by M. S. Verish
“Guess that’s good,” Rourke said with a shrug.
“Let us see what your fortune holds.” Rashir handed him the three dice, and the brute shook them and spilled them as the Priagent had done. “So what’s that mean?” he asked, gaping at the foreign symbols.
“Your past is conflicted but separate. You have left it behind you,” Rashir said. “Your present says that you have found a direction, but your resolve is weak. Your future…” He held up the white cube. “You will be subject to great change, and it will present you with much adversity.”
“What does that mean?” Rourke asked, concerned.
Rashir gave him a slight smile. “You will find it difficult to adjust.”
“Can I try it again?”
“The Twelve Oracles only speak the truth but once. But it truly is for you to decide if you believe in what they say.” The Priagent rose and knelt before Argamus.
“I confess I am skeptical,” the medoriate said, pulling at his beard.
“I would have thought one of your profession to be less so.”
“In light of magic, I have very few reservations,” Argamus said. “This, however, is not magic.”
“True,” Rashir admitted. “But who is not to say that all forces—magical or not—hold some portent?” He pressed his palms atop the medoriate’s, then allowed him to pick from the bag.
“The Bear,” Argamus said.
“The Bear is made from bone. The bear is a creature of habit—sluggish and stubborn. It can be fierce and defensive—quick to protect what it feels it has claim to. The bear also has great strength—in body and in heart.”
“How interesting.” Argamus glanced to see his companions’ reactions before rolling the dice.
“You are very much connected to your past,” Rashir said, “as though it is inescapable. But it has weakened your resolve in the present. Your vision is unclear; you do not know what it is you want.” He looked the medoriate in the eyes. “The future indicates you must look to your past to resolve your unrest. Only then can you clear your path.”
“Yes, well…very interesting…and very amusing. Thank you,” Argamus said, though his brow was furrowed with thought.
“Lord Hale,” Rashir said, “will you remove your gloves so that I might better see you?”
Hale bit his lip and made a face. “Yes, I suppose.” He carefully pulled at the fingers until each glove came free. He held out his hands.
“You are not the skeptic our friend Argamus is, are you?” Rashir asked.
“More so, I admit,” Hale said. “But there is little I do not question.”
“Your hands…you have a slight tremor,” Rashir noted.
Hale’s face remained stone. “The result of a childhood illness.”
Rashir closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he looked at the noble with renewed interest. “Choose your token.”
Hale dropped the object into Rashir’s hand. “The Eagle, made of skystone. A spirit who knows no boundaries and can free itself from worldly needs. A traveler—one who searches but who has definite sight.”
Hale rolled the dice.
“Your past is fragmented. Buried—by choice or by the passage of time. Your present is a strong force—the place where your mind and heart most frequent. So much so that your future is short… Short-sighted. You may be unwilling to look ahead, though it would seem the future is remarkably ambiguous for you.”
“Fortunately that is not the case, or I would not be here now on this prospective mission,” Hale said as he immediately replaced his gloves. “If you do not mind, perhaps we can transition into more pertinent matters.”
“The future is a pertinent matter, Lord Hale,” Rashir said, rising. If he had been insulted by the noble’s curt attitude, then he did not show it. He replaced the bag and the tokens beneath the cushion. “In light of my proposal to the Guild… Where does the arrangement stand?”
Hale folded his hands in his lap. “We are here on good faith, to assist you in your quest to obtain Veloria’s water so that you might reproduce this miraculous serum of which you boast. The Guild will market the serum and provide the necessary materials for you to continue this venture. You understand that we will claim our share of the profits—seventy percent.”
Rashir raised his eyebrows and sat back upon his cushion. There would have been silence but for the murmur of the brothers surrounding them. The Priagent licked his lips. “That is quite a sum, I must say. For your ‘assistance’ the Guild is not timid to reap of my labor.”
