In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (40 page)

Whatever the story, I shall pursue the truth.

Staring out over the perfectly still water, it seemed almost
sacrilegious
to even float a leaf on the surface, let alone a boat.  He stared down at the water, expecting to see his reflection.  He was not disappointed.  The grey water was opaque, and Magi could not see anything beneath the surface.  All was reflected, and a perfectly still picture of a young man with long flowing auburn-brown hair stared up at him.  Nothing shimmered.  Nothing moved.  No wind blew.  No birds chirped.  No fish flopped.  No sun shone.

Magi reached down and dunked his head into the cold water, spraying water behind him as he pulled himself up, wet hair flying behind him.

Dripping, he turned to Marik and Kyle.  “Let’s start building a raft.”

~Tarsh~

Tarsh walked through the door to sit down in the
Ol’ Shakoor’s home for the second time, early the next morning after hearing the story about the three Artifacts of the Ancients.  He took an offered glass of water, and somewhat shyly sat down, trying to relax.  Next to standing over Magi’s body in the tournament, this was the most excited he could ever remember being.  He swallowed and just sat there.

“So Tarsh, I need you to cast a spell.  I will read your prophecy from the images that I lift from your magic.”

Without saying a word, Tarsh stood up and cast the first spell he thought of—the electrifying hands that ended Magi’s run in the Tournament.  He did not, of course, try to shock the Ol’ Shakoor.  Instead he just stood there, his hands crackling.

Soon the room was filled with images of Marik, and a city by the sea.  And pain.  Lots and lots of pain.

Elsa closed her eyes.  Before she begun, Tarsh spoke to her for the first time that morning.  “Are your prophecies for certain?”

The
Ol’ Shakoor shook her head slowly.  “No, Tarsh.  They only reflect what is most likely.  It is not for me to tell a student of magic whether they should climb or not.  I simply reveal what is likely to happen.  In your case, I see great pain for you, if you pursue that course.”

“But it doesn’t mean I’ll fail?”  Tarsh looked up.  He had taken his ponytail out today, and his long hair ran thick to his shoulders, waves of deep brown mixed with black.  Without thinking, he saw that his hands had tensed and he was digging his nails into the arm of the chair he was sitting on.  He stood up and started pacing, pushing his hand through his hair.  “I didn’t see failure in the images.”

Elsa just looked at Tarsh, who stopped pacing to focus on her.  “Tarsh, the Staircase is a magical test.  It explores your strengths, it probes your weaknesses.  Not all who fail die, and not all who summit succeed…unscathed.  All are changed, of course, starting with the eyes.  But your path on the Staircase is marked by pain, Tarsh.  It is up to you to decide what to do with this foreknowledge.”

“But you said it’s only most likely…not ‘certain.’  There’s still time for me to improve.  Through study, practice,
discipline—”

“You will find it difficult to avoid the likely outcome of Fate.  He seems to move events toward the path he’s put his mind to, with few exceptions.”

If I can beat Magi, I can climb that Staircase.  Whatever I work at, I have achieved.  I lost weight.  I grew in skill. I grew in power.   I can do this.  For me.  Maybe for Kari…she deserves a True Mage.

“We’ll see.  Thank you for the imagery.”  He turned to leave, his hand on the door.

“Tarsh,” Elsa said.  “There is no shame in using your skills in a village, or a city.  But I will tell you the same thing I’ve told countless students facing a difficult decision:  there is always a price to be paid.  Don’t assume it’s always worth it.”

It will be for me.
  He nodded curtly and left, without saying another word.

~Malenec~

A shocking splash of cold water
on his face caused Malenec to open his eyes.  He blinked several times, trying to adjust himself to his surroundings.  The last few weeks had been one hazy episode after another.  He vaguely remembered laying siege to Ilbindale, picking off hundreds of citizens each night, stealing their lives and animating their corpses.  The prayers to Kuth-Cergor had required focus, concentration, and deep faith.  Each day he slept to rejuvenate himself, and each night his undead army swelled.

