Year: 3045 AGD
Midwinter Festival (Night)
Safeharbor
“Ahh, Master Mithriannil. Welcome home.” Bartholomew bowed.
“No need to bow when I’m alone, Bart.” Nim grinned as he handed the old monk-turned-butler his coat. “It must have been extremely boring around here for the last year.”
“You have no idea, sir.” Bartholomew said as he straightened Nim’s coat and hung it on the rack. “Without the girls around, this place is drab. The kitchen staff prattles on all day about useless gossip, and the gardeners only want to talk about the weather.”
“Jenn has been around, hasn’t she?”
“On occasion sir; she has been disappearing for increasingly extended periods of time since Lia left.” Bartholomew sighed. “Megan’s passing was difficult for both of them to accept, and I’m not sure which one is taking it the hardest. Now Jenn feels responsible for Lia’s safety, but she has no idea where the girl has gone. On top of that, she has been doing the work that you assigned her, trying to locate information about the boys and their history. I believe there may be a report in your study on that matter, in fact.”
Nim tensed for a moment as he thought about his young charges. He and Victor had managed to mete out some of the retribution for that night’s events, but neither of them had any time to process their grief before larger events drew them in. Now that he was no longer fighting a war, perhaps he would have time to properly grieve for the young woman who had been murdered while under his care.
“I also took a detailed accounting of everything in the Manor after the assault, as you asked.” Bartholomew pulled a list from the sheaf of papers he carried.
“A silver fork, a bag of beans, and one pair of blood red manacles.” Nim sighed. “I’m guessing you took care of the first two.”
Bartholomew nodded.
“I’m not terribly surprised about the third, after Erin’s last communique. Apparently whoever staged the assault on the manor also sent someone to retrieve the manacles, or some lucky bastard just happened to pick the moment the place was in chaos to get into my vault.”
Bartholomew raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I don’t believe that it was some random thief either, or there would be more missing from the vault.” Nim let out a list of invectives as he turned down the hallway. “From what Erin managed to find out from the former slaves, it seems that Victor is now wearing said manacles. Arch Magus Windsbane told the council earlier tonight that the boy no longer has any memories from before he disappeared, and yet has somehow managed to remove the manacles himself on several occasions.”
“If I just took what I know about the history of those manacles, I would say that is impossible. Having known Victor for half a year, I can’t say I’m terribly surprised. Of course he would manage to do what no one else in the last three thousand years has been able to.” Bartholomew opened the door to the sitting room. “I’ll muster one of the cooks and have some food brought for you.”
“Thank you, Bartholomew; I could also use a drink.”
“Of course, sir, and will Master Ashur be wandering in this evening?”
“I don’t believe so, but you can never be sure with David.”
As Bartholomew went to go rouse the household, Nim sat and thought about everything that had been discussed at the palace earlier that day. At least he now knew where his young apprentice had gone, and what he was doing, but the information didn’t help settle his mind. Add to that Analya’s confirmation of what he had already guessed concerning the power that had been draped over Victor by the gods; it left him oddly comforted, and yet appalled by what those beings had done.
“Nothing is ever easy.” Nim sighed as Bartholomew re-entered the room carrying a decanter. “Oh, by the way, I’m now the High Commander of the Protectorate.”
“Well then, I suppose congratulations are in order, sir. Should I plan a feast and a ball to celebrate the occasion, or perhaps you would prefer I pull out the pastels for a little art therapy to get you through the inevitable brooding?”
“Yes on the ball and feast.” Nim said as he propped his feet up and took a swig of fine liquor. “Keep the painting supplies at the ready though; I may need them before the year is through.”
Year: 3045 AGD
Month: Winter’s End
First Thirdday
Continent of Terroval
Siniquity
Temendri took a deep breath before pushing the door open to Yandarian’s study. His hands were clammy, and a bead of moisture began to work its way down his brow before being wiped away. There were a million other places he would rather be than this place at this moment, but if he gave in to his fear and ran, he would likely be dead before the end of the month. If he stayed however, it was only a likely possibility that he would be killed outright within the next few minutes. A slim chance is better than none at all.
