Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (39 page)

All of that fit into Marik’s portrait of mercenaries. 
When a merc came to respect a person, that river ran deep.  He would wade
through fire and ice for a worthy man, unlike the soldier who was
expected
to respect his superior for no better reason than the rank on his uniform. 
Tollaf and Marik respected their commander, but had yet to earn each other’s
respect, and so, in the mercenary style, they did not bother concealing it. 
Since they were birds of the same feather, they indulged those feelings in
words, then moved on with their lives as best they could.

His relationship with the old man might have improved
over time, except the fact remained that neither liked the other.  Their first
meeting had set the standard and neither saw a need to change it.  Despite
seeing the relationship in a different light, Marik felt no new love for the
overbearing, withered mage blooming in his heart.  Whoever had said that
understanding was the path to forgiveness had obviously led a very sheltered
life.

He imagined trying that same disrespect with
Celerity.  A shudder ran through his body at the image of her taking the time
to carefully flay him to the bone. 
She
would ensure an apprentice knew
his place.  Tollaf never bothered to because he probably knew it would be a
waste of time.  After all, a mercenary was a mercenary, and little would change
one in the end.

Celerity, on the other hand, was most definitely
not
a mercenary, nor did her personality come anywhere close to the rough,
outspoken cynicism of the Crimson Kings.  He’d come to believe, based on his
experiences with Tollaf, that mages were people he could disregard with
impunity.

His brief encounter with the woman went a long mile
toward rewriting that particular notion.  Her abrupt, no-nonsense summons
continued the job.

The street he trudged along broadened further when it
emptied into Cerella Gate, the enormous square bordered on the northern edge by
the palace complex walls.  He knew from his previous visit for the opening
ceremony that through the massive iron gates lay acres upon acres of land. 
Crouched in the center, the palace structures were surrounded by an ancient
forest except where the ground had been cleared for elaborate gardens.

Flanking the iron gates, twin gray stone towers over
thirty feet tall were situated.  They were built into the wall protecting the
royal residence, and hollow to house the guard shifts.  He approached the
prison-like bars.  Given his previous experiences with gate guards, he expected
an argument regarding his right to pass.  Today he would welcome it and leave
without fuss.

Apparently he was expected.  Even before Marik had
said his name, the guard opened a postern gate sized for human use.

Brisk and efficient, the guard brought him along the
paved road to the palace complex, wanting only to complete his duty in a timely
manner.  A branching path led them around the palace’s side, through the thick,
ancient trees.  Under their spreading foliage grown over centuries it seemed to
be dusk rather than the fourth bell of the morning.

Several minutes later when they finally emerged from
the trees, a faint roar drifted to his ears. 
That must have been louder
than the cheer when they dropped the line and the first horses raced off!  I
suppose the first block must have entered the water.

The noise faded quickly, a testament to how sheltered
the palace grounds were.  Only the loudest noises could breach the defenses,
and then only momentarily.

Marik studied the building to which the guard had
brought him.  To his right he could make out the back wall of one palace wing
through a thin smattering of trees.  Decorative flowerbeds hugged the wall
despite a gloom that surely deterred visitors.  A second graveled path led from
a door, through the trees and to a separate structure.

An odd building to his eyes.  It was two structural
types combined.  A dome formed the lower half, a hundred feet wide at the base,
curving up to thirty feet in height.  Jutting straight up through the center
was a tower sixty feet across and seven floors tall.  Very few windows could be
seen except in the tower’s upper reaches.

While the dome looked to be the same gray stone as the
property walls, the tower was a blend of wood and plaster.  It looked sturdy
nonetheless, free of the rough hewn texture that most wooden towers familiar to
him bore.  Granted, this had not been built by unskilled hands on a deadline in
contested territory.

The grounds surrounding this tower were the same
compacted earth he would expect to find under a forest canopy.  The guard
ushered him quickly and opened a door before he could ponder this setting.

Marik entered a lady’s parlor, or at any rate a room
in a similar vein.  Or perhaps this was a kind of reception area.  The guard
directed him to have a seat and disappeared deeper into the building.

With a choice between several frail-looking creations
of thin wooden spokes bent into a chair’s shape or one of the dozen fat
cushions scattered around, he elected to stand beside the hearth and study the
bookshelf.  Perhaps their titles might reveal the nature of this peculiar tower
set off from the main complex.  He found they were each Galemaran histories. 
Probably a political choice on behalf of whomever had been in charge of
stocking this room’s entertainment luxuries.

He no sooner finished reading the last title when the
door opened and out came the guard, along with Celerity.

“I hope you are rested,” she greeted him, which hardly
sounded a good omen.

“Why should I need to be?” he replied.  The guard left
to return to the gate post.  “What I should be is with Hilliard Garroway, since
that’s what I’m being paid to do.”

“He will be well protected.”  Her assured indifference
did little to reassure Marik.  She added, “We have work awaiting us.  Come.”

No threat accompanied the words, yet the placid
command and her turned back did nothing at all to sooth his nerves. 
I
will
not
be afraid of her!  I
will not
be controlled by her!  I
will
not
let magic rule me!

Squaring his shoulders, he readied himself for a
grueling challenge.  That he was in the same state of mind with which his
war-like relationship with Tollaf had begun never occurred to him despite his
earlier thoughts.

While they penetrated deeper into the building, she
chose to explain the reasons behind her summons.  “So that your mind is eased,
I have been looking into this matter of the red-eyed man.  If your description
is indeed correct, I think there is little chance he is a Devil in disguise.”

Marik grunted.

“But you have no experience in this field, so I must
view him.  If there is a loose Devil in the world, it is valuable knowledge. 
If it is in Tullainia…well, a great many rumors can be explained.”

Sunlight penetrated Marik’s brain.  Ever since
Celerity had approached him during the opening ceremony, he’d racked his mind
for a reason why the most powerful mages in Galemar had taken an interest in
his quest to find Rail.  He suddenly understood.

Surely King Raymond held a significant interest in
what transpired across the border.  The refugee flood alone would require his
attention.  And of course he would set his mages to the task of finding out
what in blazes was happening over there!  For whatever reason, Tollaf had told
Celerity about what happened, and
she
believed that he, an apprentice
barely able to craft basic shields, had somehow
seen
what they were so
desperately searching for!  His scrye’s seeking serpent had been pointing west
when it found Rail, after all.

Did she merely suspect the red-eyed man’s hand in the
turmoil plaguing Tullainia, or did she possess corroborative information she
felt he had no claim to?  Was his father in danger?

“Mmhmm,” he grunted again, his mind spinning.

Celerity glanced sideways at him.  “I’ve attempted
several scrying workings on my own, but what I have is not enough.  Tru also
made an effort to scrye them.  He specializes in scrying, and hardly ever
fails.”

“So why do you need me?  I can barely see into the
etheric.”

“I need you,” she said sharply, “because blood is
always the most powerful catalyst.  With blood directly connected to the
subject, then distance has no meaning and no other facets to the working are
required.”

Marik stopped in the hallway.  He was wary of her
waspish words yet unable to hold his tongue.  “I have no connection to this
red-eyed man you’re so hot on!  All I can do is call up my father.  You say
this stranger isn’t dangerous, but you’re spending all your time looking for him
as far as I can tell!  What about my father?  How do you know he’s anywhere
near this man still?  Is he safe?  Or are you hiding something from me?”

Celerity faced him while he ranted.  His tone near the
end came out harsher than he intended, and he winced when her features
narrowed.  He flinched when she stepped closer.

“As for your father,” she enunciated clearly in a low
voice, “I have no idea.  Your questions are ones that I, too, would like a
clearer answer on.  The first of which is whether he is in fact accompanying
this red-eyed man.  As we have failed to scrye either man, we are left
clutching at straws.  Now,
come
, youngling.”

Her eyes were frozen chips.  She pierced him with her
gaze until he finally moved.  Marik had not felt like such a child since he
left Tattersfield and he resented her for it.  But the courage to storm away
died under her glare.

They walked in silence.  It quickly became apparent to
Marik that his initial impression from the outside had been incorrect.  He
thought the tower extended all the way to the ground, penetrating the dome from
the inside.  Instead, the tower had been built atop the dome, a fact revealed
when they climbed a staircase through the stone top-curve.

Reaching the tower’s third floor, which would actually
be six floors above the trimmed forest floor, Celerity opened a workroom door. 
Marik found it bore an eerie similarity to Tollaf’s rooms in Kingshome.

“Over there,” she directed, pointing across the room. 
A large, oval mirror had been mounted on pivots at its center frame.  Standing
beside it, a hand lazily spinning the mirror every time it flipped halfway, was
a man.  Marik had never seen anyone with skin so dark as to be coal-black.

The robes the man wore were also black, a selection
that must have been deliberate.  It gave him a darker aspect.  When they came
to the mirror, the black man stopped spinning the mirror so he could reach out
his hand.

“Heya,” he greeted.  Marik clasped the proffered
hand.  “You’re that Marik, right?”

“I suppose.”

“I’m Tru.”  He released Marik’s grip.  “I’m supposed
to be scrying for Celerity, but I can’t.  I mean, I
tried,
but nothing
happened.  So what can I do?”

“I don’t know,” Marik replied.  This man’s words were
strangely disjointed.

Celerity sighed.  “Tru, let’s not waste time, shall
we?  Use his blood to call up his father, then we’ll see what’s what.”

“Fine,” the man said, then lifted a long knife.  He
turned toward a startled Marik.  “One or two bowls ought to do it.”

“What?”  Marik jerked his hands behind his back.

“Tru!”  Celerity sounded on the edge of losing her
temper for good.

“What?”  Tru looked innocent.  “Come here,” he
redirected at Marik.  “You want to or let me?”

He gestured at a small bowl.  Marik answered, “I’m not
fond of cutting myself.”

“Whichever.”  He made a quick cut in Marik’s forearm. 
Marik winced.  Tru held the bowls under the dripping blood until the flow
stopped.

“Well?” Celerity asked.  Tru apparently knew what she
meant.

“Let him go first.  I have the blood, but you know… 
He’s not my father.  I’m not like him.  I mean, I don’t have any, uh, any…what
you say, links.”

“I think you mean
affinity
,” Celerity scowled.

“Yeah,” Tru scowled right back.  “So I can’t talk!  So
what?”

She muttered an oath under her breath.  Her glare
shifted to Marik as though he had offended her.  “Sit down, already!”

The only nearby chair sat before the mirror.  He hated
the way he jerked to obey her sour command.  Did these two actually like each
other or not?

“First put up a physical shield in case you shatter my
mirror.  I’d rather not waste time calling our Healers to fix you up.”

“Ummm,” Marik hesitated.  He had no idea what she
meant.  Rather than admit it, he tried to sidestep the issue.  “Why don’t you
do it?  I think you want me to do my scrying working, and last time it took
most of my energy.”

She studied him suspiciously before saying, like a
woman answering the same question her husband has asked a hundred times before,
“Because you can’t reach through a shield created from
my
energies.  You
can only reach
through
a shield composed of your own!”

“Right, uh, I knew that.  So, um, how do I do that?”