Trades

To say Zenkel was happy was an understatement. The chrone trader was in the best mood she could ever remember, she felt close to shout it out to the world to let everyone know. Most of the reasons for her happiness were to be kept secret, of course. It did not bother her so much because being a trader in many things, including information, she knew how and when to keep secrets.

The wagon train heading into Dovarath was long and the wagons filled to the rim. The Academy Spring Games were always a possibility for great profit, something Zenkel had counted on. What she had not counted on was the message from the council. The chrone had always been aware of carrying the Seeker mark, but as most others of her family, she had not considered the possibility of being called upon. Most people believed the broken world could never be whole again, and some even believed the Search to be a legend only. But in her close family, diaries from Searchers long gone had been kept as reading material for the young ones.

Her carrying the mark was something special. Zenkel had been adopted into a human/dwarf family as a baby. While most other relatives carried the mark, she was not expected to have it. It was not unheard of for an adoptee to inherit the mark, magic was not genetics after all. What was so special was that no pure chrone had ever carried one, at least not to anyone's knowledge. Zenkel always knew she was special, but the presence of the mark on her had only meant a step towards what her race called the equalization of the chrones. A sign they were not less when it came to magic.

The chrones were an artificial race. Created from the essence of time and the essence of the long gone gnomes, they turned into the technicians, craftsmen and artists of Iya Khil and other splinters of the worlds. Legend claimed they were also the glue making the pieces stick together. If that was true, or how it worked if it was, no one knew anymore. Zenkel did not believe it. She had been traveling between the splinters for more than 10 years. From all she discussed with other world wanderers, her experiences and feelings while crossing the borders were in no way different from anyone else. If the chrones were truly some sort of measure to bind it all together, surely there would have been a difference.

Zenkel did not bother to hurry to the capital. The council might think that time was of the essence, but what were a few days or even weeks when the Seekers had waited several centuries to be called upon again? Her business needed to be taken care of first. Money might not be the way to salvation, but it went a long way to ensure success. She knew that, by the rules of the Seekers, they had to find their ways alone or with the help of friends. The Council of Six would not equip them because they were forbidden to do so.

While riding next to the caravan on a draft horse way too big for her small frame, Zenkel combed her short, curly hair. Like all chrones, her hair and skin had a silver shine to their base colors, in her case pale skin and dark, almost ebony hair. People considered this shine to be either beautiful or irritating. Very few were neutral towards it. Both was an advantage for a trader. Beauty could blind, and irritation made trading partners agree just to get out of her vicinity. This new cut she was showing off now was another reason she was happy. Chrone hair was hard as wire and stubborn as a mule, as the saying went. While on the road, it was hard to find a barber able to do it just right. Sure, every city usually had one of those specializing in chrones, but to locate them in the short time a trader stayed in one place was a chore.

The woman's eyes went to the tall and muscular man walking next to her. Right now, he appeared to be a very tall human. This was a shapeshifting spell an expensive mage had put on him. His name was Eltog, and he was not from Iya Khil. That alone was not so remarkable. Travelers between the splinters of the world came to this part quite often, especially for the Academy Spring Games. The mystery around his origin was what made him special. Zenkel had, in a way, acquired him when she and her mercenaries saved the chieftain of a group of mountain folk from a weird looking, large predator bird. Eltog had been bound to the chief by some sort of codex she did not understand. The tribe had insisted he go with her to protect her as repayment for her help. But even she had not seen what he truly was. The chief had paid a mage in the next city to shapeshift the man before she was allowed a look at him without veil. All that she knew was that he had originally had a lot more hair than he was showing now. But she liked secrets; she would figure this one out eventually.

Eltog was not the brightest, to put it mildly, but he did as told and was a good fighter. He also had some amazing insights here and there. A wisdom much like that of a child unspoiled by rules and conventions. If there was anyone on the convoy she really trusted, it was him.

Zenkel's thoughts drifted off as she tried to imagine what it would entail being a Seeker on actual Search. Traveling the splinters was strange in itself. Not so much the part of the journey, as the different pieces were almost all habitable and very few areas she had seen seemed to be outright hostile. But Zenkel had been to the four accessible different splinters now, and it always felt as if something crucial was missing. The chrone was unable to put a finger on it, but then the people coming to Iya Khil probably felt the same way. She was young still, and her mother had assured her she would get used to the strangeness and the travel sickness which often occurred when you crossed the barrier of nothingness surrounding the splinters. It was only possible to do so in few places, and each uncomfortable passage only led to one other splinter. Legend claimed that, as Iya Khil was the center of everything, you were supposedly able to reach all other splinters from here. But she doubted this. There were only the four known passages, one at each side of the land, and while she had not gone far into the other splinters' lands, she had been assured it was the same everywhere.

Iya Khil was, as every child learned, one side of a set of six splinters who had been arranged into a dice shape. Supposedly to resemble a core world to which the other splinters were anchored. How this had been done was information long lost. The priests, of course, claimed it was done by the hands of the Trinity, the gods who had created the world and supposedly shattered it, too. Why anyone, god or not, would create something, then shatter it and then put some of the pieces back together was beyond her. Zenkel had never paid much attention to religion at school, especially because everyone assumed her to become a priest of sorts thanks to her mark. The only time chrones seemed to be able to do magic was when it was given by the gods. The elders kept saying the mark was a sign for her to be blessed by the gods, but to Zenkel that made little sense. It was, after all, an arcane mark, not a divine one.

The road now went through an orchard of pear trees and up a wide winding hill road, and Zenkel pushed those thoughts out of her mind for the moment. Arriving at Dovarath was always special. The city was surrounded by different very distinct suburbs, most of them presenting like smaller cities on their own. Many of them had some sort of walls, trees or other barriers to separate themselves from their neighbors or for extra protection. There was a temple district, a merchant's district, a section for only markets as a subsection of the merchant's district and a penal area, which was, strangely enough, located just off the temple area. Those and a part of the mercenary quarters was what they could see from the tip of the hill they soon reached. Around those suburbs, fields and more orchards and the occasional pond were placed in an intricate pattern. Supposedly, when flying over it – as one would when visiting the Council of Six – the patterns formed the eight-pointed star symbol of the elements. It was impossible to see any such patterns from the low hills they now moved over, but it looked beautiful anyway. Especially on a bright day like this one.

