14 - THE MEETING

Justinia once again led me through the streets of Tymora. It was late—the darkness of the city, with its utter lack of lights inside homes, suggested that everyone was asleep. Nearly everyone, anyway—distantly, we saw more than one patrol of Terarch Guards, and each time my heart began to beat harder and faster in my chest. Justinia, however, seemed adept at pulling me down some side street or alley, weaving her through the city in such a way that not once did we actually get near any of the Guard.

The moon was bright and nearly full, lending its silver radiance to the twisting, cobbled streets. It was a cold night, and I found myself pulling my coat tighter about myself as we went.

With every step we took, the city underwent a noticeable transformation.

The buildings looked increasingly decrepit, gradually transitioning into such a state of disrepair that I found myself feeling bad for the poor souls who lived within. Several stray dogs jogged across the street, heads down, eyes glowing when they caught the moonlight. There were, also, some unfortunate persons sitting or laying in stinking heaps along the gutters, many missing limbs or with other grievous injuries only half-obvious in the darkness. These were the men and women chewed up and spat out by the Autarch’s many wars across the continent.

Some time later, we came to what essentially amounted to a ruined building, its ceiling half-collapsed, windows boarded, door missing, walls stripped bare and weathered.

But inside was a light from a lantern.

“Well,” Justinia said, gesturing to where the door ought to be and turning away from the building. “In you go.”

“You’re not coming in?”

“No,” she said. “You’re the one who wants this, so, this is on you. Anyway, someone needs to stand guard out here.”

I hesitated for a moment in the doorway. What would my father have said about this course of action? Never before in my life had I truly possessed the power to make true decisions in my life—to decide the path I’d walked.

Now that I finally could, now that the world was so open, I found myself paralyzed by the fear that I was about to make the wrong choice.

Still, I’d come this far, and could see no good alternative.

I stepped into the ruined building.

I followed the warm flicker of lantern light in the next room, floorboards creaking beneath my boots. Someone was whispering but, as I neared, they fell silent. There sat two individuals, perched upon old wooden stools, a lantern on the floor between them. Both were dressed like vagabonds, wearing old, tattered cloaks, their hoods pulled up to conceal their faces. They looked up as I approached, and now I could make out their features.

The figure on the right, taller, broader, was a man, nose crooked, a scar dividing his lips vertically, his eyes colored like tree sap. Middle-aged, but with a world weariness about him, a sense that he had seen and done much.

The other figure was a woman, smaller, younger, blonde hair framing a sharp, angular face. Her lips were full where his were thin. Her eyes, by contrast, were a deep and tranquil blue that put me in mind of the sea. It was difficult to look away from them, both because of that, and because I was immediately struck by her beauty.

“Ah, there he is,” said the man, and rose smoothly to his feet. Now I realized just how tall he was—which is to say, he dwarfed even me, which was not a feeling I was accustomed to.

The man thrust out a hand. I took it automatically, was surprised when he squeezed and shook and showed me just how strong he was—a strength that didn’t seem forced. He wasn’t trying to hurt me, or be dominant—his grip was simply vicelike.

“Here I am,” I said, heat rising to my cheeks. I was so used to interacting with necromancers, with the cold and dreary men and women of the Withered Isles who had been, I suppose, my family, that I didn’t know what to say, or how to act, around people from a world so alien to my own.

But perhaps I was just overthinking it.

“My name is Camillan,” the man said warmly, “and this is Amaline.”

“Aurion,” I said.

“Of course. Justinia was telling me about you just today. Would you like to sit? Can’t say they’re the most comfortable chairs, but…”

“I’m alright, thank you.”

“And I do wish I could offer you a drink, but I’m poorly equipped.”

“That’s okay,” I said, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Be less awkward, I told myself, but how? I laugh a little now reflecting upon the way I acted and thought—as though a little awkwardness mattered, as though it were a worthy concern.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Those were more innocent days.

I miss them, I must confess.

“So,” Camillan said. I liked the way he smiled; it made me feel as though we’d been friends for years. Amaline, meanwhile, sat in unreadable silence. “Justinia tells me you’re interested in the cause.”

I was a little taken aback by how direct he was—but then, why shouldn’t he be direct? If Justinia had told him such a thing, and if he was all the things she’d told me he was, there was hardly any point in wasting time by circling the matter.

“I believe I am,” I said, “although I’d like to hear, from your own mouth, what exactly the cause is.”

His smile widened. “And that tells me that you’re a clever man. The cause, to put it bluntly, is the death of Autarch Marak, and the destruction of the Tiran Autarchy, with the end goal of establishing a democratic, peaceful, and flourishing government in its place.”

Once again, I was taken aback. What he’d just said was enough to have the three of us immediately captured, tortured, and killed. The words were so treasonous, in fact, so toxic, that the Autarch might have the building itself, and even the very air, scoured with the hottest of fires, so that the wretchedness that had just been voiced might be forever purged.

Camillan, however, seemed entirely at ease, as though he’d uttered nothing more than a casual greeting.

Into my silence, Camillan said, “How do you feel about what I just said?”

“I want nothing more than that,” I said, and was surprised by how much iron there was in my voice; I hardly recognized myself in that moment. “And not only do I want that, I find that it’s my destiny to help make it happen. Autarch Marak must die. There is no other way.”

“No,” Camillan agreed, “there isn’t. I’m glad to see that you feel the way I do, Aurion. I think we’re going to be very good friends. Now, there’s something we ought to get to. Justinia told me that you’re no ordinary man—that you possess skills that I would find very interesting.”

“Ah,” I said. “She didn’t give you any specifics?”

“I’m afraid not, although I pressed her hard for them.”

I nodded slowly. How to proceed? Admit outright that I was a necromancer? I had been taught, as a young boy, that all magic, in all forms, had been strictly prohibited within the Autarchy. Anyone who knew anything about it had been purged by the Autarch centuries ago, leaving him and his servants as the sole wielders of arcane power on the continent. That, in part, was how the Autarchy had remained so dominant.

“I’m a necromancer,” I said simply. “Born and raised amongst the Withered Isles, off of the eastern coast of the continent. You will not have heard of it—our existence has been a well-kept secret since before the Autarchy even came to prominence, which is how he has never found us.”

At this, Camillan’s eyebrows went up. “I see. And what, exactly, is a necromancer?”

“An individual capable of harnessing power derived from souls, death, blood, bone, and shadow,” I said. It was the most simple way to describe it, and completely true, though lacking in nuance and detail that I considered mandatory to truly understand what I was.

Camillan’s expression was contemplative. He was silent for several long moments.

“Camillan,” said the woman, Amaline. “Please don’t tell me we’re actually hearing this charlatan out.”

“Unless, of course, he’s not a charlatan.”

Amaline scowled. “Then ask him to prove that what he says is actually true.” She turned her sharp eyes upon me. “Give us a little demonstration, why don’t you?”

My mind raced in search of an easy way to prove myself on the spot. One problematic aspect of necromancy is the reliance on certain materials. For example, to draw upon powers derived from blood, one needed access to fresh, spilled blood, and I had no knife with which to make a quick incision upon myself. Likewise, without any bones on hand, I’d have to draw upon the bones within my own body, or within these two—and that could not be easily done, and certainly not pleasantly. Worse, I was still exhausted from the exertions earlier that day, and rattled by what I’d been forced to do.

There was, however, an abundance of shadows in the small, crