by Colt, K. J.
Arythan watched the forty-some workers at the bottom of the crater, calf-deep in mud, pocking the crater with pits dug by their shovels. There were pathways of wooden planks intersecting the basin, makeshift roads where mule-driven carts waited to be loaded with the Black Ice. While most of the people in sight toiled in the mud, there were others who stood on higher ground, tucked away in look-out points around the crater.
Michael leaned toward the window, as if it was his first view of the Plains too. He pointed to the shovelers. “They’re criminals. Thieves, swindlers, and worse—brought from the villages. Rather than be hanged, we found a use for them here.”
“What about the other blokes?” Arythan asked, his eyes still on the figures at the top of the crater.
“Ah, them. Wizards from the Merchants’ Guild. Some soldiers as well.” The prince seemed reluctant to say any more, withdrawing back to his seat. “I will take you to the camp, though it is more of a village in its own right. There is a cook, a blacksmith, a medic—more or less a self-sufficient little community.” Michael fell into silence, allowing Arythan the opportunity to assimilate all that he saw.
The carriage eventually rolled to a stop, and Michael assisted the mage from the cab. There were two substantial buildings that the prince explained housed the laborers and the medori. A smaller structure housed supplies, and other house-like dwellings belonged to the blacksmith, cook, and medic. Michael led Arythan to the medori’s lodge with an apology. “I know it is rustic at best, but these modest quarters contain everything necessary in preparing and refining the Enhancement.”
The grand interior reminded Arythan of the great hall. There was a large, roaring hearth at either end, the contents of which were the pale blue flames of Wizard’s Fire. Either wall was divided into small niches—alcoves that each contained a cot, desk, and chair. All of the desks were littered with paper, vials, and samples of the Enhancement. Some of the little rooms were occupied by the medori, too intent on their work or simply uncaring to turn and acknowledge the visitors.
Arythan and Michael progressed down the hall slowly. “’S a lot o’ wizards,” the mage murmured. “What would y’ want me for?”
“As I told you,” Michael said, just above a whisper, “they work for the Merchants’ Guild. The arrangement is this: my father allows the mining of his land by the guild in exchange for a share in the profits made off the Enhancement. My father does not much care to share anything.”
The prince fell silent as a passing wizard gave him a nod, but Arythan had stopped for another reason. His eyes were drawn to a niche toward the end of the hall, to a figure he thought he recognized. Michael put a hand on his shoulder. “There is little more to see in here. Come, Crow.”
Arythan stiffened and hesitated, then limped his way alongside the prince and back through the door to the outside. “’E works ‘ere?”
Michael’s expression tightened. “Cyrul is here more often than he is at the castle.” He opened the door to the carriage and helped Arythan inside. Only when the both of them were settled in the cab once more did the prince elaborate. “Cyrul was hired to be my father’s foothold in this arrangement. He was to keep my father informed of the guild’s activities here.” The prince turned away under the intensity of Arythan’s gaze. “We hope that one day we will be able to process the Black Ice without the aid of the Merchants’ Guild. You would learn the refining process and employ it for the benefit of the kingdom.”
“’Ow do y’ know I can do what y’ need me to do?”
“You said you could tame the elements. Though I do not know much about the process, I have heard the medori say the Enhancement can only be manipulated through natural magic.”
Arythan looked out the window. “I can’t work with a bloke ‘oo wants me dead.”
There was a bout of silence before Michael responded. “No, you cannot. Trust, Crow. Trust is what is important. We trust that the Merchants’ Guild will honor our agreement with them, I trust in your abilities as a medoriate, and you must trust that I will allow no further harm to come to you. The obstacles will be removed, and Cerborath will know a golden era. You will contribute to that success. I know you can.”
Arythan said nothing, his instincts giving way to doubt. He wanted to believe in this opportunity, but there was something missing, something he was not being told. Since when did I ever trust anyone save Em’ri or Nik? And why would I start now? As the scenery slipped past him, he kept his reservations to himself and listened as Michael chattered on about Cerborath’s gleaming future. Whether or not he would be a part of it remained to be seen.
