The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  He trudged back to his desk on bruised and battered feet and picked up the relatively long note that Dra’kor had written the night before; the writing was so little, he needed his glasses to read it. He was eager to discuss the note with his friend.

  One of the most interesting conundrums was his urgent necessity to contact the boys directly and have them answer his questions. He wasn’t sure how to do that. Most certainly, he didn’t want to stop his heart every time he needed to talk to Men’ak, however, it was the only way he currently knew how to meet a deathwalker on his turf. He needed a new technique. First, he had to discover how, and then there was evaluating the likelihood that they may be discovered. He couldn’t hazard that; the Guild had eyes everywhere.

  Ja’tar rubbed his temples. His head ached and the space behind his eyes throbbed. When his stomach rumbled, he realized that he hadn’t eaten since his trip and he had already finished two oversized goblets of wine. Who says that wine doesn’t make a good breakfast?

  He set down the empty glass and jerked suddenly, stumbling sideways and almost missing the table. His hand bobbled the stemware and nearly tossed the fine fragile glass to the floor. He just managed to get a sturdy grasp on the stem and set it down in the middle of the table using both hands. Maybe he should eat.

  He scratched a few notes in the margins next to Dra’kor’s comment about the skree, set down the invaluable note and sat down on the bed to put on his sandals. He rubbed his sore feet, still blistered from his illicit trek the night before.

  He had not walked that distance in centuries, and both his feet and back were complaining. He could swear he bruised the bottom of both feet. What he really wanted was to crawl back into bed and take some more time to think about his problem, but with nature calling and his stomach grumbling, he left the security of his apartment and slowly walked, like a cripple, down the huge spiral staircase to the atrium stateroom below. He stopped at the garderobe and relieved himself, watching his body’s waste be magically destroyed as it slid down the latrine chute.

  It wasn’t long before he found himself in the mammoth dining room, not really remembering the journey. He grinned, knowing his nose would have led him there even if he hadn’t known the way by heart.

  Gretta had already prepared the standard fare for lunch. The meat pies and their savory smell filled the room. Ja’tar grabbed two of the piping hot pies off a tall stack, burning his fingers and hastily tossed them on his empty pewter plate. He smiled at Gretta, but received a scowl in return. She placed her hands on her apron-clad hips and shook her head in disbelief. Ja’tar chuckled to himself and smiled widely at her as he shrugged. He received a wooden spoon shook sternly in his face as a reply.

  “Just because you’re the Keeper, don’t you be thinkin’ you can just lollygag into here and be helping yerself to whatever hits your fancy at any hour of the day.”

  You would think that after all these years she would be used to the irregular eating schedules of the wizards, he thought to himself. He found it amusing that it still bothered her, or perhaps it was just for show.

  Ja’tar shrugged his shoulders, fielding his excuse. “I missed breaking fast this morn. Keep business had me up too late.”

  Gretta harrumphed, turned her back to the man, and stormed off in a huff.

  Ja’tar knew her well enough to know she wasn’t really upset, but was just letting him know she wasn’t buying his pretext. He chortled to himself, admitting that he used it at least twice a week, and always got the same response from her.

  He balanced a plate stacked high with piping hot bread he had snagged, and struggled while attempting to slather on the butter. The plate wobbled and he thought it would surely topple. He filled his mug with some mead, sloshing some over the top and onto the floor. He used his boot to nonchalantly spread it around, hiding the mess. Like a sneaking child, he checked to see if Gretta was watching before he made off.

  He wound his way to the passage that led to the back room, walked over to the hearth and sat down with his back facing the huge bed of glowing coals. It felt good, although he had to slide down slightly when his back got hot enough to burn him through the robe. It seemed that someone had built the fire too big, whether because of impatience or just plain stupidity, he didn’t know. A fire should be big enough to provide heat, or cook some meat, not so big as to cook the person in the room. Well, nothing could be done about it, but let the logs burn down.

  He was alone. The only sounds were the popping and sizzling of the pine in the fireplace. An occasional slurp echoed when he licked a finger to remove the thick gravy that had spread over his hand while he slowly took oversized bites of the succulent meat pie.

