Alone or in groups, the champions left the globe-lit cavern of glass and water and rock. Half were already gone by the time we approached the doors; they opened for us, letting us step back into the blackness.
Spiritwhisper, the young arch-enchanter leading the six of us, brought up a shimmering apparition of white mist to cast a radiance about us. It wasn’t until the doors closed and we were left in the near-total darkness that I realised the apparition was Neverwish-shaped.
“Is that, hm, in the best of taste?” Nighteye asked, walking just behind him and just in front of me and Em.
“He betrayed me, man.” Spiritwhisper sounded a bit dejected. “Sure, I didn’t like him – no one liked him, except maybe Starsight – and the other dwarves, I guess… but this –” the misty Neverwish spun as it skipped forwards in front of us “– this is all I ever knew. A droppin’ illusion. A fake. Man… I just can’t believe it.”
“Hm…”
I shuddered as I saw Nighteye patting the tall, muscular enchanter on the arm. I hadn’t even thought about the way this would affect those who’d actually fought at his side for more than a battle or two. Those who’d depended on him.
Behind us, at the back of the group, walked Killstop and Fangmoon, one of Nighteye’s friends, and the druidess was telling the diviner about how Leafcloak had come out of retirement to lead the druid-champions when Splinterwing fell to Hierarch Eight last year. The topic interested me but the enchanter was talking again, talking to Em, and I couldn’t focus on what they were saying behind me.
“Hey, wizard,” Spiritwhisper called over his shoulder, “any chance of a lift? The druids can go bird -“
“It’s Stormsword. And yes,” Em waved a hand, “we can fly.”
I felt the weightlessness prodding at the soles of my feet, urging me into the air.
So it was that we made our way up the immense staircase without shedding a single bead of sweat.
“It’s not like I can just go get drunk,” Killstop was saying as we drifted up the flights of stairs.
“Hah!” Spiritwhisper shook his head ahead of us, and called back: “Don’t worry, I can make you look fifteen.”
“I don’t think messing with the minds of bar-staff is strictly legal,” Fangmoon piped up, tossing her bedraggled mane of silvery hair as she flew. Her snarling mask and tacky-looking robe were also silver in hue, and she gleamed like a ghost under the pale light of the enchanter’s illusion floating before us.
“I don’t have to mess directly with their minds just to make them see something that isn’t there!” Spiritwhisper sounded amused. “I can make the diviner -“
“Killstop,” Em grated.
“Yeah, Killstop, whatever. I don’t have to make her look fifteen – she could look fifty – or I can make her look like Leafcloak’s great-grandma if she wants.”
“Now that I’ve got to see,” Killstop replied; then, right away: “Aaand I’ve seen it. Benefits of being a seer. Nice illusion, but let’s try something else.”
“Aw, I was looking forward to that,” Fangmoon moaned. “We could pretend we’re taking our granny out for a night on the town…”
So we’re going to be taking our masks off…
“Great, Kas. Next you can give your full name and address to the group of mind-stealers and fate-twisters. In fact, why don’t you take off that pendant, and throw me out while you’re at it -“
Okay, I think someone’s had too much excitement for one night. If you’re gonna be all gr-
“I am not being grumpy!”
It might be time for a nap, Zel.
She muttered something caustic under her telepathic breath and then she was gone.
Let’s try that again…
“So, we’re going to be taking our masks off?” I asked aloud.
“I’d find it rather hard to drink wearing mine,” Fangmoon said, gesturing at her full-faced bestial visage.
“What’s the matter, Feychilde?” Spiritwhisper asked in a brittle tone. “Don’t you trust an enchanter?”
“And what about me?” Killstop whinged. “Don’t you trust me? I foresee no catastrophes.”
I tried a half-laugh. I didn’t trust enchanters, or diviners, really; but I at least had protection now, and enough people knew my identity by this point that a gesture of trust towards some champions wasn’t going to change anything.
“I’m… up for it,” I said.
I cast Em a questioning look, but she just shrugged, smiling faintly.
