The Five Elements (4 page)

"It wasn't magic," he replied. "The rope was wet."

Shanna's quizzical stare prompted an explanation.

"Catapults use torsion to fire their missiles. Tightening the rope creates tension, but the rope was wet. Wet rope doesn't hold tension. It couldn't have fired, so I was never really in any danger."

"If you say so," Shanna said, shrugging off his explanation. "You didn't answer my question about Clubfoot."

Aaron turned his gaze to the darkening, gray sky. The wind ceased its howling enough that he just heard the waves of the Barrens crashing against the great cliffs. "You shouldn't call him that."

"Why not?"

"Because he doesn't deserve it."

"Sure he does. Even so, he has no right to torment you all the time." Shanna paused, letting the silence grow thick between them until finally she sighed. "Never mind."

Behind them, the door groaned as the wind moved it on its hinges. Aaron was certain he'd left it secured, but just when he thought to double-check it Shanna distracted him with a visible shiver brought about by the cold. She crossed her arms as she leaned in closer to Aaron. Shaking off the tingling which accompanied such nearness, Aaron unclasped the cloak she'd 'borrowed' for him and wrapped it about her shoulders. It covered a loose shirt gone thin from too many years of use and a tailored vest, newly given to her by Aaron just the year before, but too thin to protect her against the wind. Shanna accepted the cloak's warmth without comment, leaving Aaron to do his best to suppress his own shivering as the wind chilled his still damp skin. But then Shanna crossed her arm with his and leaned her head upon his shoulder. Suddenly enduring a little cold didn't seem so bad.

"Aaron?" Shanna stirred at his side. "Promise me we'll always be friends."

"What? Of course we will." Then, actually thinking about what she'd said, he asked, "Why wouldn't we?"

"Because someday you'll be a great wizard, and I'll still just be… down amongst the riffraff."

"Shanna, I don't think—I mean, Master Rion didn't mean—"

"I know what he meant."

Aaron, struggled a moment with his thoughts. "If either of us is going to make something of themselves, it'll be—"

Behind them, the door groaned again. The wind, Aaron thought as he went to settle his cheek further towards Shanna. But then she spun away from him.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded.

Aaron turned to see a man he didn't recognize standing in the doorway. He was short, with a lean, muscular frame and long blonde hair pulled tight at the nape of his neck. He was dressed in simple leather pants, a tight fitting gray shirt, and soft shoes that were whisper quiet as he advanced.

Though Shanna asked her question with the same tone she'd so often used with Corrin and his gang, it seemed wholly ineffective now as the man's only response was to reach one hand under a sleeve. With a quick pull, he drew a small knife. The blade and the manner in which he held it spoke of slit throats and murder.

Shanna's hand found Aaron's as the two stepped back. One small step was all they were allowed as they came up against the battlements. In front of them, the man quickly closed half the distance separating them.

Shanna let go of Aaron's hand and, stepping forward, drew her own knife. It was a small weapon, its blade in need of sharpening, but Shanna held it before her as if it were a knight's sword. She'd scared off Corrin's cronies often enough just by drawing it and had even used it once, cutting Worhel, though Aaron had later learned the incident had only been an accident. Now, however, she stood between Aaron and their attacker, brandishing the weapon before her with every intention of using it.

"Shanna, get out—"

Their assailant leaped forward. Shanna thrust with her knife, but the cutthroat defended himself with practiced ease, then brought the backside of his free hand across her face. She spun to the ground. The man stepped over her, paying her no further heed.

"Shanna!"

Aaron moved to go to her, but the assassin blocked his path. He had no choice but to back away, coming up fast against the battlements once more. He was cornered.

In the last moment, salvation arrived.

"Aaron!"

Midnight satin robes rose up behind the assassin.

Master Rion!

Aaron, knowing what was coming, dropped to the floor. A second later, the air was charged with magic. An immediate smell—something akin to charred meat—hung in the air before the wind thankfully carried it away. Aaron lifted his face from his arm, witnessing the agony written on the man's face before he turned to face Master Rion.

"Who sent you?" Master Rion stood with his staff in one hand and the index finger of his other pointed directly at the cutthroat.

