The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  “Bakree?” What’s a bakree?” Grit asked.

  “It’s a small loin cloth that covers your ... you know, unless you prefer to work out naked. Many do ... ” Kyra said, the corners of her mouth turned up slightly. She saw her father frowning at her and shrugged innocently.

  Grit gave Shar’ran a woeful look while he searched the bed and found nothing resembling the article of clothing referenced.

  Shar’ran knew that the girls had probably hidden the garment to cause Grit some embarrassment. He laughed a little to himself and thought, “It is going to be very interesting around here for a while.”

  Exhaustion

  Ja’tar woke up exhausted and mentally drained. The sun was already up and its warm golden rays were streaming through the thinly veiled clouds into his room, which was located in the highest tower in the Havenhold Keep. His room was isolated from the rest of the Keep and was adjacent to where the fabled magi known as the Ten lived in the days of Ror. They had died in the last battles with the Dark Wizards and their rooms were still sealed, locked by the powerful magic of their wards, even after these sixteen-hundred years.

  He kept his eyes forcibly closed because he didn’t really feel like getting up. His night had again been fraught with disturbing dreams of the heinous battles of Ror and the culminating Cleansing. The faces of colleagues and friends long dead haunted his sleep causing him to relive the horrors of the magi wars.

  On top of this, he was hearing voices, more specifically, the voice of a young girl crying for help. It was like sound traveling on the wind, there, and then gone. He seemed unable to locate the sound and, for that matter, couldn’t even remember what she was saying. All he knew was that she desperately needed his help.

  He rubbed his crusty eyes and blearily stared at the ornate ceiling, allowing time for his body to wake. Between the night-sweats and the disturbing dreams, he felt more exhausted now than when he crawled off to bed in the wee hours of the morning. He had been utterly spent from pouring over the stacks of tomes he had discovered in a dusty corner of the library, tomes that were best forgotten. It had been past the setting of the Ocht’or moon, long after the others had called it a night, when he staggered up the tall spiral staircase at the center of the Keep.

  Ja’tar sighed and rolled over, burying his head in his thick down-filled pillow. His head pounded, although he credited that to the many glasses of strong elven wine he had consumed. He tried to sit up too quickly, which caused his back to spasm. Wincing, he rubbed his lower lumbar, trying to work out the knots that had formed there. He was all too aware that he had spent too many hours bent over the books at his desk, and his complaining back was letting him know that it needed more ... rest. Cracking his eyes open, he stared at the tall stack of leather-bound books and the still half-full decanter of wine sitting on the corner of his desk. He seriously considered pouring himself a glass of the wine before breakfast.

  He had nobody to blame but himself for how he felt. He had been up late every night this past week scouring the old tomes by lamp light, looking for any mention of magic from the past that might help him choose a direction. All that the research had accomplished, so far, was to dredge up painful memories. Little had been found that was of use, which left him befuddled. It seemed incomprehensible to him that his dilemma was unique in the history of the wizards.

  Even the hidden tomes in the Cave of the Forbidden had failed to lend any clarity, although there were vast stores of the library that appeared to be off limits to access by him. The protective spells had painfully let him know that he was not welcome in those areas. To him, the Keeper, being restricted from anything in the Keep left a foul taste in his mouth! If he had more time, he would have worked on figuring out why. But for now, he had too many other irons in the fire to give it a second thought.

  These past few weeks were weighing heavily upon his conscience. He supposed it was part of the curse of being the Keeper, but knew it had a high probability of being a personality flaw! His father tried to warn him before he ascended and he had assumed the office of Keeper, but he had been too young and arrogant to understand the warnings. A smirk filled with irony spread across his face.

  He had initially blamed his father for not communicating effectively. Balkan had left his warnings in a series of cryptic notes filled with obscure and sometimes subtle political references. Ja’tar did not have the gift of politics, not like his father. Of course, now, the message seemed loud and clear, like a fiery pyre on a rocky shoreline cliff shining on a crystal-clear night.

