Well. That wasn’t so bad.
At the end of her story, none of the three men sat before Talia, like magisters in judgement, looked openly hostile. Which was a win in her books. Lazarus’ face was a complicated mix of conflicted pity and empathy. Torval, like the first time she’d met him, was inscrutable. Zaric looked— disappointed, eyes flinty and lips drawn into a wrinkled line.
All contemplated the issue silently.
The delvemaster was the first to speak, addressing Zaric calmly.
“Mage-Commandrum, I’d like your assessment as to the danger posed to the caravan by Arcanist Talia at this time,” he asked.
The edge of a complicated slew of emotions flickered against Talia’s mind as Zaric gathered his thoughts. The man’s lips pursed further. Deep folds formed on his forehead.
“As presented, I would assume the risk to be minimal. To my knowledge, the youngest mage to ever go mad was a twenty-four-year-old male psion with prior…mental…complications,” Zaric begrudgingly answered, “Though a psychological evaluation would generally be done prior to sending any mage, no matter the age, into a high-stress situation like a delve. However, if fledglings were going mad within weeks, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The mage-commandrum was all business, his tone flatter than the slopes of the Maw.
Twenty-four…That’s only like five years older than me. Or four, now, I guess. Still…
“I’d thought as much. In that case, if Healer Lazarus performs such a test, and if nothing overly untoward occurs and any lingering physical ailments, may we presume the arcanist to be fit to carry out her duties?” the delvemaster asked.
Zaric hesitated, frown deepening.
“If I hadn’t heard the tales with my own ears and seen her feats with my own eyes, I would be leery of having any untested Gifted fighting without the necessary…precautions,” he said slowly, “But, from what I’ve seen, Arcanist Vestal-Angrim is either very good at lying, or of perfectly sound mind. I think if her magic posed a threat to those around her, then she’s had multiple opportunities to display such a danger.”
“In that case—” Torval began.
“She should still be collared. Just because she hasn’t shown any of the signs doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous.”
Ice ran down Talia’s spine, constricting her throat, at the thought of wearing one of those…things. But the young mage held her tongue.
If they try…I don’t know what I’ll do, but I didn’t come all the way out here just to be enslaved anyway.
“I see your point, mage-commandrum. Unfortunately, I am not in the habit of carrying spare mage collars,” Torval replied.
Relief flooded Talia at the delvemaster’s words.
“She could just make one,” the bald mage said without looking at her.
Lazarus’ protest was immediate.
“You cannot just ask her to shackle herself,” the elf spat, “By her own hand nonetheless, and then put her existence in the palms of what amounts to strangers! It is barbaric what they do to you mages. You cannot possibly expect her—”
“I can and I do,” the dark-skinned man interrupted, “young or not, fledgling or not, she is an existential threat to the safety of everyone around her. The collars are the only way—”
“Oh, do not be intentionally thick Zaric, what happened with your master was—”
“The fate of all mages,” the bald man finished thickly.
“She’s just a girl!”
Err—
Talia cleared her throat to grab their attention. Only the delvemaster noticed.
“Friends, perhaps we should allow the woman in question to speak, hmm?” he intoned.
Both mage and elf had the good grace to look chastised.
“Um, I don’t know the runework for mage collars. They only teach it to master arcanists. Too much risk of abuse otherwise,” she said, once they quieted.
Silence reigned.
Torval’s impassive face twisted into the ghost of a grin.
“That settles that issue,” the delvemaster said.
“We should turn back then,” Zaric immediately decided.
The slight frown of disapproval that appeared on Torval’s face made him appear downright thunderous.
“No. You of all people should know what’s at stake. In the face of that, what’s a little more risk? I’d say that, so far, Talia has saved many more lives than she’s endangered, and until such a time when her judgment shows itself to be compromised, we’ll trust that she’s in control.”
Lazarus shot Torval a questioning glance, which the latter waved off.
“Arrick—” Zaric began.
The delvemaster’s tone softened.
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“Don’t, Feyan. Have a little faith. Trust me and take a chance, like I did with you.”
The mage fell silent, his expression contemplative.
The earthquake of alien intent and emotion that had been brewing along the tips of Talia’s fingers and the ridges of her thoughts began to dissipate. The young woman shook off the odd sensation.
Torval raised a finger, signaling that he was taking one of his customary moments to think. For an agonizingly long minute, the only sound was the clack of neatly cut nails against wood.
Finally, when the tension had just begun to leaven, the delvemaster cut through it with a decision. He locked his brown eyes to Talia’s grey illusions.
“Here’s what we’ll do. Firstly, Lazarus will perform the necessary evaluation of your mental state. I was going to recommend it, anyway, considering your injuries and the…desperation of the fight with the wyrm. If you find it helpful, I highly suggest you see him every other week. Most of the officers and some of the older crew do the same. In fact, take this as an order to see him at least twice in the next month,” he said, throwing Zaric a sideways glance.
The mage rolled his eyes exasperatedly.
Seems straightforward enough.
When Talia nodded, Torval continued.
“Secondly, when duty permits, you will take the time to train with Zaric and his apprentice. You may use the specialist wagon for that purpose when it’s not in use. However, I expect you to be incredibly cautious. I need you whole and of sound mind when we reach Karzurkul in a few months. Clear?”
“Crystal,” she replied.
Dark thoughts whirled by like the black winds of the Deep.
“Finally,” he intoned, “Zaric will be your monitor. Should you falter, he will ensure you don’t cause any undue harm. By any means necessary.”
The collared mage did not appear surprised, but he didn’t seem happy about it either. The usually jovial man looked like someone had walked over his grave.
A pall fell over the group.
Torval broke apart the grim silence with a double knock of his knuckles against the table.
“With that out of the way, I’ll leave you to discuss your evaluation with Lazarus. Afterwards, I believe you’ve earned some rest. We leave first haven in a week’s time. The crew are worn thin and pushing them too hard from the start would only cause cave-ins down the tunnel, as they say.”
Zaric was the first one out, stalking out without a word, taking that black wind with him as he left. Talia watched him leave, hoping she hadn’t just lost a potential friend.
“Torval?” she asked.
The tall human turned halfway through the curtain.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry for deceiving you. I had hoped…well I’m not sure what I thought. I was just running to be honest, no thinking involved. It’s gotten me quite a bit of trouble lately, it seems. Running that is.”
He chuckled and winked at her.
“I can see that. As for the deception, while I wish you’d approached things differently, I can’t say I would’ve made different choices if I was in your shoes. Anyway, your actions have so far spoken loud enough that I can look past a little self-interest. It’s only human.”
“Thanks. I’m really glad this didn’t backfire.”
“Hmm. Luckily enough, you seem like a decent sort, and besides, self interest is a good motivator, especially in this case. Just take care to not keep critical knowledge from me again,” he said, throwing her a pregnant look.
Talia bobbed her head slowly but didn’t miss Lazarus’ imperiously raised eyebrow. Clearly the elf knew that he was being kept in the dark about something. Thankfully, whether Torval told him about their real mission or not wasn’t her problem.
“I’ll leave you two to it. And do remember to enjoy yourself. First haven is a milestone worth celebrating and a time to relax and let your hair down. Especially for the hero of two tight battles.”
Talia blushed at the appellation.
Really? Your coworkers all walk in on you naked, stuffing your face with a stolen sandwich and you’re unphased. Your boss calls you a hero on the other hand… Seriously Tals, you have issues.
Lazarus drew his suspicious gaze from the curtain that Torval had snicked closed and gestured towards the bed.
“If you would like a place to lie down or simply a more comfortable seat, feel free. The evaluation is standard and should only take an hour or so, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t make yourself comfortable,” the elf explained.
Sitting on the bed, Talia clapped her hands together.
“Hit me with it,” she said.
A burst of confusion wafted up into her awareness.
“Why would I…? Ah, an idiom, yes, I shall ‘hit you with it’, as you say,” he said, as if tasting the expression.
Talia held in a giggle. Unsuccessfully.
“Yes, yes, very funny. You try keeping up with colloquialisms when you’re over two centuries old, then come back to me.”
Two centuries!? He doesn’t look a day over thirty. Gods damned elves…
“Unlikely that I make it that far, Lazarus, but I’ll be sure to let you know if I do,” she joked.
A dark thought flickered behind the elf’s green eyes.
“Ah, my apologies. That was insensitive of me. There was a time when…but that time is past and passed now.”
Silence intruded once more, as it seemed to do so often in the darkness of the Deep.
“And with that dreary thought, shall we?”
Talia took a deep breath, girding herself for the test that might just determine the way she was treated for the rest of the expedition’s journey.
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Talia left wagon seven feeling pretty good about herself. The evaluation had consisted of a series of binary questions, followed by a few statements that Lazarus had asked her to rate in function of how much she felt they pertained to her. By the end they had simply sat and discussed the events of the past few weeks. Though she hadn’t missed the probing nature of the healer’s questions.
The young woman was torn about the biweekly sessions Torval had demanded she have with the elf. On one hand, she’d ended the discussion feeling light and more worry-free than she had in a long time—though how much of that came from relinquishing her hold on the secret of her magic was unclear. On the other, she felt no need to dig into the past and unearth potentially painful memories and feelings.
It is what it is. Luckily, he didn’t seem to insist on getting deep into it right away. Either way, it’s not like I really have a choice…
The healer had left her with a warning to take it easy on her body, as he couldn’t quantify the extent to which her injuries had healed when her talent was in play.
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First haven was…not what she’d expected. The cave was large and almost perfectly cylindrical with an arcanic gate that closed almost completely flush with the cave wall. It was large enough to fit the drakes, the eight enormous wagons as well as all the crew, with enough space left over for another two caravans if need be. Spacious bunkhouses had been carved directly into the cavern walls for crew members to use if they saw fit, though they would have to transfer over their bedding.
The center of the space accommodated a huge cookpit, fed with drearwood, the smoke suctioned off by an artefact inlaid into the stone ring that surrounded it. Circular benches a dozen rows deep surrounded the communal area, upon which casks had been tapped and placed.
And apparently, almost emptied. Gods, is there a sober person here?
Delvers danced around the fire, laughing raucously and sloshing ale and strong spirits in clay mugs. The more musically inclined of the group had gathered by the fire and played bawdy tunes on strings and impromptu drums. It was a complete and utter reversal of what she had experienced thus far on their journey.
Something other told her that not all was as it seemed, however. There was desperation in the frantic pace of the merriment. A carnal need to not be alone lurked in the thoughts of those who had paired off in secluded corners.
Gaping holes where friends and companions usually sat jumped out at her, their names carved into a tall mithril stele that jutted morosely from the rock in front of the bunkhouses.
Talia understood then that the delvers laughed, danced and drank not only because they wanted to, but because they needed to. To do otherwise was to sink into the morass of the Deep. To do so was to lose oneself. For the Deep, as she was learning, was an unforgiving place.
A place not fit for sapients and their desires.