Pathfinder Tales: Lord of Runes (7 page)

“It seems unlikely. My understanding is that he died of natural causes, found in his own bed after he failed to appear in class.”

“So there was no investigation.”

“The death of a man nearly one hundred years old raises no suspicions.”

Vencarlo began nodding but stopped and looked at me. “Nearly one hundred? You and he weren’t by any chance…?”

“The same age? In fact we were cohorts, born in the same year.”

“No wonder you came so far for his funeral.”

“Actually, the news of his death—and that he had named me executor to his will—came as a surprise.”

“What was his name?”

“Benigno Ygresta.”

“To your friend, Benigno Ygresta.”

We raised our cups and drank. I considered Ygresta’s passion for what he deemed the misunderstood art of necromancy. He believed that one day necromancers might mend the sick as an alternative to clerics, who usually tended only their faithful or those who paid high prices for their services. He researched spells intended to restore lost limbs or increase longevity, always with an eye toward making such miracles available to the common people.

It occurred to me that he and Orisini had that in common. While one sought to serve the common people with arcane healing, the other “recovered” their taxes by robbing the wealthy.

“Did you know him?” I asked. “Ygresta, I mean.”

Vencarlo shook his head. “I never met the fellow, but I did hear something about his funeral. The Acadamae necromancers raised four undead ogres to carry his coffin.”

“As some sort of honor?” Students and faculty of the Hall of Whispers were perverse even by Acadamae standards.

“Not as far as I know,” said Vencarlo. “The way I heard it, none of the usual pallbearers could lift the weight.”

Benigno had looked out of place among our fellow students, most of whom fell into one of two categories: the sickly or the obese. Benigno had been tall and muscular, but not unduly heavy. He had been raised a laborer, picking grapes for his family’s landlord, and his labors were reflected in his physique. He would have looked more at home among the Sable Company than at the Acadamae.

Noting my surprise, Vencarlo patted his belly. “Age presents us all with a choice: we swell or we wither.”

For a while we pondered our mortality in silence, and we drank.

“Benigno did leave one mystery,” I said. “Perhaps two.” I told Vencarlo of Illyria and my surprising bequest.

“A blank book,” said Vencarlo. “And no explanation?”

“None, although his choice of the box might be some clue. It was covered in Thassilonian runes.”

Vencarlo frowned. “Even a swordsman like me knows that rune magic is dangerous.”

“I have some experience with perilous texts.”

Vencarlo chuckled.

“You do not believe me?”

“I’ve had enough wine believe in your dragons, the unicorn, or the dangerous books. Pick one.”

“Even the keenest blade is no match for the power contained in an arcane tome.” When he smiled his doubt, I said, “Very well.” From my satchel I retrieved the original text of the
Lacuna Codex
, my copy of the
Lexicon of Paradox
, and the blank codex Ygresta had left me.

“All right, the books it is. It’s too late to quarrel about the rest.” He held his gloved hand over his heart. “I, Vencarlo Orisini, believe that these books are dangerous weapons … for those who can master their secrets.”

“As I have.”

“How many times have you told me that you understand magic but can’t use it?”

“There has been a development.”

He shot me a skeptical look. I took a riffle scroll from my coat and offered it to him.

He examined the tiny book, a rectangle little more than three inches long and barely more than an inch wide. At one end, a brass brad held the several dozen pages tightly together. He fanned the pages, revealing the fractional runes inscribed on each. For several years, riffle scrolls had been my crutch, the only means by which I could cast a spell without becoming physically ill.

“What language is this?” he asked.

“What you see is the alphabet of the arcane, or rather divided fractions of individual letters. On a traditional scroll, those letters would form a contiguous sequence of words that, when uttered in the presence of any required material catalysts and while the trained speaker visualizes—”

He yawned and tossed the riffle scroll back to me. “Is that a spell to put me to sleep?”

I caught the scroll, turned it in my hand, and pressed my thumb against the open edge. As the pages burped free, one of the unlit candles behind him flared to life.

“All right, so the little books let you cast spells.”

