In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (52 page)

The city of Ilbindale was deserted, and no boats approached the harbor as sailors had found it blocked and the inhabitants missing.  Word had spread from port to port that Ilbindale was cursed.  Malenec smiled at the thought.

“And now, Genevieve, it is time for our long journey.  Tell my children to release the ropes and begin their swim.  To Sands End!”

Several of his undead minions lifted ropes from the moorings and then jumped into the water.  Others followed.  Then more.  Soon hundreds, then thousands piled on top of one another in the harbor, each putting a hand on some part of the hull and pushing while they swam.  Others swam under the boat and grabbed little hand-holds that Malenec had fashioned and pulled under water.  The zombies formed a gruesome current, an engine of sorts that easily carried Malenec’s ship out to sea, heading west.

~Magi~

It was a complex spell.  Not beyond his skill, but it definitely required a bit of study.  After reading the spell for the second time, Magi closed the book.  “Father, what can I expect?”

Tomas turned toward his son’s voice.  “
Everyone is different, Magi.  There will be tests on different steps.  I’ve been told that some are illusion and some are real, but all can harm you.  The spell will open the door and to complete it, you must shut the door behind you.  The stairs will lead upward as long as you keep heading up.  As soon as you begin to descend, the stairs above will fade away and become impassable.  When you descend, you quit, and the spell will begin to break apart.  I cannot tell you what awaits you at the top, nor how long of a climb it is, nor how you return.  As I said, I never made it past my first challenge.”

“Why did you never try again?
” Magi asked. As a True Mage, perhaps you could have healed your eyes.”

His father sighed.  “A mage may only cast this spell once.  Even if I wanted to try again, and believe me
—I did—it would not have mattered.  Even if I had come back as a whole man, able to read and see—it would not have mattered.  The words of this spell would be gibberish to me, and would sound like such if I tried to re-open the door.  A mage has one chance and one chance only to climb.”  He paused and swished the last of his muddy wine around in his cup, then poured it into his mouth and chewed as he swallowed.  “As for healing my eyes, you’ve got the wrong Guild.”

Magi looked at his father and cocked his head.  “What do you mean?”

Tomas stood up clumsily, and walked to where Magi was sitting with his father’s old spellbook.  As he got close he stopped and smiled, revealing a decrepit mouthful of teeth.  He flailed his arm to steady himself, looking to grasp a table as the wine seemed to finally be affecting him.  Magi sat silently, arms crossed.  Tomas banged his hand against the back of an old chair, the rough wood breaking his skin as he stumbled.  But he had strength enough to keep from falling, and he stood in front of his son, shaking, with blood running down his hand.

“Son, look at me.  Do you think I would not have sought magic to heal my eyes? 
This—”
he held up his bruised and cut hand. “—I could have healed.  Any mage could.  You probably can right now, if you had a mind to do it.”  He paused to see what his son would say.  Magi remained silent.

“But
a debilitating disease, loss of hearing or sight or limb—no mage, not even the Queen’s own council—can heal these ailments.  That is the work of a True Cleric, and the world has been without True Clerics since time everlasting.  Such skill does not exist within our Art.  Believe me—I have searched.”

“Like you searched for your son?”  Magi regarded him coldly.

Tomas smiled and exhaled deeply, the stench of rot and sour wine on his breath.  “I have already explained that.  Would you have me walk around Elvidor blind, calling your name?  I don’t expect your pity, or your gratitude.  I don’t even expect your understanding.  Whatever bitterness is at the root of your soul, know that it is only a shadow of the bitterness that haunts mine.  You waste your insults on me.”  He rubbed the blood from his battered hand on his filthy tunic, then trudged back to the small fire Magi had conjured, careful not to get any closer than he dared.  Despite the wine, he easily made his way around the ramshackle hovel he had called home these last fifteen or so years.  He settled back down and looked toward his son.  “We live in a Dark World, Magi.  Whatever Gods used to look after us, they don’t any longer.  And they took the True Clerics with them, if they ever existed to begin with.  What I wouldn’t give to see you clearly, even if only to see the contempt in your face.  I have wronged you, and I have failed you—both you and your mother.  Can you ever forgive me, my son?”  He stretched out his hands from across the room.

Magi considered his father’s wish.  “You seek forgiveness from the wrong man.  I have nothing to offer you.   But I have been told that True Clerics
do
exist.  Keep searching for one, and seek their forgiveness.  You’ll get none from me.”

He
grabbed the book and walked out, ignoring to the gentle sobs from across the room.  The last thing he saw when he looked back was the light blue flames he had conjured begin to diminish as he exited, as if he was taking the heat with him.  Magi pulled his cloak close as the sky had just barely started to lighten in the East, harkening a new, cold morning.  The snow was thick on the ground, and Magi wanted nothing more than real warmth and sleep and solitude before he focused on the spell that would open the door to the Staircase.

~Veronica~

“So you see, the True Clerics disappeared
—not because God turned away from Tenebrae—but because Tenebrae turned away from God.  What good are clerics ministering to a faithless people?”  Strongiron had built his tale to a crescendo, captivating the room with his booming baritone voice.

“Where is your proof?”
a voice in the crowd asked.  Many people began to mutter under their breath and to each other, and nodded or shook their heads.

Strongiron smiled and
raised his hands to calm the suddenly restless throng.  “Yes—I am a skeptical man myself.  I would not have been convinced had it not been for two events, one of which I witnessed personally.  The first was the council of Pilanthas—”

At this point the crowd within the common room of
The Royal Steed
erupted again with cries, “Elvish Fool!—”

“
—Demigod!—”

“
—Charlatan!—”

“
—He speaks the Truth!”  On this went for about a minute. Strongiron remained silent the whole time, smiling, before reining the crowd in with a piercing whistle and raised hands.

