In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (67 page)

“
Release his tongue in brief now.  Keep his hands chained lest he try to reach inside his robe or make any grand gestures.  But as is customary, I will allow this criminal to beg for one final wish—to appeal to my mercy.  What have you to say, Magi?”

His tongue freed, but still paralyzed everywhere else, he simply addressed Lord Corovant.  “Your judgment is just.  I have but one wish.  There is a man who has something of mine
—he’s here in this room as we speak…I saw him when you brought me in.  It is my father’s ring, one that was stolen from me.  Allow me to burn with this ring on my finger.  When I am no more, you may pick over the ashes for whatever trinkets survive the flames.  But I would like to see this ring and think of my father while I die.”

Helmut’s here? 
Trevor spun his head around, searching for the sailor. 
If he has the ring, I wonder if he has the Purple Sun he stole from me as well?

“Where is this man?” asked Lord Corovant.

“There.  In the grey cap.”  Magi pointed, jostling his chains.

Helmut, who was
not far from Magi, was pushed forward through the crowd to stand next to him.  He had a vacant look in his eyes.  He just stood there, looking up at Lord Corovant with a shrug.

Lord Corovant scowled.  “You come to my court crying about thievery, yet you are accused of no less yourself!  What bewilderment is this?  What do you say to this?”

Helmut opened his mouth to speak, but could only stammer.  He finally just hung his head shamefully.

“I should tie you to the same stake as the man you robbed.  You and your ilk all disgust me.”  He just stood there looking at Magi, then back at Helmut, considering the final request.  “Let me see this ring.”

Helmut’s arm began to shake slightly as he pulled the ring from his finger and handed it to Lord Corovant.  He looked at the silver band, the square onyx, and the green emerald.  “This is the ugliest trinket I’ve ever seen.  Burn him!”

It is right there!  In the palm of that fool’s hand.  Kuth-Cergor
must
be real for my luck to be turning this fortuitously!

The crowd cheered loudly as the fire easily caught on the dry, oily wood.  Magi just stood there, his wrists bound, watching the flames quickly approach his robes.  “I will deal with you later,” Lord Corovant said, nodding to one of his knights to pull Helmut aside and hold him.
“Here is your father’s ring.  Catch it if you can, mage!”  He laughed as he tossed the ring through the flames at Magi’s feet.

No!

The crowd started laughing as well as Magi struggled to bend down and pick it up, fire blazing all around him.  He finally dragged it over to where he could reach it with his foot, though Trevor could see the bottom of his robe was now on fire.

“You rob our Queen of her r
ight to pronounce final justice!”  Phineas yelled over the din of crackling flames at Lord Corovant.

“Am I not an arm of the Queen?  Do I not save her time and trouble?  Let the West mete out their own justice,” returned Lord Corovant.

Trevor was near the front, and his head was spinning.  Not even an exceptional Master Thief could pickpocket Magi in the midst of a fire with a wall of humanity all gawking at the execution. 
And if I shout—I reveal myself.  No, best to be the first to pick at the bones.  It is odd that he should want this ring back…unless he knows something—

Helmut
had a glazed look on his face as he watched Magi ignore his burning clothes to slip the ring on his finger.  Immediately, the magic spells binding him from casting ceased.  With the fire spreading quickly up his robe, he quickly waved of his hand and flashed a mocking smile as he teleported away, just as Elsa had undoubtedly suggested, wordlessly.

Trevor’s shoulders slumped, and he found himself balling up his fists in frustration.
  I will not leave this scene empty-handed.
  Smoldering, he slowly turned his attention toward the captive Helmut.

Chapter 24:  The Cost of Power

~Marik~

True to his word, Marik taught Tarsh the spell to call forth the door to the Staircase up to Fate’s palace.  It was a gamble.  Tarsh was good, that is true.  Probably the best remaining mage in the school.  Perhaps more important, he was pliable, and Marik needed help.  Trevor was a talented thief (when he wasn’t busy getting drunk), but Marik had his doubts about the competence of his colleague in a fight, which is what it might come to whenever they find this ring.  Not every situation was tailor-made for his talents.  But what’s worse is that he was constrained to a single place and time.  Marik could travel the length and breadth of Elvidor in a word on his own; he couldn’t teleport with a non-mage.  Crossing the mountains with Trevor would take a month or more…and he knew that first hand.

No, he needed someone who could also teleport.
  And he needed that person to be trustworthy in a fight.  But mostly he needed them to be loyal
to him. 
Trevor was barely loyal to Xaro. 
Now, if I had another copy of that scroll
…but that was also a risk.  Flipping one’s moral center did not breed loyalty.  The effects were highly unpredictable—it was a complicated spell.  Magi was so squeaky clean that the effects on him were about as predictable as one could have hoped.  But what if he used that scroll on Wyzle?  Or Trevor?  Or Serenity?  Or even Tarsh. Who knows what behaviors and attitudes might emerge?  It was a moot question anyhow.  There was only one copy of it, and Marik had used it.