  Ja’tar pushed himself to his feet, hobbled over to the washbasin, and poured some water into the bowl. Pushing up his sleeves, he proceeded to wash the sleep out of his eyes. He looked up into the mirror and staring into a face that seemed foreign and out of place, gaunt, with disheveled hair and red bloodshot eyes, it shocked him.

  He desperately needed a bath and a hot meal. He chuckled to himself. What he really needed was more sleep, but he couldn’t seem to turn off his bloody brain. Stress had a way of manifesting itself in devious ways, like a slow sickness that creeps up on you during the course of everyday living.

  Ultimately, he was the one who was responsible for the safety and wellbeing of the Keep and its staff. Not that he welcomed having all that authority, but there just wasn’t anyone else to help shoulder the burden. The years of attrition had left them severely understaffed and the once bustling halls were now filled with silent echoes.

  When Tar’ac, the watcher, had been incinerated through the ancient orb named El’batar, the sheer impossibility of the event had sent him frantically searching for answers. Instead of answers, he came back with questions, the kind of questions that made your eyes widen and your skin crawl. The more he dug, the more events seemed to point the blame squarely on the shoulders of the Ten.

  He clearly couldn’t blame the Ten for Tar’ac’s death, but their actions seemed to have contributed to the confusion in the realms, and maybe even the glamour. There were few others capable of such a powerful spell. He was faced with a conundrum. Who were the Ten? He had thought he knew—but now? It seemed that they were not who he thought they were. His eyes narrowed as he chewed on that idea for a few more seconds.

  He remembered them being the greatest magi who ever lived, sacrificing all for the Keep and the realms, but cracks had begun to form in that solid wall of belief. It seemed that not everyone shared his reverent idolatry, and there were enough inconsistencies in the stories to warrant challenges, or at least investigation. It was just one more thing for him to fret about in a long list of items that were keeping him awake at night.

  Once a very long time ago, the wizards of the Keep were rulers of the realms, now they were but observers, relegated to a sequestered existence with only study as a distraction.

  That presented what appeared to be insurmountable challenges. By decree, the Keep was not allowed to involve itself in the politics of the world of man. The Guild, an autonomous ruling body comprised of all the magic races, specifically forbade it and enforcement was merciless. It was the Guild’s primary directive, and violation was met with swift punishment, sometimes even death by the Zola’far, the unnamed assassins. Magi were strictly forbidden from openly walking the realms except for the few chosen who were called the travelers, and even they remained covert—their true identities a secret, and themselves forbidden from spinning magic in the open.

  For nearly sixteen-hundred years the Keep had followed the rules of the Guild, put in place after the great battles of Ror to protect the realms from power hungry, egocentric wizards,. They had proved themselves unworthy of trust and were now monitored like small children.

  Given recent events, Ja’tar wasn’t sure about the Guild. He had suspicions that haunted him, inconsistencies in the Guild’s responses, irrational behavior that defied logic. He had even risked their wrath by sending Dra’kor and company out to investigate recent events, although he and Zedd’aki held that fact in strict confidence. He rationalized the
risk because the Keep was blind. In secret, he hoped he was right in his assertion that it would be better to obtain forgiveness than it would be to gain acquiescence to send out adventurers.

  He and Zedd’aki had history, they had grown up together and he trusted him implicitly. He was a good balance to his own impetuous nature, if not mildly infuriating at times. He dreaded the confrontation he knew was forthcoming.

  Ja’tar made an itemized list in his head of what he knew. Foremost, the Keep was under a powerful glamour that prevented them from using true magic, and mayhap—seeing the truth. This devious glamour was unlike anything he had ever encountered before and he knew that he would need the assistance of Zedd’aki to dismiss it. A note written in his own hand in his journal, from his venture outside the Keep the previous night, had left him puzzled and perplexed. The cryptic message said that Zedd’aki was a spellcaster, whatever that was.