The assassin's answer was a flung knife. But it was a clumsy throw, hampered by the damage inflicted upon him, and Master Rion easily knocked it aside with a flick of his staff before he answered with another attack of his own. Tapping again into the energy of his
ka
, his spirit, the sorcerer charged the air between himself and the cutthroat with an electrical-like force that slammed into the man, knocking him into the stone of the battlements so that Aaron had to scurry away lest he become entangled with him. No amount of wind could disguise the smell now.

"Who sent you?" Master Rion demanded again.

In response, the man, who was a smoking ruin now, lurched toward Aaron. Another concealed knife appeared in a hand that shook so badly it looked as if he might let go of the weapon at any moment. Master Rion blasted him a third time. The force of the energy surge pushed the assassin between two of the merlons and, from there, right over the roof's edge. The man’s death plunge was a silent one, for Aaron heard neither scream nor curse.

Aaron and Master Rion converged on Shanna. The sorcerer at first seemed concerned only with Aaron's well-being. Once he was convinced that he was unharmed, Master Rion gently pushed Aaron away so he could make his own inspection of his fallen friend.

"She's only unconscious," he said, "though she'll have a nasty headache when she wakes. We should get her to a caregiver immediately."

Master Rion handed his staff to Aaron so that he could lift Shanna with both arms. With mechanical movement, Aaron followed them down the tower's spiraling stairs. It took that long for the shock of what had happened to dissipate. They were spared sight of the body. Master Rion said they would send someone back to collect it. As they traversed the deserted streets of the Quartering, a million questions flooded Aaron's mind all at once. He neither asked nor tried to resolve any of them right now. Get Shanna to safety first. Then start looking for answers. That was his special skill, his 'gift,' since everyone seemed to think he must have one. Give him a problem and he'd come up with a solution, or at least a good theory. Aaron knew there'd be little sleep this night. As improbable and nonsensical as it seemed, someone had tried to kill him. He was going to find out why.

A
ARON'S PLAN TO START SEARCHING for answers was derailed almost immediately. After he and Master Rion had left Shanna in the capable hands of a caregiver, the sorcerer insisted that Aaron pay Master Elsanar a visit. Unable to do anything but comply, Aaron had left the hospital and gone to Ellingrel with Master Rion as escort. Now, as Aaron stepped into his master's study, leaving Master Rion in the outside hall, he was greeted by the familiar scent of apple and cherry wood pipe smoke. Noticing the light fading from the room's sole candelabra, Aaron went to refresh its candles straightaway. The new candlelight did little to chase away the worst of the darkness, but combined with the layer of pipe smoke hanging heavy in the air it created a pale glow that Aaron found comforting as he moved to stand between the two high-backed chairs that faced his master's desk. The sorcerer, who leaned back in his usual faded, leather-bound chair, was just visible between multiple stacks of papers, scrolls, and books. One corner of his mouth sucked at his chestnut pipe while the other exuded gentle puffs of white smoke in timed rhythm. Robes similar to those worn by Master Rion were draped around his slight form, though his were more worn, the dark satin gone light, the ends frayed from years of wear. As Aaron bowed his head to indicate he was at his master's service, he spied the elder's favorite doeskin slippers just poking out from beneath the desk. Without removing his pipe from his mouth, Master Elsanar spoke.

"I understand there has been an incident." His voice was soft and gravelly with age.

"Yes, master," Aaron said.

Elsanar leaned forward just enough to look Aaron up and down. He lifted his head to see better through his spectacles, which hung at the tip of his long nose. "You are unhurt?"

"I am well, master."

"And your friend? This Sarna. She is well, also?"

"It's Shanna, sir." Master Elsanar's inability to recollect names was the stuff of notoriety. "Yes, she's recovering. Master Rion and I brought her to Jadjin. She says she will be fine. There was a man, sir. He was trying to kill us. Shanna tried to stop him, but—"

"I know, Aaron." Elsanar's voice remained calm, reassuring. He leaned back once more, one hand stroking the length of a beard dominated by gray. "Why don't you sit? There are things we need to discuss."

Aaron started to round one of the chairs, then froze. A sheathed sword was leaning against the chair and a satchel rested on the seat. Aaron knew neither belonged to his master. The bag was of plain leather, bereft of design, with a fur-lined shoulder strap and nothing to distinguish it from any other bag. But because the sword was there, eslar glyphs so plainly etched on its bone hilt, Aaron knew exactly to whom the items belonged. He also knew that sword, satchel, and owner were never far from each other. Probing the darkest of the shadows, he saw nothing at first. Though his gaze swept over the remainder of the room, it quickly returned to that single corner furthest from the light. Even then, he did not see him until he chose to reveal himself. First, stark white eyes appeared from the gloom. Then a sleek, blue-black skinned face crowned by a shock of rust-red hair emerged. The rest followed until a man stood revealed. No, not a man. An eslar. Master Ensel Rhe Alon. Tall and lean, he was dressed for nocturnal events: black brigandine armor and dark leather elsewhere. A long coat stained dark with dampness from the road reached nearly to the floor. Without a word, the eslar came forward, the starkness of his eyes never leaving Aaron's. He lifted the satchel from the chair with one hand. He extended his other toward Aaron.

"My sword," he said, his words a near whisper.

Aaron looked with apprehension upon the eslar's weapon. It reminded him too much of the assassin's knife, only larger and, he guessed, much deadlier. He swallowed, then forced himself to take hold of it. With a hand he fought to keep from trembling, he held the weapon out to Master Rhe. The eslar received it with a slight nod, then he pulled his coat back to secure the blade at his belt. Aaron spied an assortment of other weapons there: a pair of throwing knives, a dagger whose dark sheath matched that of the sword, and a short blade identical to those worn by the soldiery of Norwynne. Ensel Rhe let his coat fall into place and straightened the strap of the satchel across his chest and shoulder.

The eslar possessed an evil reputation. The satchel bore most of the responsibility, for people said Master Rhe was a collector, and that the satchel held his bounty. Now, it looked empty. But other times it bulged, or so folk said, full of the things the eslar collected. Those things were scalps. The scalps of men, women, children. People whispered Master Rhe's name any time someone showed up dead in or outside the city walls. No matter if the corpse was missing its scalp or not (none ever did as far as Aaron knew). Master Rhe was always to blame. Of course if there was truth to any of it Aaron figured he would have been arrested long ago. Also, the fact that Master Elsanar consorted with him absolved Master Rhe of blame as far as Aaron was concerned. Still, the eslar did nothing to dispel the stories swirling around him. Perhaps he liked it that way. Aaron could not be sure, for he'd never talked to him. If Master Rhe really was collecting scalps and carrying them around in his satchel, then Aaron at least hoped his victims were deserving of such a fate.

Ensel Rhe nodded in Elsanar's direction. "I take my leave."

The master wizard raised his pipe in answer and, as Elsanar stood, Master Rhe swept past Aaron without a glance and quietly exited the study. Aaron let out an audible breath at his departure.

"Never mind, Ensel," Elsanar said, coming around the desk and gesturing for Aaron to sit. Elsanar slid the other chair around so it faced Aaron's. The master had just settled in his chair when a wailing noise from behind a small, closed door filled the room.

"Ah, tea!" Elsanar said. "I forgot I put the water on."

He made to rise, but Aaron was quicker. "I will tend to it, sir."

Aaron darted off to the adjoining chamber which served as the sorcerer's laboratory. The room contained a small stove which more often than not boiled the sorcerer's concoctions, but also did well to heat water. The stove's small fire provided enough light for Aaron to navigate the room and prepare the tea before returning with the pot full and the drink brewing. Elsanar seemed content to wait until the tea was ready, so they sat in silence while steam rose from the teapot's spout. Aaron slumped in the high-backed chair that was too big for him, looking about the shadowed room while they waited. No wall in Elsanar's study was left exposed: bookcases were crammed with hide-covered tomes, scrolled maps, and stacked sheets of parchment that lined row after row of shelving. There were no paintings or tapestries, just the shelves packed with a weight of knowledge Aaron had done his best to plow through. Yet even after four years of apprenticeship, he'd barely scratched the surface.

Aaron tested the tea. Finding it brewed sufficiently, he poured the steaming drink into two polished wood cups he had brought with him from the laboratory. Elsanar took a sip, then leaned back in his chair.