken looked angrily aside. His friend bit his lip, as if summoning his courage.
“We don’t need knights,” he spat. “Not even those who come from Falador. Only magic can help us-”
“That is enough!” came the command from the parapet above. “Let them pass.”
The two guards parted and let them through, and they walked onward, passing those few individuals who were still abroad on the city’s darkened streets. In the light of the torches, Castimir caught the looks they gave him.
They are all afraid here, he observed. Even the guards. Whatever plagues them, they think that I may be able to provide some sort of salvation. I can see it in their eyes.
It was a look that made Castimir wince every time he saw it, for to him it represented betrayal. Few knew the vital truth that lay behind the wizards, and the reasons they were so few in number.
How they would panic, if only they knew. And how our enemies would rejoice! Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he spoke casually.
“I would have imagined Varrock to be a busier place,” he commented. “Even at this hour.” Before them, to the north of a great square, stood the palace of King Roald Remanis the Third, its large walls surrounding two immense baileys that lay to the east and west of the fortified main building, where a single tall tower rose up into the night. “Why are so few out and about this fine evening?”
“Tomorrow is the Midsummer Festival,” Gleeman explained as they approached the guardhouse. The jester turned his head aside and continued. “No doubt folk are busily making preparations, and saving their strength for the celebration.”
He’s avoiding my stare, Castimir noted.
“I myself have been preparing for some days now,” the jester added. “Far away from the hustle and bustle of the palace.”
“And what will you do?” Castimir inquired. “For the celebration, that is.”
“Tight-rope walking, acrobatics, and more,” Gleeman replied with a flourish. “And my own flavor of magic. For example…” He opened his hand to reveal several of the pebble-like runes that were so precious to the wizard.
My runes! Castimir’s hand darted to his pouch. That’s impossible.
“Where did you get those?” he cried in alarm. “Give them back!”
“I took them while we ate,” came the reply. “Your dagger, too.” The jester spoke without a hint of guilt, sounding pleased that his skill had inspired such a vehement response. Without any hesitation, he returned the objects to their rightful owner. “The baubles are very pretty, my friend, and ever so rare.”
“Rare indeed and every one precious,” Castimir snorted, frowning and checking the rest of his pouches-as well as his deep pockets. Nothing more seemed to be amiss, and his good humour began to return. “How did you accomplish such a feat?” he asked.
“Sleight-of-hand, my friend,” the jester said whimsically. “Sleight-of-hand.”
Gleeman summoned the captain of the palace guard, and within a few minutes Castimir was standing in front of a short man with a belligerent face.
This is a man who takes his duty seriously. He looks as if he has no love for strangers.
“You are expected?” the man, Captain Rovin, asked him brusquely.
“I am, sir. Here is my invitation.” He handed the captain a letter with the royal seal of King Roald clearly displayed. Theodore had sent such invitations out to all his friends, promising them rooms at the palace for the several days surrounding the Midsummer Festival. Captain Rovin looked at it quickly and nodded.
“This seems in order,” he acknowledged. “A room has been set aside for you. Your friends have already retired to their quarters. A servant will stable your beasts and a maid will show you the way.” Suddenly the captain’s face turned grimmer, and when he spoke again, he did so in a cold tone. “It is not often we get heroes staying at the palace, and we are busy enough here as it is without pandering to the needs of arrogant youths. Perhaps, just maybe, we can find a use for you in Varrock.”
With that he turned away.
Castimir bristled at the deliberate slight.
Not so fast.
“Only if I think such use is worthy of me, Captain Rovin,” he replied loudly, so all could hear. “But regardless, a wizard still needs to sleep, and to eat, and to bathe-especially those of us who are famous. So if you will be so kind, I think I will take my leave of you now.
“Goodnight!”
The young wizard nearly missed breakfast, so unwilling was he to stir from the comfort of the soft bed. It was only when Doric threatened to split his door asunder did he finally dress and join his friends.
“You are pale, Castimir,” Theodore said as soon as he saw him.
“I have spent too long indoors, Theodore, at the Wizards’ Tower.”
“And you are late, Castimir,” Ebenezer taunted. “Could you not magic yourself here, or is that beyond your meagre capabilities?”
