The Games of Ganthrea

by Andy Adams

  “Oh…” Brenner said, considering where else Gemry could be, “When will she be back this afternoon?”

  Mrs. Gespelti looked down to her papers; her expression stiffened.

  “She won’t be coming at all today. And if you’re here just to socialize, you can leave.”

  A sickening feeling rumbled within Brenner’s stomach. Is she lying to me? Gemry said she’d be here all week. He needed to know what happened. Quietly, he pointed his mircon at Mrs. Gespelti. “Pervideas.”

  Since she wasn’t expecting a mind-reading spell, her defenses were easier to slip past. He skimmed the surface of her short-term memories, saw a room cluttered with brick-a-brack and furniture, a confrontation, Mr. and Mrs. Gespelti waving their arms at Gemry, her father saying “It’s only for a year!”—tears sliding down Gemry’s cheeks—a forced ride on their carrier carpet—a wooden pavilion, voices from a crowd calling out numbers—

  “Psyche Aura,” said Mrs. Gespelti, pulling Brenner out of her mind and back into the pawn shop. “How dare you enter into my thoughts.”

  Brenner stared back at her, struggling to control his own anger from bubbling over. “How dare you sell your own daughter.”

  The truth of his accusation pierced her, and her seemingly strong facade crumbled. Mrs. Gespelti covered her face with her hands, saying, “You don’t understand, my husband was about to be stripped of his business, his mircon—everything.”

  “You’re right, I don’t understand,” Brenner said coldly, shaking his head. “Who bought her?”

  Mrs. Gespelti looked like a guilty defendant wilting under interrogation. Looking away from Brenner, she muttered, “Gretzinger.”

  Brenner didn’t know whether he should yell at her or storm through the rest of the warehouse in search of Gemry’s father—the real culprit for the family’s problems. Faintly, the Alacritus potion checked his anger.

  “How much did he sell her for?”

  Mrs. Gespelti seemed unable to speak. Finally, she said in a hollow voice, “One hundred golders.”

  Waves of pain, anger, and contempt crashed in Brenner’s mind. One hundred golders. When he spoke again, his voice was low, and didn’t sound anything like himself.

  “So that’s how much your daughter’s love is worth to you.”

  He wanted lay into Mrs. Gespelti, to shout how any parent with any decency would never consider a bargain so soul-wrenching, how this could have all been avoided if Mr. Gespelti would have reined in his gambling addictions…but the Alacritus nudged him: if he yelled those judgments, she wouldn’t cooperate anymore, and he still needed one last thing.

  “Where is Gretzinger?”

  “Gemry’s already under contract—you can’t undo it. He has full—”

  “I said, where is Gretzinger?” he drew his mircon.

  Her shoulders slumped; her mouth twisted; Mrs. Gespelti looked as though a guilty shadow had swept over her. She met his eyes fleetingly.

  “I’ve heard he’s on the southern side of Arborio.”

  Anger took hold of his feet, and Brenner turned and strode to the exit without another word, leaving behind the animal bones, the splintered crates, and the Gelemensus Glass, all now symbols of Gemry’s parent’s betrayal. As he pushed open the door and stepped a few paces outside, a surprising emotion came out of the nowhere: jealousy.

  That’s odd, I don’t feel jeal—

  “Arcyndo,” said an oily voice to his side, and Brenner felt his limbs lock in place. What the—?! His balance failed and he started falling to the side, but was caught roughly from behind.

  “Thought you went unseen, Rookie?”

  Brenner’s eyes widened. Frozen, he was being dragged around to an alley. Even before he could get a look at his attacker, he knew with a terrible feeling who it was.

  “Now you see that winning isn’t everything,” said Sorian, shoving Brenner behind a dumpster and watching as he fell hard on his ribs. “Being on the most powerful side is.”

  Sorian kicked Brenner in his stomach, and he felt some acid come up his throat. “Dalphon has already rewarded me with troop command and plenty of golders, and once I bring you to him, he will give me even more. Oh yes, he was most interested when I told him about your previous school…you aren’t from here, are you, Brenner?”

  Being immobilized, Brenner could only glare back at Sorian.

  Sorian pulled a piece of chain from his pocket and leaned down, tying Brenner’s hands behind his back. “You will come with me to the caravans,” Sorian said. “And if you try anything stupid—run or call for help—I will do more than stun you.” The chains pulled snug, cutting into Brenner’s skin. “Dalphon taught me an effective spell for dealing with slaves—Torturium. I went a bit overboard the first time I used it—that slave lost control of his legs.”

  Sorian yanked Brenner’s mircon away, stood up, and pointed his own at Brenner. “Mobilus.”

  Brenner felt his strength returned, but without access to his mircon, he was powerless against Sorian.

  “Stand up,” Sorian commanded, pulling out a black cloak, and draping it around Brenner’s shoulders, hiding the chains on his hands. “Cross the road quickly, and stay in front of me.”

  Brenner did as he was told, knowing that resisting would only encourage Sorian to use a pain spell.

