In Pursuit of Knowledge

Opening his eyes, Arn saw the blue sky. Something pounded his head, from within and without; the former was a headache, the latter the noise of the audience. Regaining consciousness, he remembered where he was. A sharp pain in his left hand helped cut through the haze. Pushing himself up on his elbow, his vision darkened from blood rushing to his head, but only for a few moments. With deep breaths, he got on his feet. His weapons lay on the ground, and he left them there for the arena workers to collect, along with Cassian's body.

The backlash from leeching had been more severe than usual; perhaps because the bounty had been greater, though Arn suspected it was rather that during combat, he had drawn on more spellpower than his body could provide, weakening him. He felt like a novice that casting two spells in a single fight could push him beyond his threshold into magical exhaustion, but at least with the energy taken from the dead gladiator, Arn's limits had increased.

Trotting back towards the tunnel entrance, ignoring the shouts from the crowd, Arn felt the surge of might in him. He was stronger now in every conceivable way. If he had known leeching from another mage would work this way, he would have been tempted to seek out and kill every spellcaster in Aquila.

His fellow gladiators from the ludus watched him with awe or fear, depending on one's interpretation. Mahan likewise stared, his expression inscrutable, and his words were few. "Congratulations, Northman."

*

All Arn desired was sleep. Although the fight had been brief, he felt worn out from the intense physical exertion of those moments. In addition, drawing on more spellpower than he comfortably possessed left him tired as well. Lastly, a full night's sleep would finish the rejuvenation of his spellcraft with the power taken from Cassian. An important step on the path to becoming his former self.

Back at the ludus, Mahan led them to the common room; they had arrived just in time for dinner. All eyes turned towards them expectantly; perhaps some guessed the truth seeing Arn alive and hale, given what defeat would have meant.

"He won," Mahan simply told them, dispelling the anticipation. A variety of reactions met his declaration. Some looked envious, others fearful, but most shouted in jubilation, and none more so than Domitian.

"Northman!" he yelled, slapping Arn on the back. "While everyone cowered at the thought of the mighty Cassian, you slew the beast!"

"Cower is a strong word," Sigismund growled, "but you have proved the strength of House Ignius over that of House Petrus. Well done."

Arn acknowledged their accolades with a nod and went up to get his plate from the kitchen servant.

*

After his meal, Arn went straight to his cell and lay down on his cot. He was ready for sleep.

"Well, congratulations! I hear from the fellows we can expect a new champion."

Sighing, Arn opened one eye to see the harlot. He waved one hand around.

"I know, I know." She closed the door and sat down on the wall. "Quiet hour, just like when we were children and our mum wanted us to fall asleep." She stretched her neck. "That's just something I might tell a customer, of course. Can't hardly remember the woman."

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Arn suddenly recalled seeing Iris at her place of work; he realised he had an opportunity here to gain some insight into the people he worked for. He sat up and grabbed his tablet, writing down a question. He had to do this carefully; he did not wish to reveal to her that he had dealings with the thugs of The Broken Mast. He would have to slowly approach the topic. Where do you work?

She glanced from the tablet up at him. "I can't read."

A slow exhalation of breath. Of course not. Arn erased the letters in the wax and made a drawing instead.

"A house?" A finger pointing at her. "My house? What about it? You want to visit me? Darling, you don't even want me when I come to your place."

Arn drew a man and pointed at her.

"Who's that supposed to be?"

He added some coins.

"A customer? Why do you care who pays me? You can't be jealous."

Arn erased the man and drew him again, making him bald with pointy ears.

"Hah, that looks like Lucius! He's an enforcer for – how do you know what he looks like?"

It took Arn a moment to realise he had done the one thing all his mental acrobatics were meant to hide – that he did tasks for Magnus and his crew. Well, if the eggs were already broken, might as well make a meal. He drew a second man, missing the tip of his nose.

"Oh, that's Master Magnus!"

Arn tapped his finger against each of them and pointed at her.

"You know them. No, you want me to introduce you. No, you want – me to talk – about them. Oh!" She frowned. "What do you want to know?"

Many things, but chief among them, how his services were being put to use. Erasing some of the drawings, Arn replaced them with a one-eared woman.

"That's not anybody at the Mast… is that Vera?"

Arn nodded eagerly.

"She's dead, I hear. What about her?"

Arn tapped her portrait, drew a line between her and Magnus, and tapped on her face again.

"What, he had her killed?"

Not what Arn meant; he simply wanted to ask about the connection between them. Somehow, she had misunderstood him and arrived at the right conclusion.

"I suppose that makes sense, given their history." She squinted at him. "How do you know?"

Arn gestured for her to continue.

"I don't know much, but I can tell you what I heard…"

*

Moving through the southern docks, a cloaked figure stopped here and there to ask for directions or other questions. No matter who he asked, they always answered, telling him what he desired to know. Yet nobody knew of a Tyrian who possessed magic and a scar that ran from his brow to his cheek, crossing the eye.

Expanding his search, Atreus eventually reached a small hut with Tyrian runes written on the door. He entered to find an old man, who greeted him with a smile that quickly froze. "What can old Helgi do for you?" he asked with assumed cheer. "A rune to help you sleep, keep your bed warm or your food stores cold?"

The spellbreaker glanced around at the collection of herbs, tools, and other instruments of a loremaster's trade. "Are there many Tyrians with the gift of magic in Aquila?"

"Hardly, good master. I know of none but me. Fortunately, I'm able to supply any help that the magic of my homeland can offer."

"I seek one of your kinsmen in particular. A fellow with a vicious scar running down his face."

"Plenty of men with the marks of battle on them, but I don't recall any with that exact description," Helgi claimed.

Atreus turned to look the loremaster straight in the eyes. "Are you sure? You should tell me if you do," he suggested with a touch of magical force behind his words.

Helgi smiled. "Can't think of any."

Atreus held eye contact for a moment longer before he looked around again. "I know little of Tyrian magic. Is it ever used to create undead?"

"Draugar, you mean?" Helgi ran a hand through his white hair. "Sometimes, great heroes may not find rest in their burial mounds, but they cause no trouble. Leave their tombs alone, and they leave you alone."

"Have you ever heard of a Tyrian mage creating them? Is it something you could do?"

The loremaster shook his head with an apologetic expression. "Not at all, good master. It's not how we use our powers."

"Has any Tyrians ever discussed this with you? You should tell me if so," Atreus suggested, his words casual.

"Never, good master."

"I appreciate your time." Atreus left swiftly, and outside, he took out his tablet containing his notes. With the stylus, he added, Tyrian loremaster resists suggestion. Slamming the halves together, he looked around until his eyes fell on some children playing on the street. He approached them, and they looked up at him with wary eyes. "Would you want to earn a few silver pieces?"

"What do you want? We ain't going anywhere with you."

"No need. I only require you to be my eyes."