  He sat in peace and enjoyed his meal while pondering his choices. He turned his head sideways to take another bite and had to quickly wrap his tongue around the pie to keep a big gob of meat and gravy from falling on the floor.

  The pie was delicious, and for a while, it provided a pleasant distraction to the mounting problems that were in his queue. Unfortunately, the distraction was brief. His mind soon wandered back and filled his head with how-comes and what-ifs.

  He knew that neutralizing the glamour was at the top of his list. Although the fact that Dra’kor had written that there were no real magi in the Keep any longer bothered him greatly. He pondered the deeper meaning of that. He knew it had to do with this ‘old’ magic he had referenced in his journal, but the true meaning was beyond him. He realized he needed to write down more questions in his journal, so that he could answer them when he made his next trip.

  He pulled out his journal and jotted down some notes to himself, questions to ask his other self when his mind was clear.

  He didn’t feel the time pass, and had no recollection of how long he sat there poring over his options. He sat quietly, rolling his mug absently between his hands, staring at one of the big cases of pewter mugs dedicated to those magi who had passed on, oblivious to the sounds of Zedd’aki walking up behind him.

  “Good morning! Or should I say afternoon…” Zedd’aki said, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  Ja’tar nearly jumped out of his skin, casting a protective spell and filling his hand with wizard’s fire, “Zedd’aki! I-I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Zedd’aki looked down at the pulsing ball of magic in Ja’tar’s hand. “Apparently not. Expecting an attack from the Zola’far?”

  Ja’tar glowered and let the spell waste away. “No!”

  Zedd’aki was a big man, but he didn’t move like one. He was light on his feet and moved stealthily like a cat on the prowl. He was a full head taller than anyone else in the Keep, and almost twice as wide across the shoulders. Only Grit, a sailor’s son, came close to matching his physique, although Warden, a battle giant from the Northlund, dwarfed them both.

  Zedd’aki pulled out a bench and sat down. “Busy?”

  Ja’tar grimaced, “Thinking.”

  “You seem to be making that into a habit. Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  “You’re already sitting ...”

  “Yes, but I still need to go get some lunch,” he said, standing up and heading for the kitchen. He was only gone for what seemed a few heartbeats before he came hurrying back with a big mug of mead and a pile of meat pies.

  Ja’tar scowled and motioned for him to sit. His mouth was drawn tight, his lips pursed. He set his elbows on the table and placed his weary face in his hands.

  Zedd’aki grunted and he threw a leg over the bench and sat down. He took a bite of his lunch and chewed a while before he noticed Ja’tar staring at him. “What?”

  “My mug is empty ...”

  Zedd’aki glanced up, “You know where the keg is ...”

  Ja’tar grunted, but didn’t move.

  Zedd’aki stared into Ja’tar’s bloodshot eyes and shook a meat pie at him, “Why the scowl? By the way, you look exhausted.”

  Zedd’aki took an oversized bite of the pie before setting it back on his plate. Zedd’
aki’s beard was long, trimmed and full, almost reaching to his waist, but his mustache ... well, it was most unruly, exhibiting a mind of its own. It covered his upper lip and almost hid his mouth. Ja’tar wondered how he ever managed to not fill it with gravy and such, but he never seemed to have a problem.

  Ja’tar rubbed his face, “I’m always tired these days. I’m not sleeping well, not well at all.”

  “Hmpf,” Zedd’aki grunted in agreement. “I hear that! Want to delve into what you are thinking about, or do I have to guess?”

  “Guess! I know how much it irritates you to play Twelve Questions.”

  Zedd’aki arched a single brow without looking up and continued eating, not saying a word.

  “I’ll give you three guesses, but you’ll probably get it on the first try,” Ja’tar grumbled drowsily before he reached over and took a sip of mead from Zedd’aki’s mug.

  Zedd’aki cracked a thinly veiled smile, shook his head and took another mouthful of his meat pie, watching as steam rose from the toasty innards. It was hot and forced him to pull in air to cool it before he could chew.