“Temendri,” Yandarian greeted his apprentice as the door opened. No one else would dare to enter the study without knocking first. “My word, you look like someone has siphoned the life out of you,” the old mage said, his tone suggesting that he didn’t care if such a thing had happened or not.
“Yes, I suppose I do,” Temendri said, as he forced his legs to slowly propel him across the blood red carpet that lead to his master’s desk, each step a little more difficult than the last. All signs of the destruction that had occurred over a year ago had been completely erased. The study once again looked just as he had remembered it on his first day of his apprenticeship.
One important thing had changed since that day, however. Temendri now understood that Yandarian and his master might not be the most dangerous things on Terrazil. With that realization grew a faint spark of hope. A hope that was incredibly dangerous, and that must be guarded jealously, lest it be revealed too soon and cause him to lose everything he had gained. Luckily for him, he had been excruciatingly well-trained in schooling his emotions.
“Well, what is it?” Yandarian sighed as he moved a strip of cloth onto his book to keep his place. “Did one of the slaves sully my robes again? Just have it killed like the others. One of these days they will learn.”
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“No, I’m afraid it isn’t as simple a matter as that. We have lost contact with the party sent to retrieve the princess.”
“Lost contact?” Yandarian’s eye twitched slightly. “Like we lost contact with the mine?”
“Yes, sir,” Temendri said. “The scouts have still not reported back from the mine, but I doubt the information there will be good. We are not completely in the dark as to what happened to our other assets, however. The asset we have in Verge reports a large spike in activity on the morning of the Midwinter Festival. It seems that someone decided to burn Sergeant Mcdowell’s corpse. During the ensuing flurry of activity, a figure was seen fleeing from several of our Dracairei. From the description of the man, it is very likely that it was the High Commander himself.”
“Stewart Cantel,” Yandarian spat. “I’m guessing he wasn’t the only one there if they somehow managed to take out a squad of Dracairei.”
“Precisely.” Temendri pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it across the desk. “It seems that at least two of the squad members of the Vigilantes managed to come into town using the distraction. They managed to remove the two Dracairei guarding the prisoners.”
Yandarian grunted and began to read the report. “What about this?”
“What part, sir?” Temendri said, barely managing to keep the elation he was feeling out of his voice.
“The boy that was spotted leaving town on a horse in the same direction the High Commander and the rest of the Dracairei went,” Yandarian growled, before slapping the paper onto the desk. “I swear upon the blood of my ancestors that if it is that damn kid, someone is going to pay.”
“You don’t think…” Temendri was proud of the way his voice managed to sound dubious.
“Of course I think.” Yandarian rubbed his bald head, a clear sign that the man was beginning to lose his calm.
“What are the odds that the boy would be able to escape the mine and make it through or around Death’s Edge forest just in time to be able to help his mentor’s squadmates escape, and then find and assist the High Commander?” Temendri realized as he said it just how insane the sequence of events sounded, and he hoped the absurdity of it all might help calm down his master, but it didn’t.
“I don’t know how it happened, but I have no doubt that it did. Divine intervention, sheer stupid luck, or the universe itself working against me; I don’t know what it is, but that boy sc…”
This time Temendri had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling as he realized what his master had been about to say.
Yandarian coughed. “That boy is a scar on my side, and in the master’s. We need to find out where he is and deal with him.”
“Yes, Milord.” Temendri bowed and began to turn, but paused partway through. “Oh, another piece of information that I thought you might be interested in passed my way through the bi-monthly apprentice gathering at the Ambrosia tavern.”
“Oh, and what nugget of wisdom do the other apprentices have to share?” Yandarian said through gritted teeth.
Knowing that he didn’t want to be in the room when the information he was about to relay sunk in, Temendri began to move towards the door as soon as his master had begun to speak. “Well, it seems that Cyrian Dreadmeir left the city several days before the Midwinter Festival. The apprentice I talked to learned this from Dreadmeir’s cook, and it seems they expect him to be back anytime now.”
“That is indeed curious.” Yandarian said as Temendri reached the door. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
“Of course, Sir.” Temendri turned back towards the man who had taught him everything he knew, the same man who had also tortured him endlessly while imparting that knowledge. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, you are dismissed.”
Yandarian managed to restrain his outburst until Temendri was outside the door. Temendri heard a growl and a loud crash as what he assumed was the large tome that had been on his master’s desk slammed into the shelf of books, causing a cascading reaction. Temendri checked the hall to make sure it was empty, and then allowed himself a small smile as he quickly made his way down the corridor. Many years of experience told him not to be the first one Yandarian saw after such an outburst. He felt sorry for whomever would receive his master’s wrath, but the world they lived in was cruel.
Year: 3045 AGD
Month: Winter’s End
First Fifthday
Continent of Terroval
Near Siniquity
“Shade,” Cyrian said as they rode along in his carriage. “You’ve been rather quiet these last few days.”
“Sorry sir, I’ve had a lot on my mind.” Shade replied.
I’d say, the memory of Stewart Cantel added.
Trying to get used to the memories of a middle-aged man suddenly being implanted into his mind was daunting to say the least, and Shade had spent the last few days trying to adjust to memories and feelings that were not his own. The first day, after everything had settled down, it had been strange to see Cantel’s memories of a younger version of himself. Memories that he himself could not recall, because they had been placed behind a barrier in his mind by a Blood Mage.
The boy from the High Commander’s memories felt like a dream only half-remembered to Shade. He knew he was no longer Victor Deus, though he hoped one day he might feel the need to take up the name once again. Cyrian Dreadmeir had given him the name Shade on their first meeting, and something about it felt right. It was who he was for now; who he might become was still up for debate.
“Well, don’t fall too deeply into that pit.” Cyrian laughed. “Many men have wasted their lives being stuck inside their own heads.”
It was strange. Shade knew that Cyrian Dreadmeir was one of the Council of Nine, the most feared body of men on the face of Terrazil, and yet when the man laughed, there was a genuine quality to it that softened the dark aspect that Cyrian had obviously put a lot of work in to achieve.
I wouldn’t turn my back on him just yet, Cantel said. But, also remember that men will do a lot of things they find despicable in order to survive.
The fact that even Stewart Cantel was beginning to think that the Blood Mage was more than he seemed lent a certain amount of credence to his own feelings about the man. He knew from Stewart Cantel’s memories that people were not always what they seemed though, so it would take more than a few days of cordial traveling to begin to trust the man.
“What would you like to learn when we get back to the city?” Cyrian was now speaking to the carriage in general, which meant that he was expecting a reply from either Shade or Princess Tatiana, who sat across from them. Knowing that the Princess hadn’t said a word since she was “rescued”, the duty of replying fell to him.
“Do we have a choice?” Shade asked.
“Of course you do.” Cyrian replied. “Though, I will of course assign you tasks if you don’t decide on some for yourself. I can’t have you lazing about, or people might talk.” He caught both of their eyes with his, silver orbs boring into each of them. “One thing you must remember about Siniquity is that appearances are very important. I hope you will learn quickly that you can put your faith in me, but I know that is something you will both have to come to on your own. For now, simply believe me when I tell you that I am looking out for your best interests.”
A few moments of awkward silence hung in the air before Shade shared a look with the Princess, who shrugged.
Well, that’s something at least, Cantel said.
It is certainly more than we’ve gotten out of her so far, Shade replied.
“What do you study?” Shade asked the question mainly to break the silence that had come over the carriage.
“Oh, this and that,” Cyrian replied. “You have to know quite a few different things to be a member of the council, but my true passion lies in Anatomy and Physiology, especially as it pertains to mutations. Once we find a tutor and get you two caught up on the language and social necessities of the city, I would love to show you some of my work, if you are so inclined.”
Pulling from Cantel’s memories, he was able to get a basic understanding of the things that Blood Mages or a skilled Shaper could do with such knowledge and became intrigued. “I think I might like that very much.”
“Excellent,” Cyrian Dreadmeir said. “If nothing else, I doubt that your stay in Siniquity will be a boring one.”
The smile that Shade caught on Cyrian’s face before the Blood Mage turned to look out the window sent a chill up his spine.