We exited the Tower of Mourning and flew out into the rain-filled air of the courtyard, pulsing with azure light – it had to have been approaching eleven o’clock, going off the moon. Together we flew across the grey expanse of moss and weeds, and into the shadows of the nearest buildings.
Many of the establishments around here would’ve been accounted palatial by lowborn folk, but they’d been allowed to fall into ruin by Hightown standards. The shop-fronts were melted faces of peeling paint, the broken bricks like decaying teeth. From what I could tell some of the buildings were still in use but this area, next to a tourist attraction that no tourist could approach without having magisters manhandle them, clearly wasn’t much of an investment opportunity.
We got out our bags and satchels, stowing our masks and robes, our items of interest.
Killstop sighed as she screwed her work of art up in a ball and shoved it in her pouch. “I love flying,” she said. The features of her attractive oval face were mirroring her mask’s disconsolate expression, her dark-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
At least she isn’t still grinning.
“I prefer flying with wings,” Fangmoon sniffed. She was almost as skinny as Ciraya, pale-olive in complexion, and black-haired beneath the silvery wig; she wore a dress the same drab brown colour as Tanra’s smock.
I smiled, but I disagreed with the druid so I didn’t say anything, undressing down to my tunic and trousers in silence. I vastly preferred Em’s magic to flying with wings, and the eerie stillness of the courtyard didn’t make for the best environment anyway.
“It’s so much easier for you guys,” the diviner complained. “Druids… wizards… sorcerers… you can all just – pop! – up in the air…”
“Save a tear for the enchanter of the group,” Spiritwhisper said, putting an arm around her shoulders. He was built like a soldier and had the dashing, cleft-chinned face of a prince; he was a good half a foot taller than her, and it looked like he could’ve squashed her by accident just with the one arm. “I got stuck with the worst archmagery of the lot, didn’t I?”
“How enchanting,” she said in a disinterested voice, shrugging free of his arm and starting off, leading the way up the street.
“No, really,” he protested. He was smiling as he caught back up to her. “Me and you, we got the short-end of the stick, you know? Can’t fly. That’s just number one. But what about the mistrust, man? The suspicion… Just ‘cause we see things differently, you know?”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Ah… sorcerer standing right here,” I piped up as we followed a couple of yards behind.
Spiritwhisper was ignoring me, still focussing his attentions on Killstop.
“I think zat someone’s got it bad,” Em whispered to me, her teeth gleaming.
I laughed, and she linked her arm through mine as we walked.
Clad in our civilian gear, we made our way towards Hill Road. The Diamond Mare wasn’t far off, and we soon arrived at the big transparent building with its castle turret-like wings. It was lit by huge, floor-to-ceiling glass bowls filled with smokeless orange flames. There were hundreds of patrons inside and more were coming and going every minute.
“They’re so well-dressed,” Tanra pointed out.
Spiritwhisper hardly even gestured as he gave her the outward appearance of a young noblewoman, corseted, hair in curls.
“Not bad,” the seeress said, “but I didn’t quite need all the… augmentation, thank you.”
The enchanter grinned, shrinking away at least fifty percent of her overly-exaggerated buxomness. I shook my head, and we made our way through the doors; the spellbound entryway half-dried us just in the few seconds it took to cross the threshold. It was warm in here, and crowded. We managed to find space at a bar for two of us to lean, the others huddling around in a near-circle. Everything in here was unusual to me. The pint-glasses were thick glass styled with elaborate handles. The elven minstrel Olveria Sornoro was a guitarist with a voice as soothing as her melodies. The staff were polite and smartly-attired, and despite our uncouth accents they didn’t look at us like we were some crud they’d walked in on the bottom of their boots.
Perhaps it was just the presence of Nighteye – who was, it transpired, about as elven as you could look without having pointy ears. In fact, his ears were a bit pointy, now that I was thinking about it. In contrast to his tatty robe, he wore an expensive silken vest and hose of rich blue satin. Certainly his eyes were angular, his nose aquiline – his hair was pale blond, tied in tresses. Zero mud on him, today at least. He seemed to be the highest-born person in the whole place, if appearances were anything to go off, and he was the only one of us who sounded at all posh.