Castimir smiled, for he, like the alchemist, enjoyed their banter over which discipline was more important, that of science or magic.
“My tardiness is entirely the fault of my yak,” the wizard protested. “Arisha sent him to me after the war, but the summer weather is too hot for him. You know how stubborn he is.”
His greeting was curtailed when he spied the food on offer before him. Many of the palace’s inhabitants had already eaten, for it was the day of the festival and preparations were still to be finalised, which necessitated an early start for most. Nevertheless, there was still a feast to be consumed, and he dug in with great enthusiasm.
In between mouthfuls, Castimir told of what he had been doing since their separation in Falador, six months before. His reputation as one of Kara’s companions had made his position in the Wizards’ Tower uneasy. Older and more powerful sorcerers were jealous of his fame, and yet they knew how important it was that their order maintained a visible presence amongst the common folk of the human kingdoms. Castimir’s renown had given them exactly the excuse they needed to remove him from their presence, and he found himself being pushed toward a diplomatic role.
“But is that not what you always wanted?” Ebenezer asked. “To travel and see the world?”
“Yes, but it means I will not be kept aware of the goings on in the Tower,” he replied. “And it will cause me to forego any additional training I might have received, and that does not bode well for my future.”
“What of the spell books of Master Segainus?” Doric said, his voice lowered. “Have they yielded anything of interest?” Segainus was a master wizard who had died on the ramparts of Falador, and his diaries had fallen into Castimir’s possession. Such knowledge, he knew, could be very dangerous in the hands of one as inexperienced as he, yet he guarded it jealously.
“I have spent many hours poring over Master Segainus’s books,” Castimir admitted. “So many hours that I think I now know them by heart. I even used some of his theories in my thesis, though carefully, so they could not be identified as such. In truth, however, I fear I may have been too ambitious-some of his diaries contain text written in an ancient language that is unknown to me. Even the libraries of the Tower have provided no clues.”
He fell silent in order to focus on his meal, but his mind wandered over the books that had become his prized possessions. One phrase, scrawled in a margin, plagued him day and night, and refused to make sense.
Will the Dark Lady and her order be able to help?
Nothing in his studies had shed any light on the identity of Segainus’s “Dark Lady,” and more than one of his fellow wizards had dismissed the phrase a
s the ramblings of an old man past his prime. Yet Castimir had refused to do so.
Suddenly aware that his friends were waiting for him to continue, he looked up from his rapidly diminishing breakfast and grimaced.
“Indeed, I fear I might have failed my thesis,” he confessed. “If that is so, I will be required to submit another next year, and for now must remain an apprentice. While I am here, I am to meet a representative of the Tower in Varrock. Aubury is his name. He has been tasked to judge my work, and will tell me if I have passed… or not.”
The group looked up as William entered the chamber, and Theodore introduced Castimir.
“I have been asked to act as host to your friends, Theodore,” the young noble said, and he turned to face them all. “Will you accompany us to see Kara-Meir this morning?”
“So she is here?” Castimir said. “Is Arisha with her?”
“Neither Arisha nor Gar’rth are in Varrock.” Theodore lowered his gaze. “And Kara refused to see me last night.”
Castimir froze, his appetite souring instantly.
“Not here? But they went with Kara to The Wilderness.” He paused to remember. “Arisha sent me letters, and there was no word of them parting. Both of them went…”
“We don’t know anything definite yet, Castimir,” Doric said slowly, reaching out so his hand was resting on the wizard’s shoulder. “No one has spoken to Kara.”
Theodore nodded.
“In fact, I am far from convinced that it is her.” The squire described the behaviour that had caused him to doubt the identity of the woman in the inn. “It seems so unlike her.”
“But today we shall go and confront her,” Ebenezer declared. “If it is Kara-Meir, we must see how she fared in The Wilderness, and determine whether she needs our help.”
Theodore stood.
“I cannot come with you,” he said bitterly. “I have to ensure that my candidates are prepared for the festival. But I hope you have better success than I.” The squire gave a curt nod and left to attend his duties, while William offered to guide them to the Flying Donkey Inn, there to answer the riddle that was Kara-Meir.