  Personally, he didn’t even recall writing the note, although additional passages in his journal explained that he most likely would not recall the trip. How convenient! He would have dismissed all his entries as poppycock, but his seal was set on the page. He glanced down at the Keeper’s ring on his finger. Its magic could not be replicated. The ring shifted its shape continuously, and only the wearer could know if the seal came from the ring, because the ring would tell him that it was so.

  He knew he had made these journal entries, for the ring could only work its magic when worn by a sanctioned Keeper. He could only remove the ring to ascend planes of existence, and if he died—only the new Keeper could remove the ring. These entries were his all right, and they bothered him greatly.

  He swore aloud. That was the most infuriating thing about the spell; he categorically could not recollect the journey, well ... most of it at any rate. Initially, he had presumed that the spell only obfuscated the wisdom he had accumulated over the centuries, but recent events and memories were also affected and altered in subtle unexpected ways.

  That conundrum aside, he pondered back to last night when he had violated the direct orders of the Guild and ventured out of the Keep. From the notes he had left himself, he was able to cast spells of old and remember things he had little recollection of when he was in and around the Keep. He remembered naught of it, not even the journey. The last memory he clearly recalled was letting himself out of the great gate.

  The glamour was ingeniously devious. Both he and Zedd’aki had forgotten different things and he assumed that other wizards of the Keep also had vast swatches of their memories that were missing. It seemed to have control over all of them to one extent or another. The only effect they seemed to have in common was that they were unable to perform real magic and they could not clearly remember events post Ror. As a matter of fact, they couldn’t clearly remember much at all for the centuries right after the war, and what little they did remember, seemed to conflict with each other’s recollections and the written records they had accidentally uncovered in the Hall of Records.

  Ja’tar grunted as he bent over and slipped on his well-worn sandals. Standing, he grabbed a towel and knotted his robe. He released the ward from the thick oak door and felt the intricately woven silky web-like threads of red, aqua and yellow magic on his face when he exited his room. He closed the door, reset his wards and began his walk down the giant circular staircase to the hot spring baths in the caves under the Keep.

  He reflected while he slowly lumbered down the spiral staircase to the atrium. At least he had made a wise decision when he sent Dra’kor, Men’ak and Grit out into the near realms. They proved their worth in gold for the plethora of information they had provided.

  From Dra’kor’s notes, he knew that the village of Three Rivers was under attack by catomen and wolven, and that their plowed fields had been poisoned by shadow demons, Ululates Umbra. Grit was missing, thrown over the falls at Haagen’s Cross. He prayed that somehow, however unlikely, he survived. Then there was the rumors of invasion at Five Peaks. Unfortunately, Five Peaks was inaccessible because the snow in the Winseer mountain passes was still too deep to allow access. He imagined that they were facing similar trials to the people of Three Rivers.

  Although he took credit for the pure brilliance of sending the boys out into the realms, he couldn’t really call it a decision. Decision would be a poor choice of words and he smiled at the irony. His original objective was to get Dra’kor and his closest friends out of the way so that he could manipulate the rest of the Keep into agreeing with him to have a Closing on the realm of Naan.

  He still worried that a demon of immense power wandered there, but for now the Querd totems would take care of the problem, and keep that realm sequestered from magic. He was quite certain that the demon had sealed its own fate when it had used the spell summoning the Nagracumulo, the soul stealer demon from the fourth plane. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry, and a Closing was called for.

  This whole situation was perplexing, since demons tended to have a strong self-preservation instinct; and all knew that the realms were protected against use of strong magic by the Querd towers erected by the ancients. For years, wizards and demons squabbled, testing each other, but it was rare for either party to step over the line and risk a Closing from which neither survived. The Closed realms were sequestered from all magic, so neither wizard nor demon could ever visit again. Since demons were of magic, they ceased to exist, identical to the magi who were trapped within the borders when the towers chimed, although technically, they just grew old.