“Ah, but for such a serum, what would seem like a trivial percentage for you would undoubtedly secure any man a wealthy future,” Hale said. “Of course, the product must be genuine in that it will do as you say it will: extend life and rejuvenate the body. The Guild did express reluctance in that we have not seen the effects of this substance.” He met Rashir’s gaze and held it.
“You desire proof, but it is difficult to demonstrate such results in so short a time,” Rashir said.
Hale did not falter. “The customers will expect it.”
“Say that, for now, you do as you promise: humor my mission in good faith… My own doubts reside in how you will assist me. I also have no proof of your support.”
Hale nodded to Argamus. “Please elaborate upon the powers of your cantalere, Medoriate.”
Argamus reluctantly pulled Whitestar in front of him. “I am a wizard of the First Rank in Magical Antiquities,” he said, recalling what he had rehearsed. “This particular cantalere is wrought from a Velorian tree. It is said to have been carved by the Ilangiel themselves, gifted to Humans so they could defend against Shadow in their absence. Traditionally it had been handed down a particular bloodline…until it was lost. I recovered it in one of my travels and discovered the secret as to how to employ it.” Fortunately most of the tale was true, because he did not fancy himself a great liar. As it was, his last couple lines were uttered with his eyes upon the staff and not upon the Priagent.
Argamus continued when the silence obviated he had everyone’s complete attention. “It has the same magic as the Ilangiel—the magic of Light—by which I can defend our party as we infiltrate the Great Forest and find the river.”
“Most interesting,” Rashir said, borrowing the medoriate’s line. His eyes were rapt to the cantalere in question. “The tale intrigues me, but we are still without proof of its power.” His attention returned to Hale. “This impasse leaves us only two options, and I would think you have not come here to waste your time if you did not place some credence in my proposal.”
Hale nodded.
“But wealth is nothing to me,” Rashir said with a shrug. “If I refused the help of the Guild, and I set about this mission on my own, I would stand to gain far more, would I not?”
“You mistake the role of the Guild in Northern Secramore,” Hale said, his voice low. “This land is not ruled by kings, queens, and emperors.”
Rashir held up a hand. “I understand your position as well as I understand the power of the Merchants’ Guild. You are, in so many words, saying that I truly cannot refuse. So I ask you, if money is not my motivation, what else can you offer? Such an organization would be capable of granting most anything, I would imagine.”
Hale looked irritated. “What would you want?”
Rashir smiled. “Despite what you have said about regents in this land, I desire my own territory. I desire what I had in Southern Secramore, but here, it would not be a jest. A fair-sized stretch of land in the Freelands—that is what I would ask.”
“The Freelands have no governing monarch, nor would the people tolerate one,” Hale said, impassive. “That is why they are the ‘Freelands.’”
“You are too literal, too obvious.” Rashir shook his head. “Your own Guild does not rule with any title.”
Hale narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin. “You believe we can grant you this power.”
“I do,” Rashir said easily. “For you, a trifle.”
A stretch of silence followed, and the frail nobleman was at the center of the storm, thoughts brewing behind the pale, expressionless face. At last, he nodded. “I imagine we could come to an agreeable arrangement,” Hale said.
“Excellent,” Rashir said and clapped his hands. “Then there is nothing left to discuss apart from our departure.” He started to move toward the smoking bowl.
“Your vision,” Hale said suddenly.
Rashir paused and waited for him to elaborate.
“You have a vision—an objective. I am not speaking of the serum or of any acquisition of property.” Hale would not release him from his stare. “What is your future, Priagent Diemh? Do you wish to ascend in the ranks of the Guild? Create a notable reputation amongst the Secramorian powers? What do you see for yourself?”
“Why, Lord Hale, I wish to rule the world,” Rashir said, and lifted the lid of the bowl.
Laughter echoed amongst his brothers, and for a moment, the visitors wondered if they were not suddenly witness to the confession of a dark and sinister mastermind. But then the cloud passed, and the Priagent waved the notion away with a casual flip of his hand. He proceeded to procure what looked like a flute and covered the bowl again.
