Potato Nose
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Chapter 2 Wildcard
🕑 Added 2024-09-25 07:24:04 +0000 UTCOnly partially edited. Sick as a dog. Gonna try to keep writing through the chills and hot flashes.
Plan to release on QQ on Friday or Saturday after a bit more editing.
---
Despite his jest towards Anthony, Sparhawk's mood wasn't entirely a light one. Looking past Berit, who still looked as though he was considering trimming Anthony's beard below the chin with his axe, Sparhawk got a good look down in the courtyard of the chapterhouse, where he could see Kalten and Kurik marching with purpose towards the stables, half armored and accompanied by several novitiates carrying lanterns. He was fairly certain that the pair of them were probably gearing up to go looking for him; best to forestall that. "Don't go away," he called down to them.
"Sparhawk?" asked Kalten, startled, looking up. "What are you doing up there?"
"I thought I'd take up burglary," Sparhawk replied drily. "Don't go anywhere, we're on our way down."
"We?" Kurik repeated, looking first at Kalten, then up at Sparhawk. "Who's 'we'?"
Sparhawk turned his head to briefly look back at the plainly annoyed, balding, pot bellied, middle aged man with the white beard. "I'll explain when we get down there. Anthony, come."
"The alleyway notwithstanding, I'm not a dog," Anthony said irritably, moving to follow Sparhawk. Behind him, Berit stayed a pace back with his axe over one shoulder - not quite in a striking pose, but he'd need very little time or effort to get there.
Sparhawk cleared his throat. "Berit? Can you fetch my hook and rope?"
"Ah..." Berit said hesitantly, eyeing Anthony with evident mistrust.
"Don't worry about it. I can take care of myself- and him, if need be."
"I still have to do as you order, can't let you come to harm," Anthony said petulantly.
"Just follow me and stay quiet til I say otherwise," Sparhawk said. He wasn't entirely comfortable with the immediate silence that followed, but he needed the quiet to think. "Oh, and Berit? We'll send someone up to take your place, but we're going to need you downstairs after you finish coiling that. This is important."
Berit wordlessly nodded, faking the rope into a neat coil and binding it with a forearm length each of the tail and hook ends, knotting them securely. Sparhawk led them down the parapet to the steep stone stairs that pathed into the courtyard.
Kurik was waiting for him with a thunderous expression on his face. "Where have you been, Sparhawk?" his squire demanded, the tension in his bare, muscled arms and shoulders emphasizing his agitation. The black leather vest Kurik customarily wore wasn't entirely fastened yet, several of the frogs still dangling free. His tone, though forceful, was the hushed tone men typically used in the middle of the night.
"I had to go to the cathedral," Sparhawk explained. "There were... complications."
"Complications?" Kalten asked, sounding amused. The big blond knight wore common mail and had a heavy broadsword hastily buckled on his hip, the straps not yet adjusted for riding. "Had the impulse for a religious experience?"
Sparhawk shook his head grimly, recalling earlier in the night. "Not exactly. Tanis is dead."
"Tanis?" Kalten blurted out, suddenly stricken.
"He was one of the twelve knights with Sephrenia when she encased Ehlana in crystal," Sparhawk clarified. "His ghost told me to go to the crypt beneath the cathedral before it went to give up its sword to Sephrenia."
"And you went? At night?" Kurik asked.
"It was somewhat urgent," Sparhawk answered curtly.
"What did you do? Violate a few tombs? Is that how you got the spear?" Kalten interjected.
"Hardly. King Aldreas gave it to me. Or his ghost did, anyway. Aldreas' missing ring was hidden in the socket of the spearhead." Sparhawk glanced between Kurik and Kalten. "I take it you were getting ready to search for me?"
"Obviously," Kurik replied. "You were missing when I went to check on you at midnight."
Sparhawk blinked at him. "You checked on me at midnight?"
"I check on you every night. Three times, at least. Have since you were a boy," Kurik admitted. "I searched the chapterhouse for you and when it was plain that you were gone, I woke up Kalten." Kurik looked past him, and Sparhawk spared a glance of his own to note with amusement that Berit was a pace behind Anthony, axe still over his shoulder and still watching Anthony with a mistrust that hinted at impending violence.
"Who're you, anyway?" Kalten asked after a second, jutting his chin at Anthony, who tightened his lips and said nothing in response. Kalten's eyes narrowed. "I asked you a question," he said after a moment.
Q
Anthony looked at Sparhawk, and for a brief moment Sparhawk entertained the notion of letting Anthony stew a bit, to see if he really WOULD stay silent until Sparhawk gave him permission to answer. But no; it would only provoke Kalten, and Sparhawk was forced to admit to himself that for all the man was strange, he HAD proved himself useful and had done as he was told so far. "Answer him," Sparhawk said.
"Name's Anthony," the man said shortly. "I got caught up in something unwillingly."
"Caught up in something?" Kurik said with a frown. "What manner of something?"
"Magic," Anthony replied. "A gift I received and read. It did... something to me. Gave me magic. Sent me here. Caused a big mess."
"A mess?" Kurik grunted questioningly, looking at Sparhawk. "How much trouble is this going to cause our order?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure," Sparhawk admitted. "The Rose Street inn was damaged and the road far moreso. At least one was killed by his arrival." Sparhawk shook his head. "Push comes to shove, we could hand him over to the Church ourselves."
Anthony looked first stunned, then affronted. "I beg your pardon?"
"You ARE the one who caused all that destruction," Sparhawk pointed out.
"That wasn't my doing!" Anthony protested. "That was inflicted ON me, not BY me!"
"Did you or did you not make a twelve foot hole in the street when you landed?" Sparhawk asked pointedly.
"I- well, yeah, but-" Anthony said weakly, then spit off to the side. "By Loki's forked tongue, you're an asshole. I had no control over that."
"You were able to slow our fall past the wall of the city," Sparhawk reminded him coolly.
"I'm still figuring out everything that damn book did to me!" Anthony snapped back. "It stuffed things inside my head, and as near as I can tell, it erased things to make room for it. Which worries the hell out of me," he added.