The clientele, however, weren’t quite as accommodating as the staff. Many of the patrons were clearly studying to be mages, some still clad in their Maginox robes. While there were plenty of out-of-towners, amongst both the mages and the others, it was of course the stuck-up folk of Hightown who dominated the room. I caught more than one distinguished-looking gentleman staring down his nose at us. Reluctantly, I lowered my circle-shield, knowing ‘ill-will’ was only an approximation, fraught with risk. Exposure could be catastrophic in this situation, because it wasn’t only my identity on the line.
I ordered wine and beer – and no one even looked twice at Tanra as I passed her the mug of foaming ale she’d requested. It didn’t seem an ageing illusion was warranted, at least with her smock erased from sight.
“To our dwarven friend,” Spiritwhisper said in a sarcastic voice, raising his mug – he already had froth on his upper lip. “And a lifetime of incarceration.”
“A lifetime of incarceration,” we echoed, more or less dubiously.
I took a gulp of my ‘Witterwood Gold’, and wondered where it’d been all my life.
“How’s your red?” I asked Em, who took a deep breath after her sip.
“It’s just about the nicest vi… wine I’ve ever tasted. Yours?”
I smiled. She looked incredibly cute, the way she moved her lips. “I love your posh-voice,” I whispered.
She grinned and went to poke me but I pulled her into an impromptu kiss instead.
After she’d finished the glass she could no longer maintain her fake accent. As I ordered the second round she and Fangmoon started chatting about their homelands – Fangmoon was originally from Hezreni far to the east of Ouldern, on the edges of the Realm. She and her family had travelled through the Spring Door in Habburat to Mund and, like Em, she had an outsider’s view of the city. But it seemed she’d long-since acclimatised, having been here years – she could barely remember her home now, she said.
“That’s not the vi… vi… vine talking?”
Fangmoon smiled at her. “Nope. I can drink without getting drunk, you know.”
“Vot is zat supposed to mean?”
I grinned too, and turned away to hide my face – then saw my rich druid friend had finished his second drink.
“So the way you spoke the first time we met,” I said to Nighteye after I brought him his third glass of white wine, “I got the impression you’re famous, or something?”
He shrugged lightly. “Not famous, just, hm, you know…” He looked about then whispered, leaning in close: “As far as my family know, I spend every night in the library, keeping up on my studies; I’ve got to work hard to be, hm, the best good little mage I can be –”
“Nice way to avoid the question.”
“Sorry, it’s just, hm,” he grinned back, “challenging for me to keep my two lives separate, don’t you know? I’m a member of the Shining Circle, my p-parents are members of the Shining Circle – I’m, hm, an only-child, if I don’t look like I’m playing by their rules I’ll be in deep trouble, and if you thought an Incursion was bad news you haven’t seen, hm, Mother when I’m acting out, she’s –“
“Hey, I get it,” I said, and took another swig of my beer. ‘Ripplemead’s Ruby’ this time. Damn tasty. “I have two lives too. There’s worse ways to live, though, right? I mean, better two lives than one life that sucks.”
He didn’t seem to catch the near-sarcasm in my voice.
“I’ll drink to that!” the arch-druid muttered, and we raised our glasses to each other before drinking again.
Here I was, implying a highborn like him had any idea what a life that sucked was really like. He thought his first life sucked because it was less interesting than being a champion, because Mother and Father were overbearing, suffocating him with their concern, attention.
What’d I’d have given to have lived a childhood of wealthy luxury, where I hadn’t had to spend thankless hours sorting gods-damned vegetables for a few copper pieces, go traipsing home through the drop and mud…
What I’d have given to still have a mother and father, overbearing, suffocating – however they came.
But to him, his troubles were still troubles. Even if he were sworn to uphold the sacred oaths of the druids, being a champion was still an escape. A way out of the boredom of a standard, off-the-shelf existence. I could appreciate that much.