  “Stick to the side routes,” Sorian said gruffly, directing Brenner into the next alley. The smell of garbage filled the air, and Brenner saw a man passed out in a crate.

  “What makes you think Dalphon won’t turn on you?” Brenner asked.

  A hard blow to his back caused Brenner to stagger. He coughed for air, feeling like the wind was knocked out of him.

  “Did I say you could speak? Do it again and it’s time for Torturium.”

  Brenner trudged on, muted. As they passed people in the roads, Sorian discreetly kept his mircon poking against Brenner’s side, guiding him into darker, more secluded alleys. They marched in silence for awhile, back to the caravans. He had to escape…find Gemry…

  Entering a last alley, Brenner could hear the gush of fountains ahead. He was out of time…but he had no spells, he couldn’t fight back, and his Alacritus only helped with mental emotions, it couldn’t help him now…still, he had to do something. He turned to face Sorian.

  “Please, if I give you my mircon and my amulet, will you let me go?”

  “Torturium,” Sorian said, and a burst of pain hit Brenner’s chest. Like fire it spread to his limbs, driving him to his knees and then onto his side. Mircon still pointing at him and spell flowing, Sorian continued, “In case you forgot, I already have your mircon, and plan on selling your amulet for several thousand—”

  Whack. The pain spell stopped. Sorian suddenly dropped to the street. Brenner could breathe.

  Behind Sorian, a hooded figure with a club looked down and muttered, “Scum.”

  Brenner felt his chains being loosened, and he slipped his hands free, looking up. “Who are—?” he began, and then the vigilante flipped back her hood, revealing black hair and a scar on her cheek. He knew that face.

  “Your mercy deserved repayment.”

  “You—” Brenner began, remembering the alley with Finnegan. “Thank you...Rinn.” He looked at the mark on her neck. “Where’s your collar?”

  “I bribed a spellcaster to disenchant it,” she said. “Sorry if I didn’t exactly follow your advice.” Rinn grabbed the mircon from Sorian’s hand. “This yours?”

  “Yes.”

  She flipped it to him.

  “Thanks,” Brenner said.

  Rinn looked over at Sorian on the ground, and reached for his mircon, when Brenner heard movement behind them. Two of Dalphon’s men with silver necklaces walked into the other end of their alley.

  “Run,” Brenner said. “Totum Aura.”

  His shield spell bubbled around them, deflecting the stunning shots from the attackers. Brenner and Rinn darted back up the alley, then turned the corner. He lapsed the spell.

  “W
e’re even,” Rinn called to him, pulling her hood up and sprinting down another side road.

  “Volanti,” Brenner said.

  For the second time that morning, he flew with an urgency he’d before thought impossible. Branches, spellcasters, birds, and carpets became brown and green blurry streaks as he navigated the major vias, which had now become more crowded as the sun rose higher.

  Other than flying south, he didn’t know exactly where he was going.

  Between openings in the treeline, he saw Evermax Stadium far off to his left, then past the inner heart of Arborio with its more extravagant shops, storefronts, and fountains.

  Now he saw outlines of the Northern and Southern Valoria Stadiums, and still he kept surging south…past still more sequoias, redwoods, oakbrawns, and high-rise apartments built on their sides, past banners for the Games, past marketplaces. Presently, the larger oakbrawns thinned. The southern city came into view, and then the Shell Towers of Arborio, ringing the city. He passed one of the towers, and the land transitioned into yellow wheat and green crop fields, with castle-like mansions scattered around the fields.

  He descended down to a stretch of shops clustered on the street before the via branched into smaller, private roads. He wove between a group of customers, then landed and approached a merchant with orange and brown fur coats lining the sides of his stall.

  “Do you know—” he began, but was cut off.

  “Hey, you’re that Valoria Champion! Brenner, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Knew it! You couldn’t have picked a better place for furs!” The man put an arm around Brenner’s shoulder. “Look around—I’ll give you anything you see for half-off—you bring such pride to our city! What would you like? New coat? Gloves?”

  “I’m sorry,” Brenner said, peeling off the merchant’s arm. “I need to find someone. Do you know a spellcaster named Gretzinger?”

  “Gretzinger?” he said, mood clearly dampening as Brenner wasn’t showing interest in his deals—other folks had now heard Brenner’s name and were peering over at him and chattering—he continued, “Oh sure, Gretzinger. He lives at the white mansion down Via Montego, not too far over there,” he said, pointing west.

  “Thank you,” Brenner said, making to leave.

  “Wait!” the merchant said, steering Brenner to another rack with accessories. “You want these?” he asked, pointing to an embroidered scarf and fur-lined hat. “They’re free! A gift from Vladmin to you!”

  “Thanks…” Brenner said, accepting the hat the vendor thrust into his hands, if only to get Vladmin to let him go. Then he followed a winding road, past poplars, willows, and tall maples. He coasted lower for the final stretch, and saw a stone carved with the words Gretzinger Estate at the corner of a long driveway.