"So far, I only have your word of any of this, including the strange declaration that for the next year you have to obey my commands," Sparhawk retorted. "A single night is little proof of your words. You'll have to build trust and right now, the Order can't afford uncertainty."
Anthony sighed. "So what, then? We're at an impass? You're going to have me imprisoned, executed? Burned at the stake as a witch?"
The temperature in the courtyard cooled noticeably, as all three Pandion knights leveled dangerous glares at Anthony in response, and even Kurik looked scornful. "Watch your tongue," Sparhawk warned.
Anthony looked confused. "What?"
"Don't use the word 'witch'," Kurik advised. "It carries ugly connotations in Elenia, specifically concerning the treatment of Styrics."
"I don't know what Elenia or Styrics are," Anthony said. "But 'witch' is a term for practitioners of Wicca back where I'm from. And I am one- or was, at any rate." He fished around inside his shirt and pulled out a silver object, a star inside a circle, hung on a black cord. "Suppose on some level I still am."
Sparhawk wasn't entirely certain what to say on the matter, but asked, "And the burning?"
"Centuries past, the dominant religion in my homeland burned witches and suspected witches alive, demanding they repent," Anthony answered with a degree of resentment. "And that religion still denounces wiccans as servants of evil."
"Are you?" Kalten asked. At the incredulous looks given him by Kurik and Sparhawk, he shrugged. "It's a fair question," he protested.
"No." The tone in Anthony's voice was distinctly unfriendly, and Sparhawk felt something akin to sympathy, suddenly.
"... I apologize," Sparhawk said after a few terse, sullen moments. "These are dire times, and your arrival has introduced complications we can ill afford right now."
Anthony grunted, seemingly not willing to entirely let go of his resentment, but nodded, his white beard bobbing slightly. "Your ring, and your queen, was it?" he said.
"Best to have this discussion inside," Kurik suggested.
"Oh, and Berit, tell the novitiates in the stables to replace you on the parapet," Sparhawk said. "This is going to take a while. Kurik, could you go wake the others?"
Kurik nodded. "Of course."
---
I don't know what I expected of wherever we were going to be all meeting up. I can say with certainty that I wasn't expecting a relatively normal looking study with brown carpeting. Sparhawk, Berit, Kalten, and Kurik surround me on all sides; Berit remains quite faithfully at my back, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't once relax or sling his axe. Others join us; one a younger looking man with narrow features and build in chain mail so well polished it looks almost like silver. His curly, dark hair and olive complexion makes him look almost Mediteranean to me, and the general shape of his face brings to mind those models who feature on a lot of fashion magazines. Past the cuffs of his chainmail sleeves, his forearms are wiry and his hands callused, and I have little doubt both of these features are probably courtesy of the large and extremely alarming axe slung across his back. The axe is single bitted, anchored to the axe haft at the top and near the bottom of the bit, and its edge is barely curved, bringing to mind an oversized meat cleaver. Having done large amounts of cooking I know intimately well what that design of blade can do to a pork shoulder and I have absolutely no interest in seeing what its larger cousin can do to a human in this man's hands.
Next to him stands an absolute unit of a man, round faced and jovial looking despite the sober expression on his swarthy face. His light blue surcoat covers a plain white tunic, neither of which does anything to conceal his size. He's not carrying a weapon that I can see right now, but I almost think he wouldn't actually need one; he looks like the sort of dude who not only wrestles bears in the mountains, but only uses one arm against the smaller ones to keep it a fair fight.
Almost at his elbow is a big guy, at least a half foot taller than anyone else in the room, in a green surcoat and a conical helmet like actual Vikings wore rather than the horned things a lot of people seem to think they wore. Two Nordic looking blond braids hang down from beneath that helmet, looking slightly frayed and in need of brushing and rebraiding. A relatively plain looking broad axe peeks over his shoulder, and I'm getting the sense that axes are uncommonly popular with this crowd, at least as much so as more ordinary swords. Part of me feels like my years of D&D experience have lied to me; I'd expect more swords but other than those soldiers earlier in the evening, there seems to be an absence of spears.
As simple weapons go, spears were supposedly king of the battlefield by virtue of their ability to maintain distance... which, actually, might explain the higher than expected numbers of axes in the room? A weighty axe head is probably better at moving sharp sticks out of the way than a sword. Or maybe my wild ass guess is wildly off base.
On the right wall of the study, a large fireplace burns cheerily. Next to it, a short, rather pretty looking woman in homespun robe. I can't really guess her age; she could be a regal twenty or a youthful fifty or any age between. She's seated and watching me with an unreadable expression, while a girl that's probably her daughter snuggles up sleepily next to her. Part of my attention is drawn to the incongruous grass stains on her feet. A boy who looks at most ten or eleven is standing next to the window with his back to the wall, eyeing me with the same reflected distrust and wariness adopted by everyone in the room aside from Sparhawk and the last person to enter, an older man who walks around and behind the desk to take a seat.
The man behind the desk. How to describe him? Mid forties to mid fifties, looking wan, overworked, and probably not eating or sleeping properly, though I imagine the early hour doesn't help in the slightest. Despite his iron gray hair and beard, he shows little sign of actual deterioration, and the body beneath his simple robe carries the sort of comfortable strength that comes from a lifetime of disciplined, steady exercise. Given these guys are all knights, I fully intend to heed the adage 'beware an old man in a profession where men die young' and do my level best not to piss him off.
I glance wearily over my shoulder at Berit, whose nearly hostile focus on me is probably where this room full of strangers are drawing their social cues from. He seems to be just waiting for an excuse. My legs are informing me of their displeasure at the uncustomary amount of jogging I've done today, and my feet complaining vociferously at that same jogging being done on cobble and later walking across a mile of slippery, uneven ground. Even though I'm usually awake for hours longer than this, it's been an eventful night, and I'm ready for it to be over.
That's not a luxury I'm liable to get for a while, though. For the time being, I resolve myself to try and remain unobtrusive while keeping my ears and eyes open. If I'm lucky, I might learn something.