After his research on the ring, he became more convinced than ever that he needed a mage to help him.  A True Mage, one loyal to him…and perhaps one that could be manipulated to oppose Magi.  He thought about a dozen different options, and ultimately came back to one:  Tarsh.

Seated by a frozen stream outside of Brigg on the road to Gaust, he watched as Tarsh shut the magical door behind him and began his ascent.  He would engender loyalty the way men had convinced other men to help them for time in memorial: through bribery, through flattery, and through intimidation if necessary.  No scroll needed, even if he had a copy.

But first Tarsh had to prove worthy.  Truth be told,
Marik tended to agree with Serenity’s judgment, but there was no time for additional seasoning.  He needed to find that ring, and he had many emotional strings he could pull with Tarsh—if he made it.

Alone to his thoughts, Marik couldn’t help but reflect on the bitter irony of the situation. 
The boy I raised to join our cause, the man I converted to promote his loyalty—that man now opposes me, follows me, and if I am honest, may replace me if my Master’s hints are to be plainly interpreted. 
He rubbed his hands together next to the blue fire he had created to shut out the cold. 
All the more reason to find the ring.

The Ring. 
How stupid, and yet how fortuitous am I. 
Marik flipped once again to the page in
Ancient Artifacts
describing Karwin the Short’s magical ring of protection.  A ring unlike any other ring of protection—capable of warding off spells from Quixatalor himself.  And it had been wrapped around the finger of one of his students for years, in plain sight.  Reading the detailed description, there could be no doubt that this was the warlord’s ring.  Next to the warm fire he built, Marik silently reflected on all those years raising Magi, teaching him, watching him grow in power, watching him duel other students.  Looking back on it, it was now obvious Magi must have had some type of protection.  No student was that talented to only lose battles in tournaments when all jewelry, wands, and staffs were removed. 
Stupid.

And yet…fortuitous. 
If our little thief wasn’t so fond of ale, that ring would already be in Xaro’s hands.
  Marik smiled as he chewed some dried meat.  He knew the only reason he’d figured out what that ring did was because of Trevor’s failure.  And that failure provided him a chance. 
A chance to claim the ring for myself. 
He intended to use Trevor, and now hopefully Tarsh, to find it…but certainly not on behalf of his Master.

Let Xaro threaten me when he sees the ring wrapped around
my
finger.

~Tarsh~

A city by the sea…and pain.  Lots and lots of pain. 
Tarsh recalled the words of the Ol’ Shakoor as he shut the door behind him. 
I’m ready.  Nothing is for certain, she said.

He was grateful Marik trusted him.  After all, he knew far better what Tarsh was ready for than Serenity, who was what—five or six years older
than Tarsh, if that? 
I’m ready,
he repeated to himself.  Master Marik would not have taught him the spell if he did not think he was ready.

When the door shut behind him, he looked at the winding Staircase ahead of him.  The steps were all stone, as were the walls to either side, maybe six feet wide apart.  To his left was what
appeared to be a central column around which the Staircase wrapped.  Torches flickered on either side, causing his shadow to dance on both walls.

The steps were non-uniform and steep looking.  He took one last glance behind him at the door that had just shut, knowing from Marik that he would only get one chance at this. 
I
am
ready.  Marik believes in me.  Magi must be stopped, and Kari…she may need me.  I am ready.

He put a foot on the first step.  Then the next.

He climbed for what seemed like an hour, never able to see very far ahead.  Everything was around an unending corner, when he suddenly came to a dead end.  The Staircase ended in a small landing facing a stone wall.

He felt along the wall for any levers, any holes, any odd indentations, hidden cracks, or mysterious
runes.  Nothing.  Just a stone wall. 
Very well, so they expect me to blast my way through.

Trevor backed up and cast an Air Hammer spell to force the stone to move.  As he cast the spell and poured his energy into it, he noticed the wall was moving.  He put more and more of himself into the spell to try and crack that stone…when he realized that the stone was moving the wrong way.  It was moving
toward
him, reducing the space on the landing.  He stopped his spell.

It was like the wall absorbed or pushed back against him.  The more power he put into this spell, the faster the wall moved to push him off the landing back down the steps. 
Perhaps I can’t force it open. 
He sat down on the smaller landing and tried to think.  After several minutes, he examined the wall again. 
Still nothing extraordinary.

Fire.  He decided he would see if fire would cause the wall to weaken.  Summoning his most potent fire spell, he created a blue flame at the base of the wall, mere feet from where he stood at the edge of the landing, and poured his energy into making it the hottest fire imaginable.

As soon as he cast it, the wall—now a wall of blue flame—continued to shift inward toward him.  The heat was unbearable this close to the fire and his clothing began to catch.  He stopped and quickly cast another spell to put the fire out.  His clothes were in tatters, and his legs and stomach were singed.  The door was now less than three feet from him.  Again he reached up to inspect it.  The wall was as cool to the touch as springtime pond.

This is madness!  They are pushing me back down.

He leaned up against the wall and banged the bottom of his fists against it in frustration.  All he did is cut himself.  Nothing moved.  He screamed.  Nothing moved.