  Ja’tar waited for the question, but it never came. Zedd’aki just sat, eating his lunch, happy as a pig in a wallow!

  “I went for a walk last night…” Ja’tar blurted out, unable to take the silence any longer.

  Zedd’aki grinned to himself. “Testing a theory, or just wandering the Keep?”

  Ja’tar stared him down. “Outside.”

  Zedd’aki wiped his mouth with his napkin, “The night was pleasant?”

  Ja’tar looked grave, “No, outside, beyond the gated walls!”

  “Burn me!” Zedd’aki swore, almost choking on his food, squashing the meat pie he was holding in his hand. “You ventured out into the countryside by your bloody self?”

  Ja’tar bobbed his head, casting his eyes down like a child that knew he was in trouble.

  Zedd’aki threw the pie on his plate and wiped his hand clean on the towel he had in his lap. “I should strike you now ... for being wool-headed.”

  “I suppose I deserve that, but listen to what I discovered.”

  Zedd’aki grunted, throwing his hands up and pushed himself back from the table. “What’s with the excuses? With you, it’s always an excuse for breaking the rules and being careless.”

  Ja’tar shrugged sheepishly, “I can act ... slightly rash at times. I—”

  Zedd’aki rolled his eyes, “A bit? What about the time you thought it was a good idea to walk into a cave of dragons just to see if your protection spells were working?”

  “As I recall I had good reason, I needed to know before I went into battle. Besides, it’s my nature to —”

  Zedd’aki’s face was beat red. “It nearly killed your two best friends. A-a-acting like this will get you killed some day!”

  The edge of Ja’tar’s mouth turned up in a small grin. “It might, but it didn’t yesterday.”

  Zedd’aki sighed, “Probably got lucky ...” He pulled his bench back into the table, picked up what remained of his mangled lunch and took another bite.

  “Can I continue?”

  Zedd’aki swirled his hand in a grandiloquent flourish.

  “I wanted to uncover the extent of the glamour,” Ja’tar frowned. “I have to confess, I had to journey a lot farther from the Keep than I thought I would to get out from under the spell.”

  “You could have let me know ...,” Zedd’aki mumbled, before he caught what Ja’tar had said.

  “So you could stop me?” Ja’tar said, in an accusatory tone.

  “No, so I could cover for you in case you didn’t return ... You what? You got out from the glamour?” he whispered, changing the subject.

  “Mostly,” he grunted. “I suppose I should have said something ...”

  Zedd’aki harrumphed, “— like you ever do. Now enlighten me about this glamour.”

  “Sure, now you want to know?” Ja’tar said, throwing up his hands in mock indignation.

  “You’ve already been careless and managed to survive ... again.”

  Ja’tar smirked. It was true. He always seemed to think about these things later, after he had already done them. He rarely, if ever, considered the consequences up front. He shrugged to himself wondering why he did that. It was just the way he was, his nature was impetuous.

  A somber Ja’tar reluctantly admitted while leaning closer, “It’s strong. The glamour is so much more than I had hoped. I can’t even read it.”

  “That’s not really that surprising.”

  Ja’tar raised a brow. “What the Darkhalla is that supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t have to swear, but you aren’t exactly stellar at reading glamours ... you know ... it’s not your gift. Do you want to talk about what you saw?” Zedd’aki asked. “I may be able to lend a hand!”

  “Not really, but we can’t afford to ignore it!” Ja’tar said, as the stress he was under came out in his voice. “It would help if I could just remember more about last night.”

  Zedd’aki’s mouth fell open and some stew fell out. “You don’t remember anything?”

  Ja’tar shook his head, “All I have to go by are the notes I wrote to myself in my bloody journal. By the way, my journal has a new trick.”

  “New, in what way?”

  “I’ll have to show you, but not here. Later —”

  “Later then!”