A bit closer to them was the river quarter, but it was not visible amidst the orchards yet. Dovarath had no direct access to the river, so the docks used to be outside the city confines until a small town fenced in by wood was build around them and declared to be a part of the capital. The fish market was also located there, which was the reason Zenkel avoided the docks. She hated fish; the smell of fish even. Some of their caravan would make a stop there, but she would certainly not dismount until they reached the merchant's district.

"Oohhh..." Eltog's amazement at the sight was obvious as he took in the city while riding down the other side of the hills. He was here for the first time, and while they had seen some bigger cities, there was no doubt that few if any could compare to Iya Khil's capital. "Lots of praying people," Eltog commented, pointing to the spires, towers and domes of the temple district. Then he pointed at the mercenary quarters, which were partly made up of tents as the occupants came and went on a regular basis. "And fighters. Good fighters, yes?" His voice held hope for some training fights.

"I suppose at least some of them are above average." Zenkel remembered after she spoke that Eltog still had trouble understanding the less simple words in the merchant tongue. "I mean, some of them are good, yes. The rest, just teach them a lesson."

"Flying rock?" Eltog pointed at the out of the ordinary council seat above the city. "Magic men gone crazy?"

"Maybe they have." The woman chuckled. "But it is for the council meetings, so no one can overhear them, or attack them, or disturb their magic duels." The last part was made up; no one ever confirmed the council was even bothering to train in magical battle. But anything to do with fighting was something her guard would understand.

Zenkel decided to let Eltog off at the crossroads so he could go and stay with the mercenaries, as many other of the merchant's guards decided to do. He would find her if needed. He always did, and she wished she knew how he was doing that. Some tests had confirmed that it had nothing to do with magic. Yet he always seemed to know where she was. More importantly, he always knew when she needed his assistance.

The shapeshifted man and about a dozen of the other guards left the caravan before it entered the merchant's area. Too many armed guards close to the city always caused tension. There were few threats in this part of the world, and while the local folks understood the need to be safe on the road, guards still made them uneasy. Therefore, the mercenary district was a place frequented by all sorts of fighters, not only arms for hire. Quarters were cheap there, too, but Zenkel only set a foot in there if she absolutely had to.

The merchant's district had no stone walls, just a wall of dirt planted neatly with bocchra trees, which were partly populated by elves. Bocchra wood was of a white color and very valuable, but only a few trees were cut down each year and used for special items, mostly of the magical kind. Dovarath was famous for the quality products coming from this and other woods. A whole suburb was just for craftsmen, most of them carvers and gem cutters.

As most of the time, her group rode through the east gate right into the area reserved for market stands and into the middle of a great many people and a cacophony of sound. This time of day, it was rather quiet compared to the evening business, but anyone unused to the place would likely be stunned by all of it. Zenkel had been in and out of this part of Dovarath since she had been a toddler, and the buzzing voices and the supposed chaos around her revitalized her. As they passed through the market towards the park in the middle of the district, she contemplated to stay with her friends here for a while, but she knew she would be expected. Now that the chrone had entered the city, the council would know of her presence and not like her to linger any more. The last thing she wanted was to anger the council, so she directed her horse onward and past the small hill park home to more nature oriented people.

"Zenkel, Zenkel!" The bright child voice made her reign in her steed despite all intentions. A chrone who seemed to be too small to not been run over or stomped into the ground by the many passer bys came running out of a kitchen supply shop with a bright smile. "The birds brought news you were coming. Will you stay with us tonight? Did you bring me something? Did you hear aunt Willa married a dwarf? And there are some more news..."

The youngest son of her best friend ran aside the horse, looking up to her expectantly while giving the latest local gossip. As most children, he loved to hear stories of travel and exploration, even when some of them were not quite true, and he would always ask her to stay the night with them when she visited. "I'm very sorry," she sighed. "I'm too busy right now Haldal, and might leave the city again today. But I will have some presents delivered to you."

Disappointment and expectation mixed on the boy's face, then he nodded. "If you have time please come by," he asked, then, with a laugh, he went back to the shop he had emerged from.

As any successful trader, Zenkel had many friends and acquaintances. Some of them were dear to her, like this boy and his family. Others were a necessity to success or just happened, like the mountain folk she got her best guard from. The most important thing was to make as few enemies as possible. Her parents had taught her how to avoid the envy and hate of others, and she had done very well in following their example, getting along with almost everyone.

Unknown to her, the young chrone had a deadly enemy anyway. A cloaked figure emerged from between two stores, staying in the shadows as it followed her. The cloak adapted to the surrounding area and left only the eyes somewhat visible. Anyone who would have been seen those eyes would have probably shied back from the hate and loathing in them, but most folks on the street did not even notice someone was there, such was the magic woven around the stranger. It was nothing Zenkel had done. No personal slight or lucky trade that caused this stalker to stick to her. It was simply who she was. There had been no better place and time on Iya Khil for this figure to wait for Zenkel, and it would not lose its prey again.

"What do you mean, I need to climb all up the tower? Who had the brain dead idea to put the portal up there, when it would be a lot more convenient to have it down here? I have come a long way, half through Iya Khil, and I am very tired. I am also not the youngest anymore. And now you expect me to climb a hundred stairs..."

"A hundred and eight..." a yellow-scaled lizard mage apprentice mumbled in front of the upset woman.

"Whatever. You want me to climb all those stairs just to be magically transported to this magic island of yours in the sky. It makes absolutely no sense!"

The apprentice's master, an elf with piercing green eyes, stared at the half-chrone, half-dwarf mixling with barely veiled disgust. "You said you came all the long way from wherever you started, and now you refuse to climb a few stairs?"

"I am Ezalot, Keeper of the Nine Knives of Blessing, Heir to the Chair of Inventors and most of all, I am not stupid and do not do unneeded work nor do I walk unneeded roads. And while climbing up there is not exactly a road, it is an unneeded, tiresome exercise. Whatever symbolic idea is behind this foolishness..."