And then he saw a huge burst of flame and felt a terrible blow to the
back of his head.  From that point forward, everything was fuzzy.  He vaguely remembered commanding his undead army to scatter into the surrounding hills, but perhaps that was dream?  The water he drank had a funny taste, and it made him dizzy.  He thought he had eaten something, but couldn’t be sure.  He was dirty, and smelled, but he could live with that; his army certainly didn’t smell like spring roses.  His head still ached, and so did his wrists, which were bound behind him.  He noticed dried blood on his clothes, which were certainly not his own.  He was in a grey robe that had holes everywhere.  He was quite cold.  And a foul, wet rag was stuck deep into his mouth.  He tried to gather his thoughts for a simple prayer, but his head seemed to be perpetually groggy and he couldn’t focus his energy on anything.

Blinking, he began to look around and
tried to get his bearings.  He saw people.  Several armored warriors.  A couple of torches burned quite brightly, almost hurting his eyes.  The room he was in was all stone and rock, about six feet by six feet—just barely big enough to lie down in and that was about it.  There were some rats scrounging through a waste pot a few feet away in the corner.

In front of him was a woman.  She was plain
-looking, with narrow, brown eyes and flat, listless hair that hung past her shoulders.  But she had a fierceness about her.  “Can you stand?”

Malenec wasn’t sure what to make of this person, but given the number of warriors gathered, he thought it wise to give it a shot.  He tried to stand and stumbled forward, pitch
ing over awkwardly at the woman’s feet.  He couldn’t break his fall with his hands, and his face hit the stone floor hard enough to make him grunt with the pain.

“Sit then
,” the woman sighed.  “Let us start simply.  Who are you?”  She motioned to a Warrior to remove the rag from his mouth.  “And if you try to cast something, know that I will have you cut in half before you complete the spell.”  Several True Warriors drew their swords.  “Niku, remove the rag from this man’s mouth.”

Another man, presumably
this Niku, stepped forward and yanked the wet rag from the Cleric’s mouth. 
The man who cast a fireball at my zombies.  A True Mage.  I must have missed one when I sought to purge the city. 
“Thank you,” was the first thing that Malenec thought to say as he took a breath through his mouth, wishing he could rub his jaw.  “May I have a small cup of water?”  The request gave him a little more time to gauge his surroundings.  He concluded the following:

A group of men had been waiting for him
.

H
e had been captured, beaten, half-starved, and almost assuredly drugged with some mind-altering poison.

He was alone
.

This woman was in charge
.

Malenec wanted to
smile, but he kept his emotions to himself as he faced this woman. 
They have no idea who they are dealing with here.  Favored of Kuth-Cergor, they will surely pay for their actions as soon as my head clears.

“Who are you?”
the woman repeated.

Malenec had no fear whatsoever of the truth.  Indeed, if there was one man alive who knew the truth, it was him.  “I am Malenec,” he
replied.

“My men tell me you are a Dark Cleric.  Is this so?” T
he woman asked.

“
Dark? 
I am a True Cleric, and I worship the ancient Lord of this realm, Kuth-Cergor.  Darkness and light depend entirely on one’s perspective.  There are still places where the truth of the Gods exists and is taught.  You should not have treated me so.”  He met the woman’s steely gaze with his own.

“We live in a Dark World, Malenec.  And I am left to wonder if it grows darker by the day.  Still, you claim to be a True Cleric, no?  Many Clerics roam the land, professing their faith in one
god or another.  All have tricks and signs they can perform, and my experience is that their end game is no holier than begging for that night’s meal and drink.  Why should we believe that you are a
True
Cleric?  That guild ceased to hold a standard of any kind long ago.”

Malenec’s eyes grew wide.  If there was one thing
nobody
could question, it was his faith.  “Give me the life of one of your men this very instant, and you shall see soon enough what a True Cleric is capable of.  Rather, you shall see what my God can accomplish through me.  If you don’t believe me, ask your men what they saw back in Ilbindale.  An army of 25,000 undead warriors await my command.  Show me a charlatan cleric that can do
that!
”  He turned to the True Mage in the room.  “Or the mage—True or not—for that matter.  I am curious, however.  I thought I had struck down all the mages in that city.  How did you survive my lightning strike, old man?”

The mage’s jaw tensed.  “You give us Mages far too little credit.”

“No, I suspect I give you exactly the meager credit you deserve.  Let me guess, shield spell?  Lessened the blow from a kill-strike, but I imagine weakened you terribly?  Your lap dog warriors carry you away to mend, taking turns watching your body so none of my animations paid you a visit?  All while I continued to turn Ilbindale into a living boneyard while you recuperated from one simple little prayer of mine.  Close to the mark, no?  My, but Kuth-Cergor does work in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?”

The mage stepped forward to cuff Malenec before the woman held up her hand.

She studied the cleric.  She smiled in a way that added no beauty to her face.  “My men tell me as much.  So you can call lighting forth from a dry sky and raise the dead.  It would appear that all I must do is kill you to provide peace to the souls you so cruelly stole.  Tell me, will your God animate you when I’ve ordered your life ended?”

Malenec allowed himself a smile.  He said nothing for a long awkward pause,
giving him time clear his head to focus his faith and complete a single thought—and a prayer.  “If Kuth-Cergor would have me serve him as a corpse, it is his right and my honor.  My power flows from him, and it is my prayer that he save me from this fate, which he can do if he so chooses.”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head…and awoke in his campsite just outside Ilbindale, surrounded by 25,000
undead, hidden underground, undersea, and in the trees, waiting for further direction.

His prayer answered, he
never heard the last part of the conversation with the Queen and her Council:  “The ancient Elf is right.  The True Clerics have returned, with power.  We must find our own.”

Chapter 15:  Schemes

~Veronica~

The flickering flame caused eerie shadows to form, shift, disappear, and reform across the arches of the stone bridge.  The blood had pooled underneath Zender, the self-proclaimed “Mystic Under The Mountain.” 
Awfully slow for a True Mage,
thought Veronica. 
Xaro would have blown that amateur powder back in my face.

Still
—the runes that covered the archways across the 200-foot bridge no longer glowed, for whatever that was worth.  It gave Veronica pause.

She continued to tumble over the various thoughts in her mind.  If the Mage was telling the truth, then the bridge was bound to collapse without his blessing.  The half-dwarf, Barnabus, had also warned her that she might find monsters of some sort.  Perhaps he was alluding to Zender
—surely his Dad the slave trader would have mentioned such a toll gate when he passed down the map?

And yet, it was just as likely that this mage was a wandering mystic, full of lies.  He said as much himself.  The idea that magic
—
his magic—
held this stone walkway up was somewhere between plausible and absurd.  The trick was figuring out which explanation was more likely.

She threw some stones on the walkway, landing a few beyond the first arch.  The bridge held.  She rolled a larger, almost mini boulder.  There were no handrails, so it quickly rolled off the left edge…she was still listening to try and hear the sound of it hitting the ground.

This is ridiculous.  What choice do I have? 
It is the nature of an Assassin to plan, to analyze, to reason before acting.  Every contingency must be thought through, and every Plan B needs a Plan C and D as well.  Nothing rash—murder for hire is never an emotional or hurried event.

In the end she looked at her rope
—well less than 200 feet in length.  But if she tied a retractable knot around a stout rock, it might give her 50 or 75 feet of protection.  She could tie herself to a boulder on the near side and try and cross, hoping for the best.  Once the rope was taut, if the bridge was holding, she’d pull it free and take her chances with the rest of the crossing.  If the bridge gave way before then, she might be able to pull herself back.  If the bridge gave way after she untied herself, nobody would ever hear her scream…or land.

That was about the best planning she could reasonably expect.  So, she ate a little
food from her pack, drank a little water, and began looking for the right type of rock to tie her retrievable rope around.

Once
that was accomplished, and with the other end cinched around her waist, Vernon-the-Nobody set foot on the bridge, holding the rope in one hand and the torch in another.

Nothing happened.  She took another step.  Then another.  Each was a slow, steady step.  She paused at the first archway and held her torch up to the
runes that had been glowing.  She had studied languages only in passing—she certainly was no scholar.  But she thought she recognized Dwarven markings.  She could not be sure.

She passed through the arch uneventfully.  Then the next.  By the third of the ten arches, her rope had reached its maximum length. 
Time to remove the safety net. 
She gave the rope a hard jerk in a whipping motion to free the release—she wanted it back.  Coiling it up, she stepped through the third archway.