CHAPTER THIRTY
SUMMERFALL, THE BEGINNING
HOW THEY gather, clad in disguises yet unseen in night’s robed sky. They give their attention wholly to this veiled mystery, though surely they must know what is beneath the material. As I gather, this is a Human tradition—something they repeat annually, though their enthusiasm and wonder never tire. Their eyes are transfixed upon it, they wait for that moment—whatever it may be—and their anticipation stirs the very air. Except….
Eraekryst looked down at the costumed form next to him. Somewhere beneath that wide-brimmed hat was his companion…whose attention was clearly elsewhere. Unlike the majority of the crowd, Arythan was staring absently at the keep and not the massive form standing in the courtyard, hidden beneath the canvas.
How do you not find this interesting, Durmorth? Eraekryst suppressed a sigh. “Do you not wonder at what it could be?”
Arythan turned to the form as if roused from a dream. “What?” Then a shrug. “Does it matter?”
“Does it matter that it has ensnared the attention of each and every Human present? Surely that hints at its significance.”
“For them, yeah.” He gave Eraekryst a suspicious look from behind his masque. “But I’ll bet y’ know.”
“Of course I know,” the Ilangien said indignantly.
“Alright then.” And Arythan fell silent again.
Eraekryst held his tongue, then tapped his foot. He stirred restlessly, shifting his weight on his feet and gazing across the crowd at the “thing” yet to be revealed. Then he could stand it no more. “What, then, do you think it is?” he asked.
“’M not worried about it.”
“It does not warrant concern, merely curiosity. Tell me. Tell me what it is, Durmorth.”
“Y’ know what it is,” Arythan repeated.
Eraekryst brought his hand to his masked face in a dramatic gesture of exasperation. “Why is it you are so disinterested?”
“Why are y’ asking me questions y’ know the answers to?” Arythan challenged.
Before the Ilangien could respond, a new voice interrupted the dispute. They turned to see a broad-shouldered figure at the base of the shrouded form. He looked like an emissary from the moon itself, garbed in a pale satin coat, vest, and cape that caught and reflected the celestial light above him. His white, rounded masque bore sequins and fastened gems that sparkled when he lifted his face to address the crowd again. He spread wide his arms. “Ladies and gentlemen of Cerborath, welcome!”
“That Michael?” Arythan asked, struggling to see over the shoulders of the people in front of him.
“Aye, ’tis the elder prince.”
Michael lowered his arms and assessed the crowd. His powerful voice projected into the night. “Tonight we share our company to celebrate this grand occasion: the Festival of Summerfall!”
The crowd cheered and applauded until the prince lifted his hands to quiet them. “We begin, as always, with the Sacrifice for the Harvest.” He presented the shrouded form behind him, then motioned to the unseen attendants to pull away the cover. When the material fell away, the crowd stood in silent awe of the effigy before them.
“Shall I lift you?” Eraekryst asked, and the mage tossed him a foreign insult. “Then you see it and recognize it for what it is?”
“’S a bloody boar, no?” Arythan said with a wicked, unseen smile.
“Looks like a boar to me.”
Eraekryst glanced at him, irritated. “This is because you have undoubtedly never seen a bear or a boar. You would not know the difference if they stood beside each other beneath day’s light.”
“Then why’d y’ ask if I knew what it was?”
“I overestimated your intelligence.”
“An’ what’s that say for y’?”
Again, the banter would have continued if not for the arrival of another man—this one clad in black—carrying a torch.
“They aim to destroy so shortly after its exposition?” Eraekryst said, aghast. “For the expense of their labor, they cannot allow a longer duration of appreciation? How will this be of any consequence?”
Arythan smiled again when the torch was set to the straw bear. “Tha’s the ‘sacrifice,’ mate,” he said. “Love a good fire.”