“Not exactly. I cast the spell when I inscribe the riffle scrolls. The riffle scrolls allow me release the magic without becoming sick.”

“I see.”

“But that did not reveal why I had difficulty casting spells in the first place. The answer to that mystery I discovered only recently.” With a snap of my fingers, I pointed to another of the candles, lighting it as I had the first.

“So you need the scrolls, or you don’t need the scrolls?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I need the scrolls to cast a spell
as a wizard
. But what I have learned is that I am not a wizard. I am a sorcerer.”

“I’d blame the wine, but I’m fairly certain you’re the one giving me this headache.”

“Sorcerers are born. Wizards are trained. The Acadamae accepts only prospective wizards, and so they screen applicants for any trace of a sorcerous bloodline. When I discovered in Sarkoris that I have a sorcerous bloodline—”

“—you came to the Acadamae to learn why you’d slipped past this screening.”

“Exactly.”

Vencarlo nodded. “What a mess. You could avoid the whole issue by concentrating on the masculine art of swordplay instead of this effeminate gibberish.”

“It is as dangerous to insult a sorcerer as it is a wizard,” I said. “Do not forget that the arcane quill is more powerful than the most practiced sword. Now that I have embraced my heritage, I need no riffle scroll to do this.”

Before Vencarlo could move, a mass of rainbow-colored veils fell upon him. They were flimsy things, and their material would soon evaporate, but the reminder of his unfortunate disguise in the Dockside brothel was worth the expense of magic. “For your next performance before the Sable Guard.”

Vencarlo brushed aside the veils with a snarl, but he could not suppress an amused smile. “I forgive this slight only because you brought a bottle of good wine.”

“More than a bottle,” I reminded him. “I hope it is enough for both forgiveness and a favor.”

He smiled as if he had been expecting me to ask for something all along.

“I just wish to know what you have heard of Illyria Ornelos.”

“Ah, of course. You don’t believe she’s intruding herself on your business just for your letters to her professor?”

“The idea is flattering, but no.”

“Maybe she likes the sound of ‘Countess Jeggare.’”

“Too flattering still.”

“You may be an old man, but you don’t look like one.”

“Well…”

“And you are the richest count in Cheliax, aren’t you?”

“A gentleman does not address such matters.”

“You mean it hurts your vanity to think she wants your gold rather than your person.”

He went too far. “When was the last time a young woman showed interest in you?”

Vencarlo’s smile dimmed. He remained silent for a moment while rubbing his gloved hand.

I was the one who had gone too far.

“My apologies.”

“What is it the dwarves say? ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’”

I raised my cup. “To old fools.”

“And the beautiful young women who make us foolish.”

We drank. Veils of nostalgia descended upon both of us, casting the candlelight in gauzy blurs.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Vencarlo’s tone was rhetorical.

“You know her?”

“All of the Ornelos girls studied fencing here, although not with me. A few advanced beyond the basics. Illyria was not one of them. She made an effort, but her gifts were more intellectual than athletic.”

“Yet you remember her.”

“Her family is well known, even though her parents hold separate households here and in Cheliax. Her mother lives in Westcrown, I think. When the girls came out in Korvosa, Illyria had her share of suitors, at least for a while.”

“Why only for a while?”

“She was known for a sharp wit and sharper tongue. None of her suitors was clever enough to keep up.”

Few things appealed to me more than a quick-witted woman, although I could do without the sharp tongue. Illyria had not seemed especially shrewish, but that could be because she wanted something from me.

“Later, it was the necromancy that put them off,” Vencarlo said. “One of Dengaro’s best students was smitten with the girl, and he was quick enough to keep up. Once he learned she’d joined the Hall of Whispers, though…” Vencarlo blew imaginary feathers from his fingers. “Poof!”

“Young hearts are fickle.”

He raised his goblet. “To faithful hearts!”

“Now you are making any excuse for a toast.”

“To excuses! To toasts!”

We drank.

Vencarlo’s gaze fell upon the Shadowless Sword. I had seen him peek at it several times over the past hours, perhaps waiting for me to show it to him. He could wait no longer. “May I?”

I nodded.