  He flew up the ornamental brick driveway that had patterned purple and pink flower beds on both sides that looked like they were meticulously weeded each morning. Coming to a halt at the marble entryway, he landed and walked to the door, lifting a brass lion knocker, and letting it drop against the door.

  There was no response. He knocked again, louder.

  Still nothing.

  He tried the handle. It was locked. Venturing down from the entryway, he took one of the stone paths around the to back, underneath trellises of ivy and blooming red flowers.

  “Hello?” he said as he walked.

  Mature trees lined the border into the back of the estate, and Brenner walked across prim green grass to the veranda and stone patio. A marble fountain in the distance gushed blue waters, and a large pyramid reflected the yellow sun—no doubt part of Gretzinger’s mindscape.

  He approached the back door, knocked slightly, and when no one responded, he tried the handle. This time he lucked out. It was unlocked.

  Brenner walked into a large ballroom nearly the size of his entire house.

  “Gretzinger?” he called.

  Didn’t Gretzinger have slaves and servants? Where was everyone?

  “Gemry?”

  He walked across the cold marble floor, down to a corridor. He was starting to feel anxious, and realized the Alacritus potion must be wearing off. Dozens of closed doors with bronze handles lined either side. Towards the end, one was ajar.

  “I won’t!” a man’s voice shouted from within.

  Cautiously, Brenner walked toward it, clutching his mircon tightly.

  He heard a chair scraping against the floor and loud mutterings.

  As he pushed the door open, he saw an older man in a rich, silver suit staring at him with desperate eyes.

  “You!” he shouted at Brenner. “You did this to me!”

  “What?!”

  Before he could ask another question, the man leapt from his chair toward Brenner, brandishing a knife.

  Brenner dropped his hat and raised his mircon, starting to cast an Aura spell around himself, but the man suddenly stopped, glared at Brenner, and pointed the knife to himself, hissing, “You are making me do this!” He made a quick cut across his throat and collapsed to the floor as scarlet blood spilled out.

  Brenner was speechless.

  Hands shaking, his thoughts raced in different directions—Was this man Gretzinger? If only I knew a healing spell—he edged closer to the man, thinking maybe he could use a piece of clothing to stop the bleeding, but as he did, the man whipped his knife through the air, as though warding off attackers. Brenner stepped back. The urge to escape pressed heavily on him. Who else is around here?

  He scanned the room for anyone else—it was empty—and bolted back through the corridor, out of the mansion doors, and into the backyard.

  Standing on the grass, heart beating rapidly, Brenner ticked through his options: Should I call for help? Fly back to Valoria? What about Gemry?

  He was still eerily alone on the grounds of a giant mansion, which gave him another nauseating feeling: If people heard those shouts…they will think the murderer…was me…

  Hands trembling, he decided waiting at the scene of a crime was worse than finding help. Brenner took to the sky, flying back over the entrance grove, racing along Via Montego, to the intersection of merchants.

  “Back for another deal?” Vladmin called jovially to him as he flew to the ground. “Hey, where’s your hat?”

  “Nevermind—where are the Silvalo Guards?”

  “The Guards?” Vladmin repeated blankly. “I gave you free gift, why—”

  “Because,” Brenner said between quick breaths, “‘there is a dead man at the Gretzinger Estate.”

  The fur merchant’s good-natured tone vanished. “What happened? What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything—I just went there to find a friend, and no one was around, and…” Brenner didn’t want to reveal how he had trespassed, and thought quickly to if there was a window in that bedroom—yes he was quite sure—“I saw a man’s body through a window.”

  “I’ll summon the Guard at once,” the merchant replied, striding to the street in front of his tent, and firing a green and red spell into the air, which gave off a tremendous explosion, creating a spearhead-shaped cloud.

  The merchant squinted at Brenner, clearly wondering if he was the killer.

  A few minutes later, two spellcasters in bright green capes soared into the plaza from the edge of the city: the Silvalo Guard. They zoomed down the trail of smoke to the merchant.

  “Who produced the Commotion Cloud?” said the lead guard.

  “That was me,” said Vladmin, who then pointed at Brenner and said, “This spellcaster says there’s a dead man at the Gretzinger Estate.”

  The lead guard fixed his steel eyes on Brenner and subtly flicked his mircon at him. Without warning, Brenner’s memories floated to the surface of his mind—being shot at in the alley next to Rinn—the flight down Via Montego, the empty hallway inside the mansion—shouts of “You did this to me!”—Gretzinger crumpling to the floor—

  He felt a hand on his shoulder, and the stream of memories stopped.r />
  “I believe memory sifting is allowed only by a Mind Warrant. Do you have one?”

  Brenner turned and was shocked to see Windelm at his side.

  “And you are?” the guard said, clearly irked at the interruption.

  “Windelm Crestwood, his guardian.”

  “I see.” He turned back to Brenner, and took a small square locket from his pocket and clicked it open. “State your name, and your business at Gretzinger’s.”