(have you read
the prologue and parts one,
two,
three,
four
and five?)
“When I compare the two
techniques through which humans can become skilled in magic, I remain certain
that there was only one option open to me. I chose the wizard’s robes because
of my insatiable hunger for knowledge. That in itself meant that I could
never choose a clerical path, for in delving the secrets of the universe,
I could never place blind trust in anything I did not ultimately understand.
I gave up on faith in deities, because it was useless to me. I still struggle
to see how anyone could devote himself so completely to any principle as
Jarron Tilessin had done. And yet in the end, I believe that in his blind
faith, Jarron reached enlightenment, while I, after decades of poring through
forgotten tomes, questioning entities that were ancient when elves first
walked the lands, find myself filled with more questions than answers.
I envy his conviction and faith, for I find that the more I know, the less
belief I have in any purpose. The more I know, the further I am from the
truth…”
‘Thoughts and Memories’ by Souriin
Draco (from the Collective Archives, University of Craft and Thought)
Borreck woke
up with a start. He was lying on something hard…his sword. He rolled to
a kneeling position. Sticky bile filled his mouth with a bitter taste.
All around him, his companions of the Mirrored Soul were stirring and moaning.
“Wake up everyone. We have very
little time left to us.”
The voice rang clearly in his head.
In a world of confusion and flashing lights, the voice was like a beacon,
beckoning him to pay attention.
“Jarron has fallen. He gave his
life for us so that we could carry his work. His enemies are closing on
us. We have to hurry…”
Jarron had fallen…? Who was this
man…?
The bedroom door shuddered under
the impact of something heavy. They staggered to their feet, all exhaustion
forgotten.
“They come for us…They come to burn
us alive!”
The stranger took an object out
of his robes, and smashed it on the floor. A doorway formed in mid-air,
ripping space apart. Borreck was looking into a dingy dungeon cell, dripping
with water and slime.
“Quickly, I can only hold the portal
so long…”
As one they crowded the open gateway.
It was cold beyond, but the urgency he felt overrode all reason. He heard
the door splinter behind him, and fear of the flames propelled him forward,
alongside the others.
As the last of the Mirrored Soul
jumped through, Tridian smiled. The illusionary sounds faded, and the room
returned to its previous state of tranquility. He shed his image like a
snake discarding it’s skin, changing from a bearded merchant to a balding
courtier. All in all, it had been mighty close. The crowd he had inspired
in the market place had spread the rumor of Jarron being a demon-worshipper
very nicely indeed, and drugged as they were, the Mirrored Soul almost
got to the King. What a pleasant surprise it was to see Souriin in the
skies. It had been a long time since he had last seen him…When was that
again…?
Some memories were still hazy in
his mind. Never mind. These Lords were very resourceful indeed, and something
had to be done about the Manticorum if he were to succeed. His Mistress,
Lillyos would have Her core disciples now, and although it would take a
long time to break them in, the Mirrored Soul would be the perfect tool
to use against the lands. He thanked Lilliyos for Her continued favor,
sighing to himself at her all-filling silence. He nodded once, pleased,
and stepped through the portal…
“…and so I address you, the Assembly as the new
representative of the united states of Feroll and Tillon. We are
combined in a common government that shall be known as North Ivrea.”
Loren waited until the rumble amongst
the council members died before continuing.
“Furthermore, I pledge the land’s
continued support of this august body with all of its heart and resources.”
He paused for a second, as if contemplating
his next words carefully.
“As warned by Damalanthas, we already
forecast the tough times lie ahead of us. Unfortunately, I’m in a position
to confirm this.”
He looked at the scepter, suspended
above the Assembly table.
“Let me tell you the story of a
man who believed in his people. Let me tell you how I came to stand before
you…”
Damus looked at Roleen. She was as beautiful as
ever. He hungrily absorbed every etched line on her face. The tears had
left their marks over the last week. Her eyes were dark and puffed up.
She wasn’t in a good shape, but he could give her no more time for grief.
“You cannot hide from me you know.
We have a link between us…”
“There’s nothing between us! There
never was!”
Her sudden outburst caught him unawares.
She was in a worse shape than he had thought. As much as he loved her,
the Manticorum could not afford any more losses in their ranks. He steeled
himself for what he had to do.
“Look at you. You’re less than useless.