The man behind the desk rubs his lined forehead and sighs. "Sparhawk, would you care to tell me why we're all gathered here at this unseemly hour? And who is this... person?" he adds, looking at me pointedly.
"I'll get to his part in things in a bit," Sparhawk says. "For now, it doesn't matter what he hears." I definitely don't like the unspoken subtext this seems to convey to everyone present.
"So back to the question of why we're here?"
"Several reasons," Sparhawk says in reply, then looks at the woman by the fire. "But I imagine it's best if you tell the first part, little mother."
The affectionate name apparently applies to the woman who's been scrutinizing me since the moment she walked through the door; she seems almost reluctant to tear her attention away from me as she addresses the man behind the desk. She retrieves a long, cloth bound object she carried in with her from the floor by her side and unwraps it, revealing an ornate, sheathed longsword. "Sir Tanis has traversed the divide to the House of the Dead," she announces solemnly.
"Tanis?" The name seems to strike the older man like a physical blow, and his voice is laced with stunned dismay. "When did this happen?"
"Very recently," the woman replies.
"And this is why we're gathered?" he asks, turning his head to look at Sparhawk.
"Only in part," Sparhawk says. "There've been a number of events in the last day that require discussion and decisions to be made. But to start with, yes, Tanis visited me before he went to deliver his sword to Sephrenia. He told me that someone in the royal crypt wanted to speak to me. I went to the cathedral and was confronted by the ghost of Aldreas. He told me a number of things, and gave me this." Sparhawk hefts the spear he's been carrying all night, then twists the head of the weapon free, shaking out a ring set with a red gemstone into the palm of his hand.
"So [i]that's[/i] where Aldreas hid it," the older man comments thoughtfully. "Maybe he had a few more wits remaining than we all thought. You said he told you things. Such as what?"
"That he'd been poisoned, likely the same poison given to Ehlana."
"Was it Annias?" asks Kalten, a dark tone in his voice.
Sparhawk shakes his head. "No. It was Princess Arissa."
"His own sister?" the slender knight exclaims, clearly appalled by the notion. "That's monstrous!"
"'Monstrous' is a good descriptor for Arissa," Kalten says almost flippantly. "She's not the sort to let little things hold her back. What I want to know is how she got out of that cloister in Demos to dispose of Aldreas, though."
"Annias arranged it," Sparhawk answers. "She entertained Aldreas in her usual fashion, and when he was exhausted, she gave him the poisoned wine."
Something about the wording of that statement raises the hairs on the back of my neck; meanwhile, the slender man seems confused. "I don't quite understand," he admits.
"Well... Bevier, the relationship between Arissa and Aldreas went somewhat beyond what is customarily acceptable between a brother and a sister," the older man behind the desk says tactfully, confirming my suspicions. Or as tactfully as that sort of information can be relayed, at any rate.
Bevier, apparently, is as distressed by the statement as I am, judgng by how his olive complexion pales as he deciphers the older man's meaning.
"So, this was revenge, then?" Kalten asks. "For locking her away in the cloister?"
"No, I don't think so," Sparhawk replies. "I think it was all part of the plan, first removing Aldreas, then Ehlana."
Kalten hummed. "All in the pursuit of putting Arissa's bastard on the Throne."
I find myself interjecting a question of my own; it's an unwelcome one, but it comes out of my mouth all the same. "Uh... does he have a legitimate claim to the throne?" At the silence that follows as EVERYONE in the room turns their focus onto me, I clarify, "I mean, you said that, er, the King and..." I trail off with a grimace.
Sparhawk responds. "I have it on good authority that despite Arissa's other dalliances, Lycheas is Annias' issue. No doubt part of why Annias is so invested in seeing Lycheas take the throne; he has influence there even if Annias' familial affection is questionable."
"Wait. A Primate of the Church?" interjects the jovial looking knight, startled by Sparhawk's revelation. "That- Does Elenia have different rules for higher Clergy than everyone else?"
"Not really, no, but Annias doesn't feel the rules apply to him," the older man behind the desk says wryly. "And Arissa likes to go out of her way to break them. They make natural allies in their debauchery." He turns his head to look out the window a moment, before facing the room again. "I'll pass this information on to Dolmant. It may prove useful to him when the time comes to elect the new Archprelate."
"Pass it along to the Earl of Lenda as well," the woman Sephrenia adds. "The royal council is corrupt, but even they're likely to balk at the possibility of Annias sneaking his bastard son onto the throne." She turns her eyes to Sparhawk, only briefly glancing at me as she does so. "Is that all that Aldreas had to say?"
Sparhawk shakes his head. "There was something else. We already know that we need some magic object to cure Ehlana. He told me what it is: Bhelliom. He says it's the only thing in the world with the power to do so."
Sephrenia looks horrified. "NO! Not Bhelliom!"
I'm not sure about that, in all honesty. Thinking on my magics, I have some potent, or potentially potent, healing magics at my disposal. My instincts tell me that with only a few weeks of effort, I should be able to burn away diseases and poisons with faerie fire.
"That's what he told me," Sparhawk replies.
The viking looking man grunts, "That presents a problem. Bhelliom's been lost since the Zemoch war, and even if we COULD find it, it would be pointless without the rings."
"Rings?" Kalten asks.
"The Troll-Dwarf Ghwerrig made Bhelliom," the viking explains. "Then, he made a pair of rings to unlock its power. Without those rings, it's useless."
Sephrenia still looks unsettled as she comments, "We already have the rings."
"We do?" Sparhawk asks.
"You're wearing one, and Aldreas gave you the other tonight."
Sparhawk looks at his hand, and only now do I notice he's wearing a ruby set ring on his right ring finger. Busy as I've been in the short time since I got here, and given the majority of that time having been in lighting that ranged from poor to nonexistent, I think I can be forgiven for not noticing it before now. "How?" Sparhawk asks. "Where did my ancestor and King Antor get them?"
"I gave the rings to them," Sephrenia says with a shrug.