Tarsh sat down and slumped over with his back against the wall and decided to use some simple healing spells to treat his
cuts and burns.  When he did so, he felt the wall move again, pushing him once more toward the edge of the landing.  He stood up.  As a test, he cast a glowball away from the wall back down a few steps of the Staircase.  Again the wall moved.  It was no longer much of a landing, but now was little more than a two-foot wide step ending in a wall. 
Every spell I cast moves it closer to the edge.  Am I to not use magic to get past it?

He looked for anything on the floor he could use as a chisel.  He carried a small knife, and used that to try and pry off some stones, but all he did was dull the blade.  The only thing that moved the wall was magic…but it moved the wrong way.

After what seemed like an hour, Tarsh was resigned to his fate. 
They wish to send me back down, they will have to push me down themselves.  I will not quit!

Facing the wall, he stood on the edge and could easily extend his arms and touch it.  It was uncomfortabl
y close to his nose.  Summoning the same Air Hammer spell he used before, he cast the spell to try and push the wall away from him.

Instead, like always, it advanced.  Slowly it moved toward him, and the closer it came, the more power Tarsh used.  Inches from him, he screamed, throwing an invisible force at the wall with all his energy to try and crush it.  It reached his body…and passed over him like an illusion.

Tarsh looked behind him and saw the wall fade away, leaving nothing but stairs below and stairs above.  Sweating with exhilaration and relief, he did not linger.  He moved forward and continued climbing, both tired and on edge.

If possible, the stairs grew even steeper.  There were sections where Tarsh had to use his hands to pull himself up a few steps.  Time began to lose all meaning as he went higher and higher.

He could not be sure how long he continued up the spiral Staircase, but it felt like at least two hours before he came to another landing.  This one ended in a door, to his delight.  He walked over to it and grabbed the ring handle.  It was not bolted.  Tarsh decided to cast a shield spell before opening it, not sure of what might be on the other side.

The door swung outward with a tug on the ring, opening up a large, well lit room.  On the far end of the room were two indiv
iduals, both wearing rags, bound at the wrists and the ankles against a post.  Their heads were slumped forward, but they moved when the door opened.

“Ah, so good of you to join us, young Tarsh.  Come in, come in!  Please, join in the festivities,” said a voice from a wight on his right.  The wight had a glow about it, with several human features distorted.  Its arms were too long and dragged on the ground, and its chin was too long.  It was thin, with black eyes, and smelled…preserved.  Tarsh
wrinkled his nose at the strange creature.

“Who are you? 
What
are you?  What is this place?”  Tarsh asked.  He heard a slight moan coming from one of the individuals tied up at the far end of the room.

“Why, this is your Climb, Tarsh!  As for who I am, that is not important.  A humble servant of Fate, you might say.  But come—let us talk of what
is
important.  You must make a choice, Tarsh.  Behind me are two…friends of yours.  Each of them leads to a door.  The door is only opened based on the amount of pain they are in.  You must be the instrument of their pain, and choose wisely.  Not all doors on the Staircase lead to nice places.”  The wight grinned wickedly.

“Why don’t I just kill you and rescue them, or would that be off script, you foul creature!”  Tarsh looked at the wight menacingly, but did not advance.

“Oh, that would be delightful!  Do try.  Please, I beg you.”  The wight spread its arms wide, inviting an attack, eyes closed and face—chin and all—uplifted.

Tarsh paused. 
Very well, let him taste my missiles.
He fired a magic missile directly at the wight.  It passed through it, striking a wall behind it.

“My turn, young Tarsh.”  The wight leapt forward and grabbed Tarsh by the wrists with its long, wiry arms.

The pain was unbearable.  Tarsh saw himself burning, saw his flesh beginning to blacken and char.  He screamed and tried to jerk away, but was held fast.  His skin soon peeled away, revealing his bloody body in the raw.

And then it stopped.  The wight grinned wickedly, having released its grip on him.  Tarsh’s body was unharmed, but he heard the two people continue to moan at the far end of the room.

“What did you do?” he asked, still gasping for breath and trying to calm his heartbeat.  “Who are you?”

The wight stood a few feet away, still glowing, and was licking its fingers like it had just finished a delicacy.  It did not answer immediately, but finally opened its coal-black eyes to focus on Tarsh.

“Oh, that was exquisite.  Would you like to attack me again?  Just a small one, perhaps?”  The wight was pressing its long fingers against each other in a hopeful, almost desperate look.

Tarsh took a step back. 
What is this thing? 
“No.  But I want to know more about who you are and what you would have me do to complete this task.”

Clearly disappointed, the wight slumped a little bit before straightening up.  “Well, young Tarsh, I have already told you your task.  And I have already told you who I am.  If you must know more, my name is Morsus, and I am Fate’s Minister of Pain.  I sell pain, deliver pain, and…oversee pain.  It is the only joy of my existence.”  It looked longingly again at Tarsh before walking slowly toward the captives.  “And now the time has come for you to choose.  The door behind each will only be opened in direct proportion to their pain.  Of course, there is a third option…”