  For a second, his eyes welled up. His sister, To’paz, had been a traveler in that realm and her fate remained uncertain, for she was now also cut off from the magic of the Zylliac, even if she had survived the brutal attack by the demons. Zedd’aki was probably right; she was resourceful and most likely survived the attack. However, if she didn’t have sufficient stored magic, she would wither and die within days, for she, like all the wizards, was several centuries old and was kept young by strong magic.

  He prayed that she had been wise and had stored magic in case of emergency. Zedd’aki was quick to point out that To’paz was a very competent sorceress and knew the risks, and like most of the travelers, she probably took the necessary steps to assure her existence—at least for a while. The whole matter was out of his hands and he felt helpless. He was unaccustomed to the feeling and it irritated him to no end.

  Adding to his frustrations was the reality that communications with his ragtag group of adventurers had been erratic at best. He considered himself fortunate that Men’ak was a deathwalker; at least that is what he claimed. Ja’tar wasn’t exactly sure of what that entailed, but Zedd’aki seemed to have a strong recollection of why that would be advantageous.

  He had established a way to communicate directly with Men’ak to learn about the condition of the realms, although the single time he had done so was fraught with dangers. Even he recognized that he would not be able to use this method on a regular basis, as it required him to die.

  The magic note box from Ogden worked, but there was just so much you could write on a hand-sized sheet of parchment. He supposed they would just have to make do. If the orbs weren’t so dangerous and he was more competent, he would have used them. However, it was of no use. He wasn’t even able to control the orb sufficiently to direct observation.

  Ja’tar reached the Cave of the Springs and wound his way down to the pools. He felt the wall of moisture envelop him when he stepped past the door. The room was the darkest of night and Ja’tar lit the torches on either side of the great hot spring with a wave of his hand. He watched steam rise from the natural spring-heated mineral water.

  The water was still, like ice on frozen tundra ponds, clear and polished, and they reflected the beautiful designs of the multicolored stalagmites hanging down from the limestone ceiling. The room was vacant and silent, with only the echo of an occasional drop of water falling from the ceiling far above, breaking the silence. He removed his robe, set it to the side, and slid into the mineral
filled water. Ja’tar winced at the initial shock of the hot water scalding his skin, but visibly relaxed when he felt its healing warmth pulling the stress out of his bone-weary body.

  Today, he would have to inform Zedd’aki of his venture out of the Keep. He fully expected a rousing lecture and winced. He shook his head and grimaced. He reckoned that Zedd’aki would be furious, and rightly so. Zedd’aki was quick to scold him whenever he acted irrationally and overtly careless. This probably qualified as both and he prepared himself for a good tongue-lashing. Zedd’aki was never overtly mean, but he did speak his mind, in total disregard for Ja’tar’s position as the Keeper of the Havenhold wizards. He was a true friend.

  He grabbed a nearby towel, dried his hands and reached into his robe’s pocket to retrieve his journal, the only proof he had that the excursion occurred. It was filled with copious notes about what he observed, notes he would use when he presented his case. He knew his friend would quickly calm down once he understood what was at stake. Maybe ...

  He resisted the urge to read his entries again and returned the journal to his robe. He sighed heavily and set his head back against the rounded ledge surrounding the pool, letting the steaming hot water pull the toxins out of his body.

  He pondered whether he should take the day off and spend it in hiding. He absently nodded to himself. It would give him more time to study and perhaps find a solution to their problems.

  The Way

  When Grit reached the center of Avælador, the small grassy plot nestled in the center of the jagged cliff-lined valley, it was already bustling with villagers. They quickly rushed to set baskets, gourds, bows, spears and clothes neatly into place in preparation for the morning ritual. Grit saw hunters, gatherers, warriors, children and many others whose trades were not evident. Since he had not yet seen the main village, he was in awe of the scene.