He unsheathed the blade, murmuring at its fine craftsmanship. “I can’t say I approve of the style,” he said. “You should have kept to the rapier. If nothing else, think of the stunts with which we entertained the ladies.”

“Do you still do the candle trick?”

“What do you think?”

“Show me.”

He handed me the Shadowless Sword and drew his rapier. Within the span of a second, he lashed several strokes at the nearer candelabra. Each of the flames vanished, their wicks cut from the candles.

“Not bad.”

“I’d like to see you do the same with that cleaver.”

I lifted the Shadowless Sword.

“It won’t work with such a wide blade. The weight alone—”

With a sharp ki shout, I lashed out and sheathed the sword in what appeared even to my eyes a single swift motion.

Vencarlo clucked his tongue. “You see? That was very theatrical, and doubtless authentic to the Eastern style, but—”

I stamped the floor and four candles wobbled and fell, each cut in two places with an elegant curve.

He stared at the candles. He stared at me. He stared at the sword.

“May I try it?”

I passed him the blade. He assumed a classical stance, reconsidered, and stood tall. With a snap of his wrist, he lashed the candles twice. Four tumbled, each cut twice.

“This is quite a sword.” He put his eye to the guard and peered down its blade, first at one of the remaining candles, then out into the moonlit street, and finally at me.

Whatever he saw in my face gave him a start.

“What is it?” I asked.

He hesitated. “A trick of the light.”

“The Shadowless Sword reveals illusions. Did you detect one on me?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It just appeared that a shadow crossed your face.”

Outside, a cloud drifted off the face of the moon.

“Ah,” I said. “Perhaps it was just a trick of the light.”

“What else does this sword do?”

“The crown princess of Quain gave it to me as a token of gratitude for service to the throne, and you ask what more it does?” His question annoyed me both because he belittled the significance of my prize and for the reminder that I had never conducted a thorough exploration of the weapon’s powers.

“It’s a fine weapon,” he said, sounding as contrite as I had ever heard him. Perhaps I had been too defensive. He returned the sword over his forearm. “Fine, that is, for a foreign machete.”

“Would you care to test your rapier on this foreign machete?”

“Now you’re talking like a man,” said Vencarlo. An instant later, his blade was in his hand. We kicked away the chairs. He assumed an old-fashioned Chelish guard stance. I did the same, but in the Tian style.

“Do not forget who won our first duel,” I said.

“Better that you recall who won our last.”

He made a good point, but I had learned much in my recent travels. Besides, there was no blade swifter than the Shadowless Sword.

He beat my weapon and feinted an advance, but I refused to be gulled. With a smile, he attacked again, beating twice and cutting under the Shadowless Sword. I surprised him by doubling under and beating his slender blade out of line. He retreated half a step and lunged.

I parried and followed through with a riposte. Rather than retreat or defend, he turned the point of his rapier into the blood groove of my sword. The sharp point slid down my blade, hopped over the shallow crosspiece, and stabbed my hand between finger and thumb. I hissed at the pain.

Arnisant advanced with a warning woof.

I gave him the sign to sit. He obeyed, but his gaze locked on Vencarlo.

Vencarlo stepped back and performed a smart salute. Apart from a sheen on his eyes, he betrayed little evidence that the wine had impaired his skill. “You want a basket on that hilt.”

He made his point, but he need not have made it with such force. Sheathing my sword, I pinched the wound. It was deep and bled profusely. As I reached for a napkin on the table, several fat drops of blood spilled on the blank pages of the codex.

“Your book!” said Vencarlo. He reached for another napkin with which to sop the blood.

“No, wait.”

The blood beaded and rolled across the parchment surface. For an instant I thought the pages were impervious to moisture. Then a fine network of red lines appeared in the wake of the dribbling blood.

“What is that?” said Vencarlo.

I wiped the beaded blood across the page. Where it wet the parchment, it revealed more hidden script. I recognized two different languages, one arcane, the other as ancient as the runelords themselves. “Thassilonian.”

As the blood trickled across the parchment, I thought of the stain on Ygresta’s desk blotter. He must have discovered the book’s secret before his death.