The rest of the room shifts a little at this announcement, so I take it that even though it means nothing to me, it's somehow significant. Sparhawk indirectly confirms this as he slowly responds, "Sephrenia... that was over three hundred years ago."
She shrugs, seemingly uncaring. "Yes, something like that."
Sparhawk stares at her, incredulous, while I find myself looking at her speculatively. Eternal youth? Periodically restored youth? Sparhawk swallows, then asks, "Sephrenia, just how old are you?"
"Rude," I blurt out, unthinking. "You never ask a lady her age."
The small chorus of snickers and strangled laughs that echo around the room seem to ease people's attitudes toward me a little, especially Sephrenia, who smirks a little at me, before turning her attention back to Sparhawk. "Exactly so."
Sparhawk, on the other hand, eyes me darkly. "Be silent" he orders, and my mouth snaps shut. He turns his head back to Sephrenia.
"That was... sudden," Sephrenia says thoughtfullly. She examines me, then continues, "Is he compelled by you somehow?" Sparhawk's lips tighten. Sephrenia gets a stern, warning look on her face. "Sparhawk, such magics are questionable at best. I know [i]I[/i] never taught you such things, certainly not to a degree of slavish obedience."
"This isn't MY doing," Sparhawk protests. "It goes back to when I was making my way out of the city."
---
Sparhawk related the tale of the ball of fire falling from the sky, the damage to the Rose Street Inn, the guards' pursuit, and Sparhawk's decision to follow and question the man who he'd come to learn called himself 'Anthony'. "... and after we left the hideaway he seemingly created from nothing, he carried me from alley to roof top, then from roof to roof without either of us moving through the space between."
Sephrenia blinked at him. "That's... are you sure you didn't just lose consciousness from the sudden motion?"
"There WAS no motion. We were in one place, then the next, with no motion, just a chant and gestures and then we were in another location."
"That's not possible," Sephrenia declared. "Magic can't do that. It doesn't work that way. The best that could be done is to... blur travel between one place and the next, and it's an extremely advanced form of magic."
Vanion looked over the strangely attired old man. "Perhaps he's a devotee of one of the Elder Gods," he said speculatively.
"Even they have limits, Vanion," Sephrenia replied, and Sparhawk caught Anthony shifting slightly as she said the name. Sparhawk felt a certain discomfort as he unwillingly found himself considering what it must be like from the man's perspective. He still didn't much trust the notion that the man simply... HAD to do what Sparhawk told him for the next year. But the doubting part of himself was starting to ease enough for him to at least passingly consider the notion that the man might actually be telling the truth. Which left Sparhawk with an unexpected manservant of uncertain but exceeding magical power.
[i]No,[/i] Sparhawk thought to himself grimly. [i]I must be honest with myself. A slave. If he is what he seems, what he says he is... he's effectively a slave. One that can't even lie to me without a harsh and permanent punishment.[/i] "He says he's not from our world," Sparhawk suddenly interrupted Vanion and Sephrenia's discussion on the known limits or willingness of Elder Gods to grant power to mortal worshippers. "Doesn't that mean that the gods of this world and their rules... don't necessarily apply?"
"He'd still need a connection to whatever gods he worships, though, to draw on their power," Sephrenia protested. "He can't possibly..." She trailed off as Anthony looked progressively more and more upset, although despite his agitation he neither spoke nor groaned nor even made any movements that might make a sound.
Sparhawk's discomfort intensified, looking at him. Sephrenia leveled her sternest gaze at him, and Sparhawk suddenly found himself not only uneasy with his apparent power over Anthony, but also subject to Sephrenia's distinct disapproval. "Sparhawk, this has gone past pettiness and into the realm of cruelty."
"I didn't do this to him!" Sparhawk protested.
"But you ARE the one holding his chain, even if you weren't the one to put it on him or voluntarily pick it up," Sephrenia pointed out. "Free him of this silence you afflicted him with."
Sparhawk grimaced, and shamefacedly nodded at Anthony. "You don't have to be silent anymore," he muttered. His guilt wasn't alleviated by Anthony's forbearance from speaking even after the order was rescinded.
"Maybe this is a good thing," Talen volunteered suddenly. The rest of the room looked at him, and the boy shrugged. "When Platime sends one of his people into someone else's territory to help them, there's limitations on what they can do and how they can operate, especially if they're the knife work types. And it's always a matter of trading favors. Maybe someone outside our world owes Sparhawk a favor but can't just leave this guy free to do whatever."
"You may be on to something there," Sephrenia commented, looking over Anthony thoughtfully. "Sparhawk said you have restrictions you're bound by on pain of punishment. What restrictions exactly?"
Anthony looked reluctant, and Sparhawk nodded at him. "Answer her questions, and any others she asks henceforth."
"Sparhawk, that's hardly necessary!" Sephrenia said, but Anthony began talking.
"I have two immutable restrictions, and two geasa-"
"What's a Geasa?" Sephrenia interrupted.
Anthony grimaced. "Plural of 'geas', a magically enforced set of instructions. The geasa are that for six months, no lie may pass my lips; each breach of this robs my magic by a set amount commensurate to what the initial geas empowered me by. The first violation removes all benefits it provided and the second begins depowering me. The second geas works similarly, empowering me initially but penalizing me progressively more for each breach I commit, and that geas is to protect Sparhawk and follow all his commands for a full year. In addition to the loss of power, breaching this command even once compels me forever afterwards to obey any orders I receive given to me by someone saying my full name." The expressions of everyone in the room - most especially that of Flute, to Sparhawk's surprise - were of shock and horror. But Anthony wasn't finished speaking. "In protecting Sparhawk, I cannot harm him, nor through inaction allow him to come to harm, on the same penalty as disobedience. The absolute restrictions are that I must conform to a standard of behavior that promotes goodness and wellbeing of others, that I never allow evil to be commited unchallenged in my presence nor act in a way that hinders good acts, that I protect the innocent, even to the point of challenging authority and defying cruel or unjust laws. Furthermore, I can never use a weapon, tool or other equipment that is not shaped, altered, or created by my own magic. Both of these strictures are also for a full year."