"It is meant to give you a sense of moving up to your superiors..." the apprentice tried to explain, but was ignored.

"...I will not partake in it. I just came here because I made a promise to my dead mother, the gods bless her eternal energy. The whole reason for my being here is idiotic as well, and the quicker I am back to my daily business, the better." She twisted her colorful shawls as if that would make her point any clearer.

If Ezalot, Keeper and Heir of whatever, would have climbed instead of complaining, she would have been where she needed to be already. The mage did not bother to point this out, however. Sometimes, mixlings, especially with chrone blood, tended to magnify the characteristics of one of their parent races, and this seemed to be such a case. More stubborn than any dwarf the elf had ever met. Instead of talking for the next hour or more, the woman closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, concentrating on a levitation spell. A whispered word later, Ezalot was lifted up and pushed up through the small opening in the spiral staircase. The elf's apprentice reacted quickly. "Grab the visitor and reign her in!" the lizard shouted upwards, the words echoing back from the tower walls.

The honor guards at the landing where the portal was did as told, and before the mixling knew what was going on, she stood on solid ground again, feeling slightly queasy. The guards up here, who could not have helped listening in on the ranting of their visitor, half expected her to want to file a complaint about illegal use of magic on a person. But Ezalot just nodded. "See, it works if you just think of a solution." With that, the mixling walked to the portal without using the ancient words of permission and walked right through the oval.

Magical portals came in many versions, but the one Ezalot was using now was a rather simple one. The height of a normal, human sized door , it always brought you to the same place and back – the council island. Due to that, it did not even have the fancy swirling colors all mages loved to use to obscure the destinations, supposedly in an attempt to not confuse people by swiftly changing locations. As simple as it looked, as simple the transportation effect was. One second, the woman was in the tower room, and the next on the council island in misty spring weather. The way the portal was positioned, it faced the council seats. No doubt that in former times, this was meant to intimidate visitors, but the council had become a lot more visitor friendly in the last few decades.

Ezalot, however, did not care what the council's disposition was towards her. She did not consider them her superiors – after all, what had they done for her region in the southern parts lately? Nor did she consider it an honor to have been called for The Search, a foolish waste of time if there was any. She was, as she had truthfully stated, only present due to a promise to a dying mother. The reason for that promise coming so easily at the time had been the unlikeliness of another Search in her lifetime. Or ever. Now, though, she was wondering if maybe her mother had known about this. Sometimes, her dwarf parent had been able to see glimpses of possible futures, and Ezalot's tendency to only care for worldly matters and not for spiritual or magic exploits had been a splinter in her mother's heart. Well, magic was one thing. The mixling had, by now, picked up a few useful skills in it. But the whole bagglegarb about gods and prophecies hardly made it to her brain, not to talk of reflecting in Ezalot's actions.

The eagle councilor staring at her with those unnerving avian eyes made Ezalot aware she was being scrutinized. She twisted her shawls again and clutched her equally colorful trader’s robes. Knowing that this eagle – what was his name again? – was the bigwig of the council, she ignored everyone else, including the councilor who had sent her the summons. "I have little time," she said, before anyone had a chance to greet her. "I'm here because of a promise, I have read up on the procedure and will do as asked until it is clear this Search is yet another failure. "

All of the councilors were silent for a moment. "That's unbelievable," And-so-on snapped. "You come here trying to order us around without even showing the slightest sign of respect for..."

"Infidel, not showing respect to your elders..." the lizard Lord started at the same time.

Ezalot's face grew red, but not out of shame. It was pure anger welling up in her. "You just ordered me here, and there is no one else of my line ready to follow the summons. I'm sure you knew or you had picked someone else." Without realizing it, she had amplified her voice with the instinctive magic she was so good at. "I don't think much of this council, or the extended version of it. And elders? That dwarf girl is maybe half my age. Let's just get it over with, shall we?"

For a moment, silence fell over the assembly. Then Altar’Saq screeched before anyone else could start bickering again. “You don’t have to be happy about it, as long as you do as asked. Lift your left arm.”

Ezalot stared at the eagle, but did as asked. “Yes I accept the mission,” she almost growled. “Won’t take longer than a few months I hope, and maybe I can get a few good trades in while at it.”

Over the grumbling of the other councilors, the eagle intoned “You are to find The Hope. How ironic.” A glow appeared but it did not surround the left hand, as expected. It instead vanished somewhere behind the grumpy trader, but the magic tingle clearly indicated the presence of the sigil somewhere on the woman. “It is done,” Altar’Saq screeched after a moment’s hesitation, and the council intoned after him. “Now off with you.” There was no point to trying to educate that woman about the duties of her new destiny, she would have to find out about them herself.

Before Ezalot could make any more disparaging comments – and from the smug look on her face she had intended to do just that – the eagle screeched again, this time with a voice echoing magic. Ezalot disappeared and the leader of the council wavered on his perch for a second. Teleporting someone else this way was not easy and was usually very costly for him, but the show of power had been necessary. The council laughed and shouted, no one but the Mrrengar had noticed how difficult this feat had been. He sure hoped the other seekers would be less troublesome.

“Watch the gods where you are going!” Zenkel jumped out of the way, her hands curling into fists. Someone just materializing out of nowhere directly in front of you was not an everyday occurrence, and the chrone naturally assumed the teleport had been Zenkel’s own doing. There were strict rules about teleports in settlements outside of teleport circles; mainly that you had to assure a minimum distance towards other people and their property. Very few mages were able to do that, which is why the majority of teleports not aimed at the often overcrowded circles happened in the air – lot less traffic there. The downside, of course, was that you would also know how to levitate of fly to get down safely. A few farmers made good money providing straw to crash down into, giving people with less magical stamina the chance to arrive in the air only a few meters up. Other people arranged for pseudo-teleport points, using backyards or empty cellars. Those practices were only semi-legal, as they did not magically ensure a precise target, but they were used nonetheless. Especially now as people arrived for the games.