A pair of leathery wings descended on her from out of nowhere, as a large bat flew at her aggressively.  Caught off guard she tried to ward
off the bat with her torch, and began to stumble, losing her balance as she fell toward the edge of the bridge, breaking her fall with one hand, twisting around with her other.  She had a small throwing knife concealed in that sleeve, and flung the tiny blade with a fast-twitch flick of her wrist.  The blade sliced through one of the bat’s wing as if it was parchment.  The wing, nearly detached, flapped awkwardly as the bat screeched and fell into the darkness past the far edge of the bridge.

That was one of my better knives
, Veronica thought to herself, annoyed.

Onward she walked, slowly but without stopping, counting each arch.  Finally, another minute or two later, and she reached the other side, having crossed all ten arches.  When she looked back across to the other side from where she had come, her torchlight just barely illuminated
the very last arch behind her.  Zender’s body lay in darkness some 200 feet behind her.

“I should have pushed his body over the edge, so it would rot in
free-fall.” 
The bridge held, so we know only that he told the truth about being a liar
, she thought.
  I wonder if everything else he said—all that prophecy nonsense—was also a lie
. 
All he really knew was my name—surely even a fool of a mage could figure that out.

Ver
non-the-Nobody took out the map and turned her attention to the remaining pathway ahead.

~Kari~

Rebecca kept annoying
Kari.  For a Ranger who had travelled this path often with young mages, she seemed awfully inquisitive about her prophecy. 
Surely this woman knows I can’t say a thing.
  After the fourth question about “how it went in there,” even Tarsh began to roll his eyes.

A day’s walk back from the Ol’ Shakoor’s dwelling, they paused by the banks of the Elomere for a light meal.  “Ranger,” Kari began.  “I have a question for you.  I need to cross the Crystal Mountains.  Would you have any suggestions on how best to do that?”

Rebecca looked at the young illusionist thoughtfully.  “What do you seek to the East?”

Kari chewed a bit of dried deer meat.  The salt made it almost in
edible.  Fortunately, they were next to the clear, crisp water of the Elomere to wash it down.  It flowed fast enough to keep from freezing, but this time of year the water would be ice cold.  And refreshing.  She looked up at Rebecca.  “I seek an audience with the Queen.  I’m headed to Rookwood.”

Tarsh looked up and was clearly puzzled, though he said nothing.  Whatever his own prophe
cy revealed, he seemed to be struggling with it.  Never particularly talkative, he had been particularly standoffish the last day or so.  When he looked up, one could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes after Kari’s declaration—as if he was trying to “fit” his own prophecy in with what she had just said. 
Sweet, reliable Tarsh…

Rebecca had a curious smile on her face.  “Rookwood?  That will be quite a journey.  Depending on how fast you need to arrive, I would suggest you ‘magic’ yourself there.  Can’t you mages just teleport?”

Kari lowered her eyes.  “A True Mage can teleport.  I need to speak with the Queen before I…before I do anything…” She trailed off.

“I see,” said Rebecca.  “This time of year will not be easy.  The Northern route around the mountains will take several weeks and a boat just to get clear of them.  You will then be faced with months of travel overland, down the
Lightning Road, and across the continent.  I doubt you would reach the castle by that path inside of four months, and the journey will be hard and frozen.  You likely wouldn’t survive on your own.”

Kari nodded.  She didn’t appreciate the Ranger’s tone, but she didn’t disagree.  Travelling north across the edge of the Crystal Mountains was folly any time of the year; it was suicide in winter.  “What of the South?”

Rebecca shrugged.  “The Elf’s Bane
Pass is the only known way through the mountains.  But it is far to the South, many weeks of riding away, and there are some areas where horses are more burden than benefit.  It will take two months at least.  There may, however, be a better plan.”  Rebecca began sharpening a small hunting dagger, filling their small campsite with the repetitive sounds of stone sliding across steel.

Kari found the Ranger staring at her.  Tarsh
, his ponytail tight once more, was staring at the Ranger.  “Yes?” Kari asked.  “Go on.”

“Do you have any gold?” 
Shhhrikkkk
went the stone on steel.

“Some,” answered Kari.  “What do you have in mind?”

“If you have a little gold, let’s buy passage on a ship to sail out of Gaust across the Three Fingers.  With a little gold, we will disembark at Nervadine and make our way through the pass on foot.  If you have more gold, we can sail past the eastern edge of the Great Whirlpool, and can disembark near Shith, skipping the mountains all together.  If you have much gold, we can sail all the way through the Strait of Holstine and around the southern edge, all the way to Rookwood itself!  Such a journey would take less than a month, maybe three weeks with favorable weather.”