The room remained in silence for several heartbeats, before Flute played a shrill, angry trilling on her pipes, looking more incensed than Sparhawk had ever seen her.
"The... heartlessness of the execution of these commands against him aren't truly as bad as what many angered Elder Gods would afflict him with, in honesty," Sephrenia admitted. "But the Younger Gods would never countenance this sort of enslavement of someone they chose to empower. If they trusted their servant so little to require such things, they wouldn't choose them as a servant to begin with."
Anthony frowned. "Enslavement is a little... okay, maybe it's accurate, but it's also temporary."
"With a penalty clause causing permanent enslavement," Vanion noted unhelpfully.
"What if he's lying?" Berit said suddenly. He hadn't relinquished his hold of his axe once the entire meeting, resting it on his shoulder the whole time. This, too, added to Sparhawk's agitation. Berit looked around at the others, and insisted, "It's not impossible! So far we only have a short demonstration of his obedience and less than a full day of knowing him."
"My teleporting spooked you that badly?" Anthony said quietly, to which Berit gave no reply but a clenching of his jaw. "Look, I apologize for startling you, but it was literally the only way I was getting up that wall where Sir Sparhawk wanted me going. I'm too old and fat, and my hands too damaged by poor decisions in my younger days to make it up a rope without my legs. Or probably even with them," he added ruefully.
"How does one get to be so... ah..." Tynian started delicately, before trailing off.
"Out of shape? Fat? Decrepit?" Anthony said unkindly about himself, and Sparhawk couldn't find it in himself to disagree with the assessment, regardless of its lack of charitability. "I used to be a martial artist, and barehand kicks and punches against heavy bags, boards, bricks, every time you do them wrong you do a little more damage to yourself which never quite heals completely. I worked labor in a meat department, wearing out my back and knees a bit at a time for a living. Then I retired from meat work to become a writer. Craft stories and compose professional documents. Time just... passes, when you spend eight to twelve hours a day trying to write, to arrange words effectively so they can convey emotion, sight, sound, smell, touch. I wanted to be more than just another laborer, contributing to the largely surplus flow of meats when I could contribute to society with ideas, direction, philosophy, and even just entertainment. I wanted to create stories about a better future, of technologies that didn't exist, and societies better than the one I was born into." Anthony scoffed to himself. "I always loved books. Wanted to write a few myself, someday. Instead, it was a book that got me here, and all those ideals and ideas... gone." He shook his head. "As incredible as magic is... I think I got the raw end of the deal even discounting the whole geas thing."
Something suddenly occured to him, and Anthony uttered something explosive that whatever translated his words didn't bring across but by his demeanor was probably something obscene or profane. "I have no idea how I'm going to get back to my wife. I can't even guess how scared she must be right now. And Sparhawk, I have about two more minutes before my Tongues spell wears off, and then I'm not going to be able to understand any of you, nor you me. May I recast it?"
Sparhawk felt his discomfort ratchet up yet another notch. "You have permission to use your translation spell as needed," he instructed.
Anthony grimaced, and spoke alien sounds accompanied by arcane gestures rather unlike those used in Styric magic for perhaps thirty seconds. "... Thanks," Anthony said.
"What deities do you worship?" Sephrenia asked curiously.
"Eh... well, I've always held a respect for the nondescript conceptual 'divinity' in both male and female aspects according to Wicca. I practiced regularly for a while, although that's somewhat lapsed through aging and a general feeling that anything truly divine and powerful enough to create the world, the universe in its entirety... I'm less important to such a being or force than a flake of skin or a cast off hair I find on my pillow is to me. Not worth talking to it; it's not only not listening, it wouldn't even notice me."
Anthony suddenly looked tired, worn down. "Beyond that, I've always had something of a... compulsion that takes over for me when certain things happen in my life. Without even knowing why, I perform an action, speak to a stranger, give advice or do a favor for someone. Small things, inconsequential things, that end up making things a tiny bit better for someone. And in exchange I've always had an instinct for what to do that things turn out for the best for myself- although I often feel like that force has a prankish sense of humor. Like it wants to teach me things, or keep me safe and well, but likes to teach or protect me in ways that stretch my personal boundaries, embarrass me, or otherwise just keep me from taking myself too seriously. I've always sort of called that force 'Loki' in the privacy of my own head because Loki was reputed to be a trickster deity, but in Norse mythology he was usually the only one of the gods actually fixing any of their problems, even if he foolishly or through pranking was the cause of half of what he wound up fixing." Anthony blinked. "... Loki was also a shapeshifter and -" here he used a word that didn't precisely translate to Sparhawk's ears, "- which makes a strange sort of sense given one of the strongest magics I have right now is shapeshifting..." He trailed off.
"You think your god Loki sent you here, then?" Ulath said, rubbing his chin.
Anthony shrugged. "I wasn't even seriously convinced that I wasn't reading too much into random coincidence and good instincts on my own part," Anthony admitted. "Magic doesn't exactly exist on my world except maybe in ways so subtle as to be dismissed as coincidence."
"No magic?" Sephrenia seemed simultaneously confused and almost offended. "How could a world even exist like that?"
Anthony shrugged. "We got by through wit, ingenuity, and determination," he answered. "No outside forces strictly required, really. Most people don't even believe in gods at all."
It was Bevier's turn to be offended now, hardly a surprise given his devoutness and the borderline blasphemy he'd just heard. "That's crazy. Without the gods, where would the world have come from?"
"I don't have time to explain -" several more words and titles that didn't translate, "- to you, and they were mostly well supported theories anyway. Doesn't matter at this point." Anthony rubbed his face tiredly. "It's been a long night and all this is probably pointless to you guys anyways beyond an academic interest, and if I'm understanding everything you were talking about tonight, time is short. Where do we go from here- and in my case, where do I fit in?"
"He's right," Vanion says. "We still have the issue of Bhelliom to finish discussing."
"It's out of the question," Sephrenia said flatly. "There is no earthly trouble that justifies the potential consequences of Bhelliom falling into the hands of Azash. Wherever it lay, it should stay, and the deeper the better."
"Sephrenia, this is Ehlana's life we're talking about!" Sparhawk protested. "And yours, and Vanion's as well!"
"Nobody lives forever, Sparhawk," Sephrenia replied. "Annias and Lycheas are temporary problems; Vanion and I are temporary beings, and regardless of your feelings or your hereditary duty, so too is Ehlana. The world won't miss any of us all that much. Bhelliom, and Azash for that matter, are entirely different. If we were to fail and the stone fell into Azash's clutches, we doom the world forever. It's not worth the risk."
"I'll break open Hell to save Ehlana, Sephrenia," Sparhawk stated resolutely. "So help me God, I will. I'm the Queen's Champion, and I will not bend on that."
"At times I feel like I'm talking to a child," Sephrenia complained. "Vanion, can't you think of a way to make him grow up and see reason?"
"I was sort of considering going along," Vanion admitted with a rueful laugh. "Sparhawk might let me hold his cloak while he kicks in the gate. I don't think anyone's assaulted Hell lately."
"Maybe there's no need?" Anthony suggested. "I have an array of... well, considerable healing spells, at least by the standards of home. I'm not sure how they compare to what you have here, though."
"I thought you said you had no magic of any kind, healing or otherwise, in your home," Berit said almost accusingly.
"We don't, although the field of surgery and medicine is pretty impressive. Antibiotics, wound repair, disease curing, a lot of techniques at the disposal of doctors would seem magical to people even a hundred years ago."
"What kinds of spells?" Sephrenia asked. "Healing magic here is very limited; many believe it was intentionally made so because easy healing magics take away the consequence and importance of mortals and mortality."
Anthony scratched his chin through his white beard. "Well... basic healing of injuries, broken bones, removal of diseases and granting resistance to further diseases for a time, blessing an area to enhance the healing of those who rest or are treated within it, the ability to remove and burn away toxins and poisons, delay or outright prevent the departure of the spirit from the body regardless of what might otherwise kill a person. Heal wounds to the mind and soothe troubled spirits. Brew elixirs to heal wounds, remove curses, even reverse scars. Mind you, not all of these I can do immediately, but with practice, I should be able to do them within a matter of weeks."
"Aldreas said there was no force in the world but Bhelliom that could heal Ehlana," Sparhawk pointed out.
Anthony smiled weakly. "Well... in all fairness, I wasn't here yet when he said it," he countered.
"Then Bhelliom doesn't need to be unearthed," Sephrenia said with relief.
"We might not get a choice in the matter," Sparhawk disagreed. "One of the things Aldreas emphasized was that the time has come for Bhelliom to see the light of day, and no force on earth could prevent it. SOMEONE is going to find it, and if not us, it could very well be a Zemoch who finds it and carries it back to Otha."
"Or if it rises from the earth on its own," Tynian added moodily. "Could it do that, Sephrenia?"
Sephrenia looked like she'd bitten into a rotten lemon. "Probably, yes," she admitted.
"Then whether Bhelliom is used to heal Ehlana or not, we NEED to locate it." Sparhawk paused briefly, remembering something. "Sephrenia, after we landed outside the city walls, something was lurking in the fog around the outer wall of the city. I think it was watching us for a little while, and I don't think it was human."
"The thing with the glowing face?" Anthony interjected.
Sparhawk nodded; Sephrenia frowned. "The Damork?" she asked.
"I can't say for sure," Sparhawk replied, "but I don't think so. It felt different. The Damork isn't the only creature subject to Azash, is it?"
"No. The Damork is the most powerful, but it's stupid. The other creatures don't have its power, but they're more clever. In many ways, they can be even more dangerous."
Vanion sighed heavily. "Alright, Sephrenia. I think you'd better give me Tanis' sword now."
"My dear one-" she began to protest, her face anguished.
"We've already had this argument once tonight," he told her. "Let's not go through it again."
Sparhawk found his attention drawn back to Anthony, who watched closely as Sephrenia and Vanion began to chant in unison in the Styric tongue. Then, Sephrenia handed over the sword, and Vanion's face grew a little grayer.
"Where do we start?" Sparhawk asked, looking at Ulath. "Where was King Sarak when his crown was lost?"
"No one really knows," the big Genidian knight replied. "He left Emsat when Otha invaded Lamorkand. He took a few retainers and left orders for the rest of the army to follow him to the battlefield at Lake Rendera."
"Did anyone report seeing him there?" Kalten asked.
"Not that I've heard. The Thalesian army was severely decimated, though. It's possible that Sarak did get there before the battle started, but that none of the survivors ever saw him."
"I expect that's the place to start then," Sparhawk said.
"Sparhawk," Ulath objected, "that battlefield is immense. All the Knights of the Church could spend the rest of their lives digging there and never find the crown."
"There's an alternative," Tynian said, scratching his chin.
"And what is that, friend Tynian?" Bevier asked him.
"I have some skill at necromancy," Tynian told him. "I don't like it much, but I know how it's done. If we can find where the Thalesians are buried, I can ask them if any of them saw King Sarak on the field and if any know where he might be buried. It's exhausting, but given the stakes..."
"I'll help take some of the strain for you," Sephrenia reassured him. "I don't practice necromancy myself, but I know the proper spells."
Kurik rose to his feet. "I'd better get the things we'll need together," he said. "Come along Berit. You too, Talen."
Sephrenia looked troubled. "... Sparhawk, you're going to have to leave him -" she nodded at Anthony, "- behind."
Sparhawk raised an eyebrow. "Little mother?" he asked questioningly.
"There'll be ten of us," she explained. "We'll be taking Flute and Talen along with us. We'll be seeking the aid of some of the Younger Gods of Styricum, and they like symmetry. We were ten when we began this search, so now we have to be the same ten every step of the way. Sudden changes disturb the Younger Gods."
Anthony looked appalled. "Lady Sephrenia, as an outsider I admit that I don't know anything about your younger gods. I do know that war and violence don't remotely care if the one person in the way is a child or not, but the adults in the room DAMN well ought to. Leave the children behind."
Sephrenia favored Anthony with a wan smile. "After a long enough period of time, everyone else is a child. Which of the children in this room should I spare and which should I risk?"
"Start with sparing the ones who aren't old enough to shave, marry, or know enough to look out for themselves for a start."
Sephrenia shook her head. "It's a noble sentiment, but with the state of political intrigue and power consolidation in play, with Zemoch beginning to stir, with Bhelliom ready for resurgence in the world, there are no safe places in Elenia. They come with us."
Anthony scowled for a minute, then stood up. "Sparhawk, I need to practice my magic to improve what I can - and I need materials to craft tools I and others can use. Since you've forbidden me from using magic, and the only reprieve you've given me so far on that restriction is to use the Tongues spell as needed, I can do neither until you say otherwise." Anthony gestured helplessly. "Will you untie my hands on this?"
Sparhawk grimaced slightly, and nodded. "As long as Sephrenia watches you, you may."
"And when the lot of you depart and leave me behind?" Anthony pressed.
"I'll get back to you on that."
---
I am not, as a rule, a violent man, but when I was younger I had certain problematic tendencies that could have made me so. My patience has been worn extremely thin, and while I sympathize with their caution I feel immense frustration; I don't feel like I'm being given much opportunity to even prove my sincerity or use. Then again, given certain dark implications made by several of those present tonight, I might be suffering severe culture shock. There's a certain brutal pragmatism which all of these people take for granted that my twenty-first century sensibilities find horrific. From their point of view, maybe just letting me live is risk enough to let me prove myself.
"Lady Sephrenia, can I access or acquire - tonight - rosemary, lavender, feverfew, willow tree bark, sorrel, basil, apple blossom, chamomile, sandalwood, honey, and/or peppermint? They're not, strictly speaking, absolutely vital, but they'll significantly improve the quality of my work - and a number of glass vials with stoppers or other sealable liquid containers would greatly improve the shelf life of what I'm making."
She tilts her head at me, intrigued, while her daughter walks along beside her. "What objects do you intend to create?"
Damn Sparhawk and his open ended order to answer all of Sephrenia's questions! "The first project I'll be working on for most of the remaining night is a few elixirs to treat injuries, disease, and curses. That's the fastest thing I can make, and their efficacy will be enhanced by more than half with the right admixture of ingredients. I don't imagine you'd have any of the exotic animals with exceptional traits I'd need to make anything more powerful, and unless tonight is a planetary conjunction there's not a lot I can draw from conceptually to enhance them further.
"From there I'll need to get raw metal - bronze, iron, the material isn't important - and craft myself tools to defend myself. I'm going to need weeks of practice to improve various spells in my repertoire to the point where they'll be useful for what I want them to be- such as further empowering elixirs or increasing the effectiveness of other people's weapons and armor. Once I've done that to a sufficient degree I'll be able to craft talismans that won't require me to be present, simply used. Such as a teapot that can brew general purpose elixirs a few times per day. Or a glove that can create a short lived but tough shield to protect oneself or others. Honestly, I'm winging things right now and I'll have to play by ear because I really have no idea what you will all actually NEED or what you're going to be facing. For instance, that Damork thing that Sparhawk-"
"Peace, Anthon. I don't need that much detail." She mispronounces my name, and I can't tell if it's intentional or she just doesn't care enough to get it exactly. Probably the former, maybe to reassure me that she doesn't want to coerce me into doing things if my geas to obey Sparhawk ever bites me. "These elixirs. How much must be drunk to have an effect?"
"A teacup's worth should be enough to deal with a mortal injury," I reply. "Assuming I can get some of those ingredients I mentioned."
"As it happens, I have some stocks of lavender and chamomile, and the refectory likely has some honey." Sephrenia pauses, as her daughter is already holding several small satchets of chamomile flowers and spearmint.
She offers them to me, and I give her the kindest smile I can muster. "Thank you, Flute." She returns a bright, innocent smile and dances away with the sort of carefree abandon only children can manage.
Sephrenia seems slightly annoyed by this, and sighs. "Is there anything else you require?"
"Just a supply of fresh, clean water," I answer, "and I can get that myself."
So saying, I whisper an the incantation to Shape Water, drawing moisture into a slowly growing sphere from the fog of the courtyard until I have approximately a cup of water hovering in front of me. I pull a sprig of spearmint and a chamomile flower from each sachet, and begin to chant and gesture, stirring the herbs into the orb of water and watching the magic dissolve them slowly, gradually tinting it. Sephrenia stares at the water with wide eyes, fascinated by the process, not that I have much other choice until such time as I make a container in which to make Witch's Brew.
I think I can see the direction my subconscious mind had been going as I work. The ability to draw moisture from the air or ground, to craft a powerful Witch's Brew in small batches. The ability to Alter Objects, turn them from raw materials into finished goods almost as easily as thinking of it. In a pinch, to not even need a crafting container at all with a bit of concentration and effort. WIthin a minute's time, the Brew is finished, an elixir in strength further enhanced by herbs known for their soothing and healing properties. I look around, thinking of what to do now, until I catch sight of Kurik entering the courtyard carrying several large packs. He almost trips as he catches sight of me holding a ball of liquid in mid air without container.
I keep most of my attention on the water, kneeling down and looking for some rocks - specifically, quartz. I'm disappointed, unfortunately, as the courtyard is well maintained, which should have been obvious given they have a stables barely thirty feet from me. I shake my head irritably. "Kurik, could I ask a favor?"
The man shakes himself, then asks, "What do you need?"
"A sealable container for liquids."
"I can likely scrounge up some water skins," he says after a moment. "Will that do?"
I nod. "Just don't mix them up with your actual water - you'll feel pretty embarrassed when someone's taken a sword across the face and someone used the elixir the day before to brew tea."