Ezalot, for her part, did not recognize the forced teleport as the statement it was. “My apologies,” she said, in a tone clearly indicating anything but being sorry. “I’ve just come from an important meeting with the council.” She rushed on, not checking where she going, and if not for a tall grey-green lizard stepping into the road to catch her, she might have stumbled down the flight of flat stars she had come out on. As it was, she heavily stepped on the toes of a person all robed in what looked to be a gown adapting top the surrounding area, which meant it was really their own fault. One should not wear mimicry clothing in a busy street. She might not have noticed the person at all had not their foot been in the way. Turning around for a few harsh words, she could not make out the owner of the offending foot anymore and mentally sighed at all the things she had to deal with.

“Careful, Lady.” Finwyn, Ezalot’s personal mage and only friend, grabbed her by the elbows and righted her. “Awfully inconsiderate to just drop you here, Lady.”

Ezalot righted her shawls and robes and chuckled. “A slight miscalculation, I assume. Really better than having to walk down all those many stairs or negotiating with those brainless servants again.” As she marched on, Finwyn looked over her shoulders to the tower, but none of the mages were paying attention to the slight, they were talking to the chrone.

Being honor bound to Ezalot presented many challenges, especially where her lady’s social graces, or the lack thereof, were concerned. It was always interesting, challenging and full of surprises. Her lady being called to The Search was just the latest, albeit most amazing, development in a life with so many twists and turns it could fill one of those modern escapist novellas. As Finwyn hurried to catch up with Ezalot, who was rushing down the stairs in a very un-ladylike manner, the lizard’s thoughts jumped ahead to the journey they would now have to undertake. “Lady, where shall we look for a fellowship?”

“A what?” Ezalot turned and kept on towards the inn they were occupying at the moment. “What do we need a fellowship for?”

“Did you not read the summons completely, lady? You are to assemble a fellowship. As is traditional for The Search, as no one is to search alone.”

Zenkel stopped abruptly in the middle of the road and Finwyn bumped into her. The rest of the traffic on the road parted around them, with only a few people cursing at them. “But I’m not alone, I have you. That,” Zenkel said slowly as if her companion was a bit on the dumb side, “makes two of us. Surely it is not written how big this fellowship needs to be, is it? At least, the summons didn’t specify. I do not intend to bring people I don’t know and don’t trust along.”

Finwyn was about to mention that the thesaurus of the realm defined “fellowship” as a group of 3 or more people following a designated leader, but closed her mouth again. It would be of no use, and if the stories of former Searches were to be believed, people would follow a Seeker even if not specifically picked for the mission. She was not sure if that would be a good thing, knowing her lady’s temper. But as there was no use to keep trying to persuade Zenkel, the lizard didn’t even try. “Shall I get the horses ready, then?”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Zenkel, moving on now, shook her head. “We will definitely not leave before the games are over. Seriously, why would we miss such an event? Certainly not for old legends never to come true.”

Moments like these, Finwyn wished for a face like the other races had. She was neither capable of a disapproving frown nor had she eyebrows to raise or anything similar. So she did what she usually did when she tried to offer her unflattering opinion, she stiffened her back and slapped her tail around, neither of which even registered with her lady. Which was just as well, considering Zenkel’s belligerence. On the bright side, Finwyn would have the whole of the festival time and probably a few days after to make preparations, as Zenkel would not ever prepare for anything. It was likely true, come to think of it, that time was not of essence despite what the counsil summons had said. Summons for such epic adventures had to be dramatic by nature, she supposed.

Ezalot entered the Harebrained Badger, one of the best inns in the city, and went straight for the private dining room. The human cook saw her enter, donned her apron and disappeared into the kitchen to get the lady’s meal ready. Not much of a challenge as Ezalot always had scrambled eggs for brunch, the details of said meal being left to the cook.

As the lizard mage followed, her mind turned from lunch eggs to eggs of a different kind. She had been all but prepared to let Ezalot know she was pregnant and would need a leave of absence in a few months, considering the inability of the trader to deal with children of any kind and type. There were relatives she could leave the eggs with until they hatched, of course, but Finwyn would, until the eggs were laid, not be able to do much of magic. Doing magic while pregnant was too much of a risk to the offspring; the chance of influencing the children was just too great. Unless, that was, the mother wished to imprint on them, but it was a practice made illegal and hardly done anymore. Only a few backwater clans avoiding civilization did such a thing. But it was not now, the mage knew, the right moment to break the topic with her lady. During the festivities was likely a much better time. When Ezalot was unsober and thus unlikely to grasp the implications.

Zenkel was fine with walking up the tower and saying the right words asking for permission to step through to the island in the sky. She was fine with seeing the councilors, especially those she had met before. Qwanda had tested her for her Seeker blood status, Altar’Saq she had talked to several times in various situations and a few years past she had helped the old elf – what was her name again – across a busy road before knowing who she was. Her ears reddened slightly at the memory of her almost carrying the woman across, wondering why people stared and pointed. No, she had no problems being with what passed for celebrities in her world, or being the center of attention. She did have problems with heights, though.

She had expected this magical island to obscure height as much as it was usually obscured from below. She was unprepared for the sight beyond the island and a few clouds. The world stretched out to the horizon, falling away into an endless sea of blue and white. From where she was standing, she could not see the actual ground but for some reason this did not help. The young woman’s fear of heights pushed down on her, making it impossible to breathe. Trying to bow reflexively to the council, she lost control over everything. Zenkel fainted.

“Well,” Vilthian said. “That does not bode well.”

“This is just a small issue,” Qwanda stated, moving over to the fainted girl to put her in a more comfortable position. Everyone with some sense if afraid of something.”

“That’s more than being afraid.” The human mage walked over and frowned at her. “Can you wake her up?”

“I’m.. awake?” Confused, Zenkel blinked, for a moment unable to remember where she was. “I’m so very sorry, I thought the clouds would obscure the height.”

“Afraid of heights, then?” Vilthian said in a way too upbeat tone, reminding the girl of her father trying to talk her out of something.

“I,” she clarified, “am not afraid of heights. My body is. It started a few years back out of nowhere. I get this tingling sensation through all my body, then I feel sick and lightheaded and just want to be elsewhere. I don’t understand it!”