“In Jornoa, an agreement is bound by the sharing of this.” He held up the object. “It is symbolic in that the pipe unites us through the air we breathe. One idea supported by many.” He drew in a breath, and when he exhaled, he did so through the pipe. A low, resonant note permeated the air with the smoke, shaping it in a twisting arc that spiraled above Rashir’s head. He passed the pipe to Hale, who was biting his lip again.
The nobleman made a face before he forced himself to press his lips to the pipe as Rashir had done. He, too, exhaled, and in conjunction with the note and the smoke was a fit of his coughing.
“Nesif, some water, please,” Rashir said. When it was clear that Hale had recovered, the pipe moved to Argamus and then to Rourke before it was passed amongst the brothers. When everyone had partaken, Rashir stood. “There are rooms in which you can retire for the night; I am sure you must be weary. It will take but a day or so for us to prepare for the journey, and until then, your needs will be tended as my guests.”
“The storm,” Hale said, rising. “You know its origin.”
Rashir nodded. “As will you, soon enough. I, too, had to consider how I would enter a magic forest before the Guild offered its aid.”
While the rest of the brothers retreated, Nesif remained as an escort to guide them to their respective chambers. As they started to leave, Rashir addressed them. “There is a Jornoan saying that I will impart to you for the night. In your tongue, it speaks, ‘May the night bring dreams that promise tomorrow, and may tomorrow honor your dreams.’” He bowed and watched them disappear from the hall.
*
“I am not certain I understand your tactics, Lord Hale,” Argamus said, easing himself into the chair across from the bed.
Hale gave him a wary glance as he unpacked his bag and seized his costrel.
“Our host was most gracious and kind; I would have thought it courteous to reciprocate. I would think it would make negotiations run a bit more smoothly.” He pulled at his beard and stared at the nobleman.
“The Merchants’ Guild doesn’t hide behind courtesies,” Hale said.
“I cannot imagine the organization performs successful business by being rude,” Argamus muttered.
Hale turned to face him. “I know what you must think, but this puddle is deeper than what the surface reflects. No matter what you think of my behavior, you must follow my lead—without question.” Though the voice did not belong to the tracker, the tone of it rang true to its speaker.
“Do you think me incapable of such a task?” Argamus asked.
“If I did, you would not be here.”
The medoriate pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes.
Rourke, who had held his tongue in the tension, thought he might ease it. “Rashir didn’t seem like such a bad guy. I thought he was gonna be this mean, huge monster.”
Hale said nothing but took another drink from the costrel.
“Our host had offered us his finest beverage,” Argamus said.
“Unfortunately, I had to decline it.”
Rourke scuffed at the floor. “I don’t think it went too bad. We’re gonna leave soon, and it’ll get better.” He shifted uncomfortably in the following silence. “And I bet Rashir’s gonna show us the Prophet and the Demon. You know he’s gotta before we go. Where do ya think they are, Hawkwin—”
“Lord Hale,” the nobleman interrupted sharply. “We can have no mistakes.”
Rourke shrank back. “Sorry.”
Hale’s expression softened, and he rubbed his brow. “The truth of the matter is, I am ill at ease with our situation. If the both of you continue to upkeep your roles as you did tonight, we might have fortune on our side. Be formal and polite, but don’t be too polite. Let me be the skeptic, rude as I might seem. Anything that you should see or hear in my absence, I must know about it.”
“I cannot think that there will be many instances when we will be divided,” Argamus said. “We will be traveling together—confined, so to speak, by each other’s company.” He tugged at his robe, which was still slightly damp. “I wonder at the practicality of this spell of illusion William has inflicted upon us. Rashir’s entourage will be our entourage, and privacy will be at minimum. How do we cope with this spell when we will be watched at all times? Specifically, I consider the changing of one’s attire.”
“I don’t know that there is another answer aside from being careful to mind all that we do. Rourke will have to be careful of his weapon and his movements. I will have to mind my true height, and you will need to remember your beard,” Hale said.