“Whenever I drink wine I find myself fascinated by the idea of, hm, crushing the glass, don’t you know?” he said. “Increasing the severity of my grip until I hear the, soft chink sound, feel the tell-tale fissure in the material?”
“I sort of know what you mean. Like, daring it to smash in your hand?”
“Right! My man. I’ve never done it – it’s just something I think about, a flight of fancy swiftly passing through my mind, only to be remembered and contemplated upon its eventual return.”
“That’s – erm…“
I floundered for words.
“Ow!” Em said – I spun around to see her rubbing at her upper arm –
“Foreign scum,” said the perpetrator, a thirty-year-old man in a sleek black doublet. He was pushing past her, a glass of wine in his upheld hand, and his elbow was stuck out – he clearly hadn’t even cared enough about the girl speaking in a foreign accent to lower his arm as he moved by.
I found myself yelling ‘oi!’, stepping forward – I could see Em’s eyes narrowing, her fists clenching – I felt Tanra’s hand on my arm –
“Oh, and not just foreign scum.” The man turned back to appraise me – his gaze passed over Nighteye, and when he focussed on me he sneered. “At least the gal’s a looker. Whatever something like you is doing here, I’ve no idea – unless you’re here to shine my shoes?”
I could see one of his fellows behind him, a heavily-moustached man, who smirked appreciatively at the joke.
A quick glance down told me you could get a hundred pairs of shoes like mine for the money he’d paid for his.
“Oh ho!” he chortled, seeing my eyes move. “You are, aren’t you? Well – get on your knees, boy.”
I could feel the pressure as the six of us stared at him. He had no notion of the amount of sheer, overwhelming power that could be angrily channelled in his direction.
The way Tanra was holding onto my arm told me that the future in which I taught this insufferable buffoon a lesson would not pan out well for us.
The way Em’s fist was clenched – the way she’d cried out – told me that the future in which I taught this insufferable buffoon a lesson would be incredibly satisfying.
“Get on your knees.” He tapped his foot impatiently. A few more of his posh-looking fellows had gathered behind him now. “Or do I have to make you?”
“Please, sir,” I wailed, overly-meek, falling to my knees with a subservient expression on my face. “Please don’t make me! I don’t get paid enough for that!”
My friends laughed, and the highborn looked up from me to them, glaring at them – I approached across the floorboards on my knees, and, while he was distracted, quickly got to work.
I was used to making intricate patterns with my hands, and his laces virtually fell apart in my fingers – it took only a moment for me to tie his shoes together.
“What are you d-”
I stood up, right there, in his face.
He clearly wasn’t expecting to have me standing there upright with only an inch between our noses – I was no longer slouching, and I was the taller of the two of us –
He instinctively tried to step back, stumbled, and would’ve fallen if two of his cronies hadn’t grabbed him by the arms.
“What is the meaning of this?” the moustached man cried. “Untie his laces at once!”
“You do it,” I smiled, “or is that beneath you? One of you’s gonna have to do it, right? Tell you what, how about this – while you’re down there, you shine my shoes.” I produced a platinum coin from my belt and danced it across my knuckles.
The moustached man stuck out his chest, strode forwards.
Lithe Nighteye stepped in his way, literally stopping in his path sidelong so that the man walked right into the druid’s shoulder and rebounded, off-balance.
He might’ve looked small and wiry, but there was more to the arch-druid’s flesh than met the eye.
“My apologies, my good man,” Nighteye said at once, adopting a fawning expression and reaching out to pat-down the man’s dishevelled doublet. “Perhaps we have all taken a little too much, hm? Maybe we’d best part ways. You’ll go yours, hm?”
I wasn’t sure whether it was the repeated humiliations or the fact Nighteye was clearly highborn like them, but they seemed to listen now. Grudgingly they turned aside, the one with his laces tied together too proud to undo them here like this, taking tiny steps with his arm around a friend’s shoulders.
The blond-haired little lordling turned his back on them, reaching out to turn me around too as we both collapsed into laughter.
* * *