“Your body is.” Vilthian scratched his beard, looking at Qwanda.

Before he could say anything more, And-so-on interrupted. “Can we get on with it, please? We are not getting any younger, and the way Subiae is squirming, she will have to use the bathroom soon.”

A look at the dwarf girl, getting red in the face all over again, somewhat confirmed her need to be off the island soon. Vilthian bowed his head and walked back to his seat while the feline helped Zenkel to stand up. “My apologies,” Zenkel said again.

“Altar’Saq tilted his head sideways, the way birds do, and stared at her for a long second. “Very well,” he screeched, causing the girl to put her hands over her ears. She was very good closing her ears off in that manner, considering the unpleasant shouting voice of her own mother, thus she missed the next few screeches and only lowered her hands when the eagly looked expectantly at her. She understood he had asked the traditional question and was waiting for her response. Zenkel sighed inwardly. She had imagined for this to be the greatest moment in her life up to now, instead it was a comedy of errors she would like to escape as soon as possible. “I do,” she replied to the unheard question. “I will seek, by day, by night.” At least, she thought, she remembered the response. She ehld out her right hand as was expected. Also as expected, a blue light flowed around her hand and set a mark in her palm. “You are to find The Sword,” she heard, doing her best not to flinch at the eagle’s voice. “The prophecy says this: Sword and Stone, never alone, the power that binds she has to be.” The outline of a crude sword symbol appeared in Zenkel’s palm.

She! “The magic knows I’m to find a woman?”

“Yes,” Qwanda said, sparing everyone more screeches. “That’s about the only real help the magic gives, asides from your mark somehow guiding you to your target.”

Zenkel nodded. “So the mark will let me know if I am close?”

“Yes, and especially if you are totally off.” The mrrengar smiled at the girl. “In the past, individual prophets have been found at times, but never all of them. All have to be found for The Search to be a success.”

“And I have to find a fellowship, which can’t be my caravan, right?”

“You can take whoever you feel is needed. But this is an endeavor for people you can count on. You will find them if you do not know them yet. Trust your Seeker’s instincts. And now off with you, before you faint again or Subiae pees herself.”

A piece of dirt splashed over Qwanda’s robes. Subiae, standing on her seat, was already aiming something else. Horrified at this behavior, Zenkel took her leave without trying to bow again. “This doesn’t bode well,” she mumbled to herself, unknowingly echoing Vilthian’s worries.

Saryan stood behind a stall selling magical things, close to the wizard’s contest arena as was appropriate for both the wares and the status of his mate’s family. His simple brown robes and white undershirt belied his own status as accomplished wizard and minor noble. The elf-human mixling smiled at the customers, making small talk where needed and appeared to be happy. In truth, he was bored. Airomeye was supposed to be back by now, how long could it take to grab a few more boxes of wares and load the donkey cart with them? The mansion of her family was not far from the market. A little bit of worry was creeping in by now. Silly, he knew, but he was not used to be one half of a whole, as being couple-bound was usually talked about. The feeling of being more than one person was very slight. He was not yet able to ascertain his future wife’s state or whereabouts. It would develop eventually, they had been told. Saryan was afraid it would cause some weird situations, and had there been any other way, he would not have chosen this road. But the difference in their biology made couple-binding a necessity if they ever were to have any viable offspring. He did not completely understand the magic involved – yet – and would have to read up on it soon as to avoid surprises.

Finally, Airomeye appeared around the corner, with a full cart, an uncooperative donkey seemingly intend on proving any sayings about her species pulling said cart and, unexpectedly, her mother. The two mrrengar’s were very much alike, Airomeye’s fur being a bright silky white, with blue overtones here and there, and for the most part short. Her mother’s fur was only slightly more puffy, and instead of blue, the overtones in her fur were a creamy peach. Airomeye had nothing of her father, her whole build, when compared to the animal version of felines like that of a house cat like her mother, while her father could be best compared to a lion with only a very slight mane.

The two women were not talking, which was rare, and now that she was close, Saryan could see Airomeye was fidgeting with something in the pockets of her robe. Something must have happened. Was her father’s health worse? The healers had been so sure, even a day earlier, that he would have months yet and would at least be able to enjoy the weeks of the games without being housebound.

“I’m taking over,” the older mrrengar stated as they arrived, making it sound like the order it was. “You two have things to discuss.”

Airomeye stepped forward and touched her nose to Saryan’s in the feline way before kissing him on the cheek. She did not give him a chance to ask questions. “Come with me.” With a rare determination, she basically dragged him to seats under a group of mixed trees and made him sit with her.

“Is your father worse? What happened?” Saryan blew a rebellious lock of hair out of his face – he knew it was time to cut it but when with people who have fur it was easy to ignore such concerns.

“No, no, he is doing as well as can be expected. His spirit healer friend said something about likely being able to prolong the time he has to several years; however, he will be weak and often in need of assistance, just as he is now, and we fear for his temper.” Airomeye grabbed his hands and held them in her lap, looking down at them. “So, that is good news, but… he got a letter.”

“Who died?” Saryan tried to sound sympathetic, but his mind immediately went to the games and the festival and everything they had planned. Including his participation in the Challenge of the Fire Mage, where he was expected to show up, and the Challenge of the Wind Mage, where he was definitely not expected and would probably cause a bit of a sensation. At least, that is what he had hoped.

“No one died,” Airomeye quickly said, knowing clearly where his mind went. “The letter is from the Council.”

“What? Why would they send a letter when they could just visit him as they usually do?”

“It is something official. Saryan, dear, my father has been called to The Search!” Airomeye looked at Saryan’s unblinking face, waiting for him to understand.

“But… but he is terminally ill! He won’t even be able to visit the celebrations without aid. Why would they…” The mixling’s voice faded as he understood what it was Airomeye had in her pockets. “The summons defaulted to you!”

“Yes.” Airomeye took a deep breath. “I explained the situation. But it is not the messenger’s problem, and I do not think anyone else from my heritage who also has a Seeker’s mark is suitable in any case. My sisters are too young. My only marked cousin is out on a long trade treck, his mother is addled and no one in their sane mind would send aunt Rishuma.”