Argamus lifted the lengthy growth. “It is rather difficult to ignore.”
“The matter of clothing is this: you must consider your true size. The illusion will fit the material to match our appearances. This means, however, that we should keep anything we remove from the eyes of our company. If Rourke removes his belt, it will show wear in the places fitting of a smaller-framed man.”
“I don’t think he’s gotta worry, Haw—er—Mr. Hale,” Rourke said. “He looks the same size to me.”
Argamus sighed.
“Remember, you are a thug,” Hale said, poking Rourke in the chest. “You’re not supposed to think, not supposed to jest or be overly friendly. Err on the side of silence, for you are a seasoned fighter, and little will crack your exterior.”
“Crack my what?” Rourke asked, rubbing where the finger had poked a little too hard.
“You’re a tough guy,” Hale said. “If you think you are about to smile or laugh, then you should think about something that makes you feel more serious or angry.” He turned on Argamus. “Mind your intake of wine.”
“Your pardon?” Argamus said, offended. “It was offered to me, and I have not assumed the role of a rude medoriate.”
“Moderation,” Hale said. “For any of us to consume too much—to cross the line into drunkenness—will inevitably shatter our guise. We must keep our minds and our wits about us.” He tapped his head. “I know there is a lot to remember, but try to immerse yourself in your character.”
Rourke stifled a yawn, which infected Argamus. “At this moment, I should like to immerse myself in much-needed sleep,” the medoriate said, rubbing his eyes.
Hale moved to the door. “Tomorrow will bring more challenges. Do your best to rest so that you can focus.”
“Good night, Mr. Hale,” Rourke said, following Argamus out the door.
“Try again,” Hale said.
The brute paused. “I…would say….”
Hale waited, and when it became clear Rourke needed a hint, he grunted.
“Uh… Oh!” The brute smiled as he caught on. He grunted in return, and delighted by the gruffness of his sound, did another.
Hale granted him a wry smile before shuttin
g the door to his room.
*
Kariayla could see the brightness of the sun through her eyelids, though she could not remember having fallen asleep. She tried to recall what had happened before she opened her eyes, and when her thoughts returned to the beast, her frozen body, and the summoning of lightning, her heart raced anew. Fully conscious now, she blinked, gaping at the sight before her.
She faced a massive, glowing tree. It was three times as wide as an average man was tall, and it stretched up to the canopy with long and graceful arching limbs that seemed to bear the sky in addition to its gleaming leaves. She could not see the top—could barely perceive the fragments of blue amidst the golden halo of foliage. From where she sat, she could feel the warmth radiating from the enchanted arbor. It was not actual heat, but an inner sensation of energy—vibrancy that tingled in her veins and beneath her skin.
Kariayla did not want to wrest her eyes from it, but her dazzled thoughts slowly shifted back to her situation and the memories hinting at the night before. But other than her reluctant recollection, there was no trace of the mishap—no beast, no scent of char, and no… She looked frantically around her. No Ruby. Her entire location had changed, but who had brought her here? What had happened to Ruby?
A breeze through the trees stirred the boughs, and the leaves fluttered like birds. The trees shifted—or was it her imagination? Kariayla rubbed her eyes, but nothing had changed. Or had it?
“Trespasser, explain yourself.”
It was a male voice—strong and clear, with an accent—but it did not come from anywhere around her.
“I…don’t understand,” she said softly, feeling silly for having spoken aloud to no visible person.
“Why have you come here?” The voice was more insistent, and Kariayla realized it resounded inside her mind—like someone whispering a secret, but more akin to the volume of her own personal thoughts.
“This is Veloria, isn’t it?” she asked. “William tried to send me to Veloria.”
For a while there was no response, and Kariayla tried to interject her own questions in the silence. “Are you one of the Ilangiel? Or are you one of the Great Spirits here to guide me?” She stared desperately into the trees. “Please, I need your help.”