“The destruction would appeal to you, I am sure.” He watched mournfully as the bear was consumed by bright and furious flames. They rose quick and high, and the smoke billowed thick and black, but the entire scene was short-lived.
“Too soon,” Arythan mumbled.
“I do not understand you—” Even as Eraekryst said this, he looked up to find the flames had rekindled a brilliant blue. They swept over the bear like an ocean tide, and the crowd was mystified.
“Burn, boar,” the mage murmured, and the fire twisted and leapt and danced a little while longer until he released his hold, and the flames turned crimson and shrank.
“A true work of magic,” projected Michael’s knowing voice. “Cast your offerings and join His Majesty for a feast to remember!”
Eraekryst and Arythan looked on as the surrounding audience approached the blackened remains of the bear, scattered embers glowing as pinpoints of crimson light throughout the beast. As the people passed by it on the way to the keep, they tossed a small item at the bear’s feet. Whatever it was would sometimes kindle itself, burn, and die again quickly. Once the majority of the crowd had left, the two companions went to investigate.
“’Twas not the most prudent idea to leave your walking aid behind,” Eraekryst said, waiting impatiently as Arythan hobbled to catch up to him.
“Either way I move the same.”
“Yea: slowly. Like an ancient tree or a wounded snail.” Eraekryst plucked an intact item from the bear. “’Tis a bundle of dried vegetation,” he said, holding it before his eyes. He could find nothing unusual about it, and he could find no reason at all for the ceremonious casting of dead plant matter upon a burning effigy. “Why?”
Arythan shrugged and took the bundle from the Ilangien’s hand. “Burning grass makes Jedinom ‘appy, an’ ‘e’ll make next year’s plants grow better. I don’ bloody know.” The grass ignited in blue flame, and Arythan tossed it at the bear. “’Umans don’t make any sense. Just be glad they sacrifice grass an’ not each other.” He started limping toward the castle.
Eraekryst’s eyes grew wide. “Why would you say such a thing, Durmorth?”
“’S what my people do.”
Eraekryst was momentarily speechless. He easily caught up to the mage. “You take another’s life to honor an inert deity?”
Arythan sighed. “No, I don’t.”
“Tell me—”
“Music,” Arythan interrupted. “Do y’ear it?”
“As opposed to your response, aye,” Eraekryst muttered. He trailed Arythan up the stairs and beyond the large double doors to the great hall. In contrast to the darkness of the night, the hall was alive with music, voices, and a dizzying array of colors and shapes. Eraekryst set all morbid thoughts aside and embraced the setting.
For anyone else, it was a hall full of people fancily dressed and chatty. For Eraekryst it was almost overstimulating. He could hear echoes of their thoughts—traces of ideas and emotions never meant to be spoken. Look at her dress—I would never wear such a gown. Well, she’s well-endowed. There is not enough wine to serve me this night. Scandalous—just scandalous! Can that be Jonathan? Oh, it must be him. I smell roasted boar, I know I do! Is this evening over yet? Then there were the colors—the halo of energy surrounding each guest. Some were muddy and blurred, others were vibrant and streaming. It was all so dizzying that he had to fight to shut it out.
A voice emerged from the din. “’Ey, y’alright, Erik?”
Ah, Durmorth. You are a muted shadow, even in this setting, even without your demon self. You are a resting point for my eyes, a silence to which my ears can escape. I only hope that you will forgive me for my deception this night.
Eraekryst looked down at the mage and smiled. “Your masque is crooked.”
“Sorry to trouble y’,” Arythan said, fixing it. Then he began to fidget with his cape.
“Do not be anxious. They are as anonymous as you this night,” Eraekryst said, noticing Arythan’s discomfort.
Arythan said nothing, but he did follow when Eraekryst headed for a vacancy at one of the long tables lining either side of the hall. Though it seemed the majority of guests had claimed their place, none of them had taken a seat upon the benches. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something, and the something appeared in the form of several servants bearing water-filled basins and towels. Each guest, upon his turn, washed his hands in the bowl, then dried them. When the servant approached Eraekryst, he gazed into the bowl and then looked at Arythan.