“Why would I need you to join us on the ship if we were to sail there?” Kari asked, pointedly.

“You wouldn’t.  But if you decide to travel overland at all, I would think a guide would be a good investment.”  Rebecca smiled, but this one wasn’t particularly sweet.  “Do you have enough gold to sail all the way there?”

Kari sighed.  She doubted she had enough gold to sail a log down the river, let alone a small team across the sea.  However the prophe
cy revealed by the Ol’ Shakoor was clear:  She was to travel to Rookwood, and like it or not, she was smart enough to know that she would need help along the way, considering her farthest travels to date were only just completed.  “I don’t think so.”

Rebecca flung her razor-sharp knife at Kari, right past her ear.  Kari screamed and ducked, immediately bringing a spell to her lips.  Then she saw a fat squirrel pinned to a tree behind
her by the knife.  The Lady Ranger stood up and plucked her knife from the animal, and broke its neck in a swift, singular motion.  “For stew tonight.  I’m sick of salted deer.”

After cleaning her blade, she turned to the young illusionist and smiled, offering her hand to help her up.  “I think you’ll find me more than capable of earning my keep.  But what’s more, I think I can also help you with your gold problem.  It would be nice to shorten our journey by sea, don’t you think?  Tell me, Kari, how well do you know Phillip?” she asked innocently, sheathing her knife with another smile
, this one playful.

~Magi~

The raft floated; that was the positive.  The negative, of course, was that it didn’t move.  Lake Calm was the deadest body of water any of them had ever seen. 
They paddled with makeshift oars hewn from extra pieces of wood they didn’t need for the raft.  “It’s not like we have a sail, anyway,” was Kyle’s best attempt at staying positive.

After pulling the raft together for most of the afternoon, the
y decided to rest at the water’s edge for the night, and began their crossing the next day.  Like the previous day, all was gray outside, and the surface of the water might as well have been a mirror.  They could not see anywhere into its depths.

Pilanthas had told Magi to seek his
father in Paragatha; that he would do.  It was not far on the other side of the lake—they just had to paddle across it.  “Would have been great if you had taught us a paddling spell, Master.” Kyle smiled at Marik, trying to keep the mood light.

All Marik could muster back was, “Yes.  Indeed.”

Hours passed after that with nothing but the steady sound of wood slapping water.  They cast some spells into the water around lunch to see if they could stun any fish to float up to the surface.  Nothing.  Carrying only stale travelling bread and dried meat, they ate in shifts to keep at least two people paddling.

Late in the afternoon, the far bank appeared on the horizon.  They skipped dinner altogether to keep paddling and finally reached land when the moon was high.  The temperature had dropped quite a bit over the day, and now that they were on dry land, the wind began to howl.
  Despite the cold gusts, it was a relief to once again feel some kind of breeze on their faces after the dead air that hung over the lake.

“I sense a storm,” Marik said.  “Let’s find shelter and get warm.”

The storm never came, but the wind was fierce.  The magical fire was a godsend, but it did little to improve Magi’s mood.  He slept fitfully, awoke first, and began packing up to head out.  Used to sleeping lightly by now, the other two awoke from the noise and quickly readied themselves.  Magi’s unspoken message could not be clearer:
tag along if you wish, but I’m on my own schedule.  Keep up.

Paragatha. 
From whence he came.  Today, he would hopefully meet his father—Marik’s friend long thought dead, a reckless man who destroyed his family in pursuit of riches more than 18 years ago.  How that meeting would go tumbled through his mind a hundred different ways.  He was sure about one thing only—there would be no tears of joy.  At least not from him.  If he lived, then why didn’t he ever try to contact Magi?  He might as well have been abandoned.

“Magi,” Marik began.  “I’d like to go on ahead
and meet your father first.  It has been years, and I would like to prepare him for this, uh, shall we say
unexpected
visit.  The shock of it may be awkward for everyone; allow me to give him some time to orient himself for this meeting.  He could be remarried…or even mentally unstable.  Please—let me scout this situation out first?  I’ve heard nothing from the man in eighteen years, after all.”