He snorts. "You have a clever tongue," he observes drily. "Maybe it's for the best you aren't travelling with us. There are enough clever tongues in this group without further encouragement or attempts to one up each other."
I look over in the direction of Sephrenia, to find her picking up her daughter and cradling her. The girl is drowsing, her earlier burst of cheerful energy seemingly exhausted already. Which shouldn't be a surprise given the hour. I'm starting to feel it myself- and somehow I just know that whoever I'm stuck with isn't liable to tolerate me sleeping from dawn until afternoon as I usually do.
I hear the sound of liquid glugging softly, and look back at Kurik, who is in the process of pouring a corked bottle's contents into a water skin, although the liquid he's pouring looks suspiciously dark. "Wine?" I ask. He nods. "Do people here make strong liquors? Alcoholic spirits?"
He shrugs. "I've heard that occasionally Thallassians will freeze wines in the snow to make the pour off stronger," he answers, shaking out the last few drops carefully.
In other words, if I want a good drink I'm stuck with wine or beer and I don't like either one. No mixed drinks, no scotch, neat or on the rocks. Then again, no sense in being upset over not having rum for a rum and coke when there's no coke either. Ah, well, I shouldn't be drinking alcohol anyway. Too much to do, and I need a clear head.
I find myself wondering what my wife is doing right now. Probably talking to police. How's she going to explain the living room? It's probably a disaster from all that magic wind. Cats are probably hiding, and here I am stuck a world away with no reasonable way back, and judging by the geasa on me, at least a year before I actually get a chance to go back home.
My morose thoughts are interrupted by a meaty hand holding a cloudy, irregular glass bottle with a cork stopper stuffed in the top. "This good for you?" Kurik demands, although not unkindly.
"Yeah. Yeah, that'd work just fine," I reply. I pull the stopper from the bottle with my teeth and give it a tentative sniff; the readily recognizable scent of fermented grapes fills my nostrils. "What kind of wine is this?" I ask.
"Arcian red," he answers. "Tends to be well received by those who like wine."
I nod. "Then thank you for rehoming it so I could use the bottle. Hopefully nobody gets hurt, much less badly - but if they do, you'll have something to tend to the injuries with."
Kurik grunts. "This stuff you're brewing. Would it heal the Queen?"
"No," I answer regretfully, "Not from poisoning. At least, not with anything I have to hand alongside a lot of practice on my part."
"Shame." As I direct a stream of the floating liquid sphere into the bottle, Kurik looks back to the double doors to the interior of the castle structure as they open. Sparhawk, Tynian, Ulath, and Bevier are trudging out in a silent cluster along with several dozen other knights, all of whom are in the final stages of buckling down armor straps or securing cloaks. Behind them, squires and novices are carrying bundles and packs similar to those that Kurik is already hefting back onto his shoulders again. "How long before they're ready to ride?" I ask.
"At least a few more minutes," he answers. "They still need to mount up, and nobody's even saddled the horses yet."
"Then I'll have time enough to make two more doses," I reply, eyeing the bottle which looks to be just under a third full. "If you want more, I'll need another bottle."
"Little enough time for that. Must you thin out the fog like this? Makes it harder for us to hide our numbers," Kurik comments.
"The water in the air is the purest," I reply. "Direct me to a well and I can fog things up again if you need it."
"Are you blind?" he asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to a shape in the darkness across the courtyard, shadowed by the keep and not close enough to any torch to light it adequately.
"At night? Close enough, especially since my eyesight isn't that good at a distance to start with," I retort. "Besides, I've never been inside a castle before, much less this one. Forgive me for not knowing my way around after being escorted inside at the edge of an axe."
"Forgiven, but only this once," Kurik says so drily I'm not a hundred percent sure he's joking.
It takes a couple minutes to fill the bottle, and the knights walking their horses out of the stables openly gawk at me as I brew the concoction in mid air. By the time I'm finished it's filled half way up the neck and the cork stops an inch from the liquid when upright, and the courtyard is awash in knights mounted and waiting to sally forth. I walk over to the stables, where the last touches are being put on the few horses being readied that aren't already out in the courtyard.
"Keep it padded," I advise Kurik as he tends to the horse that's going to be carrying Sephrenia and her daughter. "Especially since you only have the one bottle."
"I'll take that," Sephrenia says, having followed me in. She raises her daughter up onto the horse's back, who isn't wearing a saddle, just a riding blanket, then takes the bottle from me, sniffing judgmentally at it for a moment.
Kurik looks completely unapologetic. "It was that, or a water skin, and as the man said, too easily mistaken for water on the ride. Wouldn't want to be lacking for it because it was accidentally poured to brew tea."
"Of course," Sephrenia replied, obviously not believing him. "Time constraints."
"Indeed."
Within a few more minutes, I'm standing on the sidelines, as the knights are ordering themselves. Well, any sense of decorum on my part is a joke at this point. "Sir Sparhawk?"
Sparhawk cuts off his conversation with Vanion, and looks in my direction. "What?" he demands impatiently.
"While I am here, in this castle-"
"Chapterhouse."
"Pardon?"
"It's a chapterhouse, not an actual castle."
I'm forced to bite my tongue at the pedantry of his correction, but not wanting to irritate him any farther, I just push myself past it. "What are my orders while you're gone?"
"Follow Vanion's orders as if they're mine until I return for you, practice your magics in peace," he says, "protect and heal my brothers."
"Very well," I reply. Honestly, the answer is a lot better than I'd realistically hoped for after the borderline belligerence he's favored me with tonight. "Sir Sparhawk, you should know that if you give me an order from afar, I'll know it. If you need my aid-"
"Last possible resort," Sparhawk cuts me off. "I want your healing magics ready for my Queen if this hunt for the object doesn't bear fruit. The lives of eight more of my brothers, and our instructor in the arts of Styricum hang in the balance, and I prefer a second chance if things go ill."
"Well, good luck, then." I turn and look at Vanion expectantly. "Looks like I'm your responsibility now."
Vanion eyes me tiredly, and nods. "So it would seem."