“What’s the matter?” the mage whispered.
Eraekryst lifted a sliver of dried grass that had been floating on the water’s surface. He held it before the confused servant. “You wish us to cleanse our hands in filthy water?”
“It’s not dirty, sir,” the servant protested.
Eraekryst frowned at him. “You have visited the soiled palms of at least a dozen guests before me, and you claim my hands will be cleaner by sharing this tainted liquid.”
“Just do it,” Arythan muttered.
“I expect I will be consuming my meal with these fingers,” Eraekryst said, wiggling his fingers before the unhappy man.
“Yes, sir, that’s why we wash—”
“Then this blame I place upon you as I contribute to the soiling of the meal this night.” He dunked his hands into the bowl, spilling much of the water as he did so. The servant reddened in embarrassment, and though he looked to see if anyone was watching, Eraekryst’s steady gaze never left him—even as he took the towel and dried his hands. The servant seemed all too eager to move on.
Even after all hands had been washed, the guests remained standing. Presently, the royal family filed in and took their places at the high table upon the dais near the hearth. The guests bowed their heads, and Eraekryst and Arythan followed their example. Even with his head down, Eraekryst could not help but lift his gaze just enough to watch them. He knew them all despite their masques, though he had not yet made the personal acquaintance of a few.
Prince Michael’s two small children, a boy and a girl, paraded in first. Their mother, the Lady Ladonna, herded them from behind. Her costume and the children’s matched Prince Michael’s, who appeared beside his wife with a proud smile. The king took his place at the center of the table, the only one in the entire castle without a costume. He was an older version of Michael: same height, same broad build. The king, however wore no wig, and his graying beard did not encircle a smile. If anything, Garriker’s gaze was discerning as he looked upon his people—as if he could see past their masques to tell them apart. Beside the king was his other son, the mysterious Prince Banen. He had been the black-clad torch-bearer, and now that he stood near his brother, it was easy to see that he was shorter and leaner. Like the king, he did not smile, nor did he acknowledge his female counterpart. Eraekryst knew Banen’s betrothed as Lady Victoria, thoug
h he had yet to hold a conversation with her.
Tonight will be a night of conversation, Eraekryst thought, and he had every intention of speaking to as many of the guests as he could.
Now it was Garriker’s turn to speak, and he did so with an iron voice that reverberated throughout the hall. “On this night, we remember those who came before us, those who endured the ice and snow, those who built this kingdom on blood and bone. Be grateful for our luxuries, for the food and wine upon which we feast and drink tonight and throughout the winter ahead. Be grateful for the hearths that warm us and for our children who carry our future. Cerborath will live through them when we are but a memory.”
Garriker paused and again assessed his audience. “As we face another winter, I bring you hope, for I have not been idle. Not long after tonight’s celebration is over, I will journey to Kitrimar to speak on our behalf. Cerborath will be known amongst the Northern Kingdoms, and truly, throughout all of Secramore.” He gave a nod to signify the end of his speech, and his guests filled the hall with their applause.
The high table was seated, and everyone else followed suit. Servants re-emerged and dispersed amongst the tables. Some bore ewers of wine and spiced cider, and others brought in covered platters and tureens of the meal’s first course. Wooden bowls to be shared between each pair of diners were filled with steaming mutton stew, and cheese tarts were apportioned to everyone’s trenchers.
Eraekryst pushed the bowl toward Arythan, who had lowered his scarf just enough to eat. “You need not share,” he said as he inspected a tart.
“Y’ can ‘ave the turnips if y’ want,” Arythan offered.
“’Tis you who is need of sustenance, Durmorth.” He nibbled the tart and chewed it thoughtfully. Then he took a sip of wine and smiled. “Their meals abound with flavor.”
Arythan nodded and continued to devour the stew.
“So long as ’tis not laced with poison this time, I will delight in it,” Eraekryst added.