You’re a danger to the rest of us.”
Her face froze in surprise, old
venom appearing in her green orbs.
“You bastard…”
“Tell me now if you can’t handle
it. I won’t kid you - it could get worse, but we’re not working for a gold
medal here. A lot more people’s lives depend on you than just Jarron’s…”
“Shut up! You’re not man enough
to even mention his name. Don’t try your pathetic word games with me!”
He looked at her face carefully.
The fire was back, and the tears had dried up. She would be all right as
long as he kept her busy. He pulled a scroll out of his doublet. The hatred
in her eyes cut his heart deeper than any blade could.
“Take this to Loren. It’s a list
of merchants willing to compete with the Simipian trading houses. He needs
to know where his potential allies might be.”
She snatched the list from his fingers,
turning her back on him. He inhaled her scent deeply, a crooked smile breaking
on his face. She would be fine. Quietly, he turned and left her room.
“…when beaten into a pulp and seeded with aniseed
oil, the bark of the Kuntak tree, normally found near riverbanks in Simipia
exudes a brownish bitter liquid known by the locals as Lillyos’ Tears.
The liquid when imbibed can produce feelings of euphoria mingled with a
complete lack of rational fear…”
Souriin found the text blurring
in front of his eyes. He had a splitting headache but no time for rest.
The steady drum of rain on the tiled roof and in the metal pot at his feet
had a hypnotic effect on him. He closed the copy of Artak’s Field Guide
with a dull thump. Lillyos’ Tears… It was a strange name for a drug.
Although it had happened years back, he still had vivid memories of the
enigmatic priest of Lillyos. Annaline had never turned up anything concrete
on the man. It was a bit of a wild logic jump, but his involvement would
explain the speed with which the irrational stories of Jarron’s demons
had spread…
Lillyos’ Tears… it was probably nothing. He was getting
paranoid in his old age…
Pierce shook his head in amazement: Claris had been
busy after all. His taster had died with a smile on his face. The poison
had a strange side effect of drawing the victim’s lips into a ghoulish
grimace. It was also apparently a very painful death. The muscles on the
back slowly tightened until the arching backbone snapped under pressure.
He shuddered, thanking all gods for the precautions he was taking. Of course,
he couldn’t be sure it was his sister that tried to poison him – it could
have been Tekuna or a multitude of other people, but somehow, the death
had his sister’s signature on it. It wouldn’t matter in a short while -
his father had finally agreed to the proposed marriage between Vulknor
and Claris. The idea had come to him while he was considering moving back
home to Simipia. Vulknor was a bull of a man, kinder to his horses than
to his wives. It would get Claris off his back for a while, at least until
she got rid of him. Funny enough, by the laws of the nomad clans, she would
then become the wife of Vulknor’s younger brother (and there were a dozen
more brothers waiting in line). Of course, what Claris didn’t know could
not hurt him. With distaste, he pushed the food plate away from himself.
He was not only losing all of his hair; he had also lost over eight pounds
last month alone. At least he was back in business as usual…
It was useless. He could not sleep. The bed sheets
were soaked through and twisted around his legs. He got up, rubbing his
arms from the cold. A month had passed since Grumplin returned home, and
steadily his insomnia was getting worse. Even the food tasted bland lately.
The chest in the corner invited him to open it again. Not a day passed
where he didn’t study its contents. He couldn’t pretend any longer – he
had changed. The travel bug had bitten him and he couldn’t shake it off.
Maybe he could sneak off quietly…
As soon as the thought lodged, the
pressure in his head eased off and he found himself breathing easier. He
flipped the lid of the wooden chest quickly, careful not to make too much
noise. The leather boots fit him perfectly, and the jerkin (although tighter
around the midriff) was still in a good condition. He packed his rucksack
quietly, choosing the food carefully. The note he hastily put together
was brief:
“Gone walkabout. I will catch up
with you all later – Grumplin.”
He jumped off the last step of his
caravan wagon, and set out at a fast pace away from the sleeping encampment.
The air filled his lungs with sweet scents of the dawn. Maybe he would
walk to the next hill…then again maybe he would turn back once he reached
the sea. Whistling to himself, he cut across the farm-fields, his walking
stick parting the golden stalks of corn ahead of him with a soft hiss.
THE END
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