  Ja’tar was upset with himself. He should have been able to remember seeing the glamour. By the Ten, once he knew that a glamour existed, he should have been able to ignore its influence. Should being the key word here. Truth be told, he didn’t even know for sure that he was under a glamour. It was possible, he supposed, that he was just be losing his mind. He considered for a moment that he was having a dream, but he didn’t usually dream about talking to Zedd’aki. He grunted, why waste dreams on that? The glamour, well, he only knew it existed because some handwriting, in his hand, was in his journal that told him so.

  “... So you’re still under the glamour?” Zedd’aki said flatly.

  Ja’tar shrugged, scrunching up his mouth sourly.

  Zedd’aki threw his napkin in his plate. “So, nothing has changed.”

  Ja’tar glowered as he slowly sighed. “Curious thing, I could feel it take hold while I walked back down the road toward the Keep, but couldn’t do anything about it. I tried everything to resist it.”

  “That can’t be good.”

  Zedd’aki pushed his plate back from the edge of the table.

  “No kidding, you think?” Ja’tar spat back. “It was bleeding my memories. I was hemorrhaging like a stuck pig.”

  “Just saying,” Zedd’aki mumbled. “So when did you want to talk?”

  Ja’tar looked up from his lunch, “We’re talking now ...”

  “You know what I mean,” Zedd’aki coughed.

  Ja’tar was in a foul mood, the cantankerous old fart! Zedd’aki sighed to himself. He could see the frustration in his friend’s face. His brow was furrowed and his mouth was drawn tight. It looked like he could explode at any second.

  “I guess now. Can we wait until I finish eating?” asked Ja’tar. “My stomach is already tied in knots. I had too much Elvenrude last night.”

  Zedd’aki squeezed his eyes tight. “Ouch! That’s the strong stuff.”

  “Real strong, but tasty,” Ja’tar said, cracking the first thinly veiled grin Zedd’aki had seen this day.

  Zedd’aki turned around on the bench and faced the fire, stretching back in a leisurely pose. “I don’t suppose another fifteen minutes will destroy the world, will it?”

  Ja’tar’s mood quickly shifted and he scowled at his friend.

  “Why not? You want to head up to your apartment, or…?” Zedd’aki shrugged, rubbed his legs and let the warmth of the coals settle in. The Keep was usually chilly and slightly drafty, but the dampness was the worst of it. It soaked into his bones and gave him the shivers.

  “Apartment is better,” Ja’tar agr
eed, “But since we’re already here, I’ll just ward our conversation. We’ll have to keep an eye out for visitors. I don’t want to have to explain this quite yet.”

  Zedd’aki understood. “Then we’ll discuss what we can here. I’ll leave it up to you to decide.”

  Ja’tar continued talking, his hand weaving the necessary patterns to ward their conversation. “Right! As I was about to say; I have a few journal entries and a new letter from Dra’kor that you should read.”

  Ja’tar handed the journal to Zedd’aki, who opened it and pulled out the small sheet of yellowed parchment that was carefully folded and poking up from between the pages. Zedd’aki’s eyes scanned back and forth across the text, reading through the note from Dra’kor first, and next following up with the entries in Ja’tar’s journal, after Ja’tar decoded the messages for him to see.

  Ja’tar grabbed his other meat pie and took a bite. He lifted his mug to take a drink, but it was still empty. Grunting, he stared bitterly at the bottom of the disagreeable mug, as if it were at fault. He shoved his chair back and disappeared from the room while Zedd’aki read.

  By the time he returned, Zedd’aki had finished and was sitting quietly nursing his drink. His robe was open, exposing his roly-poly belly. He wore only his baggy linen pants. His legs were stretched out and to the sides, his elbows rested on the table that propped him up from behind.

  “Ready to go?” Ja’tar asked. “Or are you too comfortable.”

  Zedd’aki stood up and grabbed his empty plate. They turned to leave for Ja’tar’s quarters. They talked while they walked, taking care to keep their voices down. Zedd’aki still held the small journal in his hands.

  “It looks like your message to Men’ak got through.”

  Ja’tar smiled weakly, “Appears so.”

  Just before they left the dining room, Zedd’aki spied Collin strolling down the hall in their direction. Zedd’aki pulled out a stool and quickly sat down, motioning for Ja’tar to do the same.