“As I was saying
—Pilanthas,
whom our Queen considers a wise councilor—
warned us that True Clerics have returned, worshipping an ancient foe.  Those of you who are learned will recognize the name of Kuth-Cergor.”

An eerie hush fell over the crowd.  Veronica
managed to not beam with pride at the name of her Master’s Master.

“Which brings me to my second proof.  I have met one such True Cleric and have seen the power of his faith with my own eyes.  This man was captured after having enslaved the souls of an entire city.  Before he could be killed, however,
he uttered a prayer and disappeared from our midst.  I have seen mages teleport many times, and this did not have the trappings of a spell.  He uttered a request of his god…and disappeared, apparently rescued.  I saw no artifact, no scroll, no gestures.  He simply bowed his head and asked to be saved from the Queen’s wrath…and he was.  Right in front of my eyes, and my sword arm will attest to this truth should any here doubt my word.”  He waited and scanned the common room to see if any would step forward and challenge the truthfulness of his words.  None did.

“In the Queen’s wisdom, seeing this great power lining up to worship an ancient demon, and considering the council of the ancient
Elf who has seen at least three times the lifespan of anyone in this hall, she sent me north to find anyone here in this great city that once served as the cradle of the True Cleric Windomere.  She sent me north to see who might believe in the old Gods.  She sent me, a military man and a skeptic, to find anyone here who holds to the old ways…who would worship Dymetra, as I find myself doing now.”

There was silence in the common room.  Veronica allowed herself the perfect pause to strike
just the right amount of dramatic flair before she stood. “General, I have been worshipping the old god for quite some time.” 
And I’m not even lying,
she mused.  “Allow me to find my friend and cousin, whom I have been tracking for many weeks, and in two days’ time I will join you.”  Raising her voice slightly, she extended her arms in a grand gesture, “Together, perhaps we can help bring faith and belief back among the people!  For our Queen!  For Elvidor!  For Tenebrae!”

The crowd began to mutter again, then they cheered slightly, and finally a few drunkards began hoisting glasses to toast Dymetra and Strongiron and pale women.  The General just smiled and nodded
at Veronica.  She nodded back, and turning toward the door saw Lord Daniel and Lady Fran staring at her with raised eyebrows.  She thought one of the serving wenches was also looking at her a bit queerly, and she decided it was past time to head out into the night.

She had, after all, two more contracts to execute, both of which would hopefully proceed far more quickly than the way this one was progressing.  She stepped out into the cold night,
avoiding the muddy, grey snow packed all around the entrance to
The Royal Steed.

~Magi~

After sleeping most of the morning and studying his father’s spellbook all afternoon, something still gnawed at Magi.  Two things, actually. 
He had committed the spells in his father’s book to memory—even practiced a handful of new ones.  But there were still a couple questions he wanted to discuss.  That evening, Magi returned to his father’s home.

The snow was thick on the ground, white on rooftops, but dirty and grey along the road and alleyways from foot traffic.  It was so cold outside that Magi felt like his nostrils would stick together or bleed if he breathed in too quickly.  He walked briskly.

Without bothering to announce himself, he pushed aside the canvas flap that served as his father’s door, and walked in.  “I’m back, old man.  And I brought you something.”

He intensified his hovering glowball to light the hovel.  His father huddled in a corner, sitting on straw, with several raggedy, holey blankets covering him from head to toe.  He saw the pile shift, and his father said weakly, “What have you brought, son?  Please say a fire to warm an old blind man’s bones!”

Magi threw a pinch of cinnamon into the same fire ring as the previous night and with a word had light blue flames radiating heat once again.  He pulled a jug of wine from the inn he was staying at and handed it to his father.  “Two gifts then,” he said.  “Warmth for both the outside and inside.  But I have two questions.”

“You don’t need to bribe me for answers, son.  I’ll tell you whatever I can.  It is a gift that I should hear your voice again after so long.”  He pulled out the cork and, without thinking, began drinking straight from the jug, wiping his mouth with a
filthy shirt sleeve.  “But I am grateful.”  Another long pull, then a satisfied exhale.  “Ah, this is quite marvelous, Magi.  I’ve not had wine this good in many a year.”

Somewhere deep inside, Magi smiled, but his face was inscrutable, and the moment passed.  He plowed into his questions that were bugging him.  “Tell me again why you
did not fight Marik and his Master when you had the ring?  They were threatening my mother, but still you could have fought.  If you were worried about her, why not slip the ring on her finger so she was no longer threatened?  I am struggling mightily that you would just hand me over.”

Tomas did not say anything immediately, but pulled on his wine jug instead.  He finally said, “Son, I told you, I did.  My wife was asleep with a sword hovering over her throat.  There were two of them, one of them a powerful warrior and I dare say both were Mages.  Had I put the ring on her finger, it would have broken the spell on her perhaps, but who would save us from the sword?  I’m not a warrior, son.  I animate objects.  If I had done that, we would have died and the ring would be in their hands as well as you.  The only leverage I had would have been to threaten your life, which I could never do, not that it would have allowed us all to escape.  What can I say?  I handed you to them to spare my beloved Jaz, and they killed her anyway and tried to burn both of us to ash.  Would you have preferred that I killed us all?  Trust me when I say this—the only one who would have benefitted from that scenario is me.  Death that night would have been far easier than the last eighteen years.  Far easier.  But I still held out hope at that time, Magi.”  He took another swig from the jug, sloshing some carelessly down his shirt front.  “But I do not any longer.”

Magi pressed his lips together.  “Very well.  You can call it hope; I call it cowardice.”

Tomas narrowed his milky-white eyes.  “I do not deny I was scared, son.  I did the best I could think to do in a dark
situation.  It would be foolish of me to try and change your opinion of me.”