There was that. Saryan felt frozen in time as he tried to think of a solution. “Would it not simply be fine if I was part of your fellowship?” He knew about the procedures; he himself carried a mark from his elven father’s side. He knew for a fact, though, that there were at least twenty relatives in line before any such summons would find its way to him.

“Unfortunately, no. No marked people are supposed to be in a fellowship. There have been bad incidents where Seekers were murdered in the hopes to take over their status, because, supposedly, it can happen. And father said magical complications could also arise.”

So, she had talked it over with her family before letting him know. Saryan felt irritated, and for a moment, some illogical jealousy formed in the depths of his being. He forced it away. He would have done the same in her stead. It was probably the magical bond between them. They had been told this could happen. Not an issue they would want in the mix on top of this but it could not be helped. “We will see the council tomorrow,” Saryan decided. “I know there is time but I am sure they will talk to us, Seekers can come to them whenever they arrive in Dovarath. Just because you live here it should not be different.”

“We? But the summons is just for me?”

“Technically, it is for your father. It defaulted to you, and we are now one item. Where you go, I go. I have to until the binding stabilizes, and Search be damned, us, we, are more important than an endeavor which will likely amount to nothing. Like all the times before.”

With a shy smile, Airomeye stood up and dragged her mate up with her. “Mother was sure you’d say that,” she said in a much brighter voice. Saryan stopped himself from frowning as a new wave of jealousy, stronger this time, wanted to well up. As they walked back to the market, he was beginning to prepare a talk for the council.

The creaking windmills, the wind driving them and the occasional shout of a bird of prey caused the only sound in the northern plains, the rustle of grains not yet ripe for harvest did not make it to the ears of many observers. It was a boring landscape; very few trees dotted the area, usually fruit bearing trees attached to small homesteads almost the color of the grain surrounding them. Due to nature of the land, very few people lived here. Mostly, the people tending to the fields lived here 2 or 3 weeks all year round, caring for grains in the warmer month and winter hardy roots in the colder time of the year. There was only one place constantly occupied, and this mansion with a freestanding tower attached stood on the only hill worth mentioning. The wind wizard Voltun lived here, busy with making the windmills more efficient and doing general research on applications of wind magic. He was as boring as the surroundings were, a grey mouse of a human hardly paying any attention to anything but what was in front of his nose.

His colorful journeyman wizard was his total opposite. The silver tabby mrrengar with more hair than sense – if you asked Voltun, that was – wore nothing but colorful, screaming outfits, probably in an attempt to be as different from Voltun as he could manage. Yelsev Tranidar by name, he was more that the equal of Voltun where pure magical power was concerned, but as many wind elementalists, he distinctly lacked control over the more difficult aspects. But he was in every way ready to strike out on his own. If it was not for Voltun’s growing absentmindedness and the presence of his only sister who was tolerated by Voltun only because of Yelsev, the mrrengar would probably be long since gone. As interesting as it was to study with the master, living here was dreadful for a man like him and even worse for his younger sister. Especially as said sister did not have much interest in wind magic and none in agriculture.

No, Derima was a book mage, more theory than actual application, although she was the best at using cleaning magic, which included the use of wind, he had ever heard of. She could also magically clean and repair about anything. Practical everyday applications, those were important to her. Yelsev had suspicions of Voltun wanting to keep her around even without Yelsev, it saved on cleaning and maintenance costs.

His sister was now sitting in front of him on the main steps of the mansion’s entrance. She had, as so often, declined to wear clothes other than a simple brown cloak with a little bit of obscuring magic. It blended into her brown striped fur and caused the whole of her to blend in with everything else. She hated being visible. She was visible to him now, though, planting fists on her hips and glaring at him in this special way only famels of all species could. “You want to go off to Caitapur without taking me?” It was a grave offense, given the drab situation up here, to leave someone behind if you planned a visit to the local capital. Other than Voltun, of course, who could hardly be made to leave the tower nowadays.

Yelsev hesitated only a moment. “I am not going to Caitapur, that is just a short stop. I’m going on to Quafashtar and from there to Dovarath. The Academy Games,” he explained. “I would have no one to take you back, and I can’t take you to the games.”

Derima was nervous, it seemed she could hardly stop from shaking. What had gotten into the girl? “Why not? You used to travel around Iya Khil your whole life. You have even been through the Gap and seen the world mist. You have seen another shard with the caravans and…”

It was true, Yelsev had been restless all of his life. The time spent with Voltun, almost 5 years, had been the longest he had lived in one place. It had been necessary, to learn control of his magic. Rubbing his face while putting the list of his travel preparations away, he shook his head. “I have a few other things to do, too, and I do not know when I will be back. It may be a while.”

She sniffed. “All the more reason to take me. Asides, you would miss the start of the games unless I help you!”

“You?” The older mrrengar chuckled. I don’t mind being a bit late, the first days have already started, but it is only the two weeks of the main events which are interesting to me. I might enter the mage contests even if I’ll only show up as participated.” Then he blinked. “And how would you be able to help me get there in time, anyway? Have you somehow learned to teleport, or create a gateway?” His voice was slightly mocking.

“I hate when you do that and you know it. I am coming with you. I won’t let this be the last time I can be with you!” Mrrengars did not cry, but her fur ruffled in the way mrrengars marked sadness, fear, or disappointment. This was often confusing for anyone unfamiliar with the species, but then, who could really know why humanoid creatures cried?

“What do you mean? I will be back a while after the games. I would never leave you alone.” With a critical eye, Yelsev checked his sister over. Was she already in the beginning of what humans called puberty? The change, as mrrengars called it, caused females of the species to behave very irrational while some males became rather aggressive. Himself, he had avoided all such troubles thanks to being absorbed with his studies.

“I know your secret!” Derima blurtet out. “I have known for a long time. We live with a wizard who owns many books, and I read up all about it.” Her eyes were now shining with an intensity Yelsev had never seen in her. They bore into him and caused an icy feeling.

“Whatever you are talking about?” He got up from his perch on the stairs, his list still clutched in his hands, his yellow robes flying up with the wind’s renewed intensity. “Come on, let’s make some tea and clear this up.”

Derima followed him, almost meekly, into the enormous kitchen directly left off the entrance hallway. But her brother recognized the stubborn set of her jaw and her fur was still ruffled. The journeyman made a blend of herbal tea and dried fruits, being deliberately slow to give the girl a chance to slow down. But when he brought the beverage over, she was no calmer. On the contrary, her hands shook as she accepted the mug, and she huddled over it. “I know you carry a Seeker’s mark,” she blurted out. “An independent Seeker! I’ve seen it years ago. Hardly anyone would notice, with the patterns of our furs. You need to know what to look for, and it is not the normal Seeker’s mark.” Before he could prevent it, she reached out and took his right hand, stroking the silver fur so it was flat and even. There, on the back of Yelsev’s hand, a line in a slight wave stretched out, dotted by two hardly recognizable small circles, one light, one dark. The latter was the same for all Seeker lines, it represented day and night and the promise to always Search when called upon. But instead of being encircled by a symbol of the Seeker’s family line, the wave was unfinished and, if looking at it closely, shifted slightly, as if trying to form a new symbol, a new line.

“So you have known, and never talked to me about it?” Yelsev managed to keep his voice low, but anger was forming in the pit of his stomach. He had only learned what the symbol meant about three years ago when he had read up on a story of two independent Seekers who had been footnotes in history for different reasons. And until a few days ago, it had not even been relevant. Yelsev had assumed independent Seekers to be like all the others; lots of them in existence and only one or two being called to Search eventually. And probably not in his lifetime, the last Search was only 17 years past.

“I was scared. I know it is silly, but I hoped not talking about it would make a new Search less likely. But it is obvious Search has been called, and now you are forced to go!” Her fur now stood on end, and to stop herself from shaking, she sipped the tea carefully, as if to concentrate on it she could dive away the fear.

“What do you mean, it is obvious Search has been called? How do you know? It was not announced.”

“You are restless, the mark is driving you.” She now spoke as if she was a teacher and he a somewhat dense student. “Your whole life you have been driven to wanderings, it is why you were always on the move and only came home when I needed you with me.” It was true, he would probably still be on the road and would never have known his sister the way he knew her now. “Unlike Seekers from established family lines, independent Seekers are their own lines and thus have to be the ones to go. Every independent Seeker.” Her hands cramped around the tea mug, and she forced herself to drink.

“There can’t be that many of us then” Yelsev mused, drinking his own tea. “Or more people would know about it.”

“One or two, never more, in each generation of seekers. And only once, when a Search failed to be called, was there a new line of Searchers emerging. Because Vinoash Rainfeather, the founder of the great owl line of Seekers, thus survived and could start a family and pass the mark on. It changed to an arrow-like feather symbol.”

“The Rainfeathers line has all died out, though, hasn’t it? I’ve read up on the lines.” Then Yelsev blinked. “What do you mean, he survived because Search was not called?” But he knew already, the truth just had not yet arrived at his heart.

“They are all dead, Yelsev. No independent Seeker ever called to Search has survived. Or at least never returned, but all but a handful were indeed confirmed dead.” Derima blinked in quick succession, the mrrengar version of crying silently. “If you go, and you will have to or go crazy, I will not see you again. So I will follow you, at least to Dovarath, and if you try to stop me you will regret it.” It sounded like a threat, but it was just pure truth. The girl knew her older brother well; he would not get over leaving her behind in this situation, even though taking her along would tear open up a whole other bag of wheat.

“You’ll not only take her along,” Master Voltun said, moving fully into the kitchen. How long he had been standing at the door, none of the mrrengars could say. “You will take all the resources I can spare, too. And I’ll gate you down to Caitapur, with some luck, my gaprunner friend can take you from there. You will arrive at the games with time to spare to see the council before the big opening ceremony.” His voice left no room for discussion.

“Yes, Master,” Yelsev automatically replied. He knew he should feel dread, or at least some sort of anxiety in regards to his sister’s revelations. But he did not. If the Search was successful this time, and he was sure it would be, he would survive and get a third name to boot, and that would be a promise to his parents fulfilled. “I’ll pack what we’ll need, with your permission?”

“My permission and my help.” Moving around, the Master waved for Yelsev to go ahead. “You’d not know what you may need to begin with. Or what you could even safely use. Or what is what, even.” Scratching his beard, Voltun turned to Derima. “I know you know all independent Seekers believe they will succeed. Their eternal optimism drives Search. That’s why there is always at least one. Don’t dampen his enthusiasm or Search will fail!”

As he turned and followed Yelsev, Derima stood up shaking all over. Surprised, she noticed the mug was empty and out of habit took both mugs and washed them. Slowly taking deep breaths, she calmed herself down as if for meditation or a magic exercise. She would at least not be left behind. Maybe it would be impossible to follow Yelsev after the games, he would need a fellowship of experienced people way better than her. But not losing him immediately was better than being left behind. And maybe, just maybe, the Search would work out this time. It was high time, if she read the signs of the pathways right. Many sages studying the connections between the shards were worried. But then, they had been worried for about a century, and there had been four Searches since.

“I am still stuck!”

“I can see that, master.” Leara stood on a double ladder illuminated by low torch light, barely reaching the top of a huge barrel of beer, somewhere in a cellar in definitely more civilized regions. The top of the barrel was gone, disintegrated by the last bit of magic Master Khadubar had managed to cast, after swallowing too much beer even for a dwarf to stay sober. Luckily, the barrel had not been full or he would have been forced to disintegrate it all to avoid drowning. Which would have been bad, because Leara had had the great fortitude to arrive on the outside of the barrel, and she very much preferred not smelling of beer. The smell of alcohol of any kind was always lingering even after a magical cleaning.

The barrel, unfortunately, was too small on top to allow the not so insubstancial girth of Khadubar to pass. It hadn’t prevented him from trying. It was a totally undignified situation on top of the unknown location, and the likelihood of her luck magic having something to do with this made her feel worse. Leara would have preferred to be invisible right now, just in case someone blundered in on them. That, however, was a spell she had not quite managed yet.

“I am… still.. stuck!”

“Yes, master, I am trying!” But try as she might, she was unable to drag her master out, which was to be expected considering her low strength. The grease spell she had applied did not do a thing, either, which was to be expected considering the way physics and magic worked.

“Try harder!” Khadubar’s voice was slightly slurred, which was not too bad. The only way this situation could become considerably worse was if Khadubar would start singing, as he had a voice to put any magically enhanced bard to shame. In volume, that was, not quality. Which would bring anyone in this building and closely around it down here where they were not wanted. “I should’ve made the whole thing vanishhh.”

“Oh no, Master Khadubar, please don’t drink any more.” Redoubling her efforts, the mixling almost lost her footing on the ladder.

“I can’t drink anymore, because my belly is between me and what remains of a middle class dark beer. Which makes this situation worse.” Splashing sounds from the barrel at least made it seem the dwarf was trying to help his apprentice. “I think I’ve lost my shoes.”

“Do you still have your socks?” Leara didn’t even know why she asked, maybe to keep the dwarf distracted. “Can you really not cast yourself out of there?”

The deadly serious, if still slurred, teaching voice of her master answered. “Do you remember what I told you about what happens when you use magic when not in full command of your faculties? Especially with alcohol, nermsroot, catmint and witch’s tobacco?”

“Yes, master, but sure people have cast in emergencies…” Another pull and the ladder toppled over, Leara now hanging at the edge of the barrel.

“You can never be sure what will happen, which mean anything can happen, and the more powerful the mage, the more disastrous it usually is.”

Khadubar went on to recount examples Leara had already been told about. “Should have disintegrated the beer not the top,” she mumbled, but somehow she didn’t think that was something a dwarf could do without too much emotional damage. Carefully lowering herself down, she was about to grab the ladder again when her eyes landed on a small hammer of the type used to knock barrels open. Not too far was the metal rod. Her attention went back to the barrel. It had not been full. Which must mean…

Wiggling through this barrel and the next, she emerged in a wider path between many more barrels of differing beverages. Indeed, there was the tap. Several smaller barrels were placed around it, and without any delay, the mixling started to fill them. The splashing sounds died down. “That’s clever,” Khadubar said, a slight hiccup making it difficult for him to talk. “Saving the beer, that’s my apprentice!”

“Yes, master.” Saving herself from stink, but he did not need to think about that. “Now I just need to find something to smash the barrel with.”

“Oh bah! What spells do you have available, still? You can’t have used up all your power already! Think, girl! Are we wizards or manual workers?”

If the dwarf was so sure, there certainly was a spell she could use. Leara frowned as she thought, but nothing came to her. She was expecting more hints or lectures, but instead, she heard snoring. Which was as well, this way she could think easier. Leara kicked a dry piece of wood into the next barrel and felt insufficient. But, dry wood. Dry wood usually shrunk. And that would cause the barrel to fall apart!

“I’m amazingly intelligent,” the mixling told herself as she gathered the elemental power needed to remove the water from the wood of the barrel. It was the first time she was doing this with something that big, but it would just take a bit longer. Careful, she had to be, too, she did not want to accidentally dry out the master’s clothes too much, as some of them would break. Living things were unaffected by this sort of magic.

Half an hour and an exhausted apprentice later, the barrel creaked and started falling apart. Leara jumped forward in time to catch Khadubar just as he woke up trying to right himself. A few weird dancing steps later, a mostly dry, still smelly Khadubar and a barely smelling Leara grinned at each other. “That’s my apprentice,” the dwarf said yet again. “Now, where are my shoes?”

Leara’s eyes darted to the remains of a once top notch barrel. Surely enough, the broken leather of the dwarf’s shows were among them. “Uh, maybe we can use a repair spell or something?”

“You can’t yet, and I can’t now. Asides, never waste magic. The magic needed to repair that...” he shook his head. “I’ll be better off with new shoes. I should have invested in a magical pair, they would have made it.”

“So, we go up now?” Leara was just now noticing a set of wide stairs leading out of the cellar a short distance away.

“Yes, we do, of course we go up!” After a few bold steps meant for him to look heroic and leader-like, the dwarf winced and slowed down. “A dwarf is not meant to walk barefoot,” he stated. “We will have to do this slowly.”

“Yes, master,” Leara sighed and followed behind. Luckily, the stairs didn’t go far and ended at double doors wide and high enough to move all those barrels through. They were a creak open, and loud laughter and rough song could be heard. The light outside was bright, what was to be expected as it was not yet late in the day. She went ahead and opened the door a tad more, seeing a bar to the right and many filled, mismatched tables and chairs in various states of repair. Servers of both genders, plenty of them lizardfolk, were moving through a mass of mostly unwashed people in various states of sober. It had a feeling of a worker’s tavern, probably with shift workers as some people seemed to try to enjoy lunch while others were more in the beginnings of end-of-workday celebrations. “We can probably sneak in,” she started, but the dwarf already went ahead. Again, she followed.

They were plopping down at a table close to the cellar doors. Two humans and an elf were at the same table, heavily into their mugs of cheap ale, discussing mining operations. Which meant they were in Ghour, the only place in the whole swamp with a place worth mining. While Leara ordered bread, cheese, butter and some cider, she noticed her master nodding in thought. This probably meant they were still not quite where they were supposed to be. Inquiring after rooms got them two chambers under the roof, everything else was full. At the last moment, she remembered to inquire about a shoemaker or trader’s market. Plenty of those, she expected, in a mining town, and she was right. But by the time she had managed to help a barefooted Khadubar up some steep stairs, she was too tired to go out again and collapsed on her own bed. “Become a mage apprentice, they said,” she mumbled half asleep. “No one will care how ugly you are and it will be easy for you…”

As she fell asleep, her remaining magic flowed out of her, sneaking into the dreams of the few other sleepers, causing the door to the outhouse to become permanently stuck while someone was inside, a cook to slip on a dropped piece of fruit and one of the servers to drop their tablet of food and drink right in the lap of the only important miner in the house. But it also saved a cat from drowning in a drain, helped a lost child to find its way back home and redirected the route of a drunk miner to avoid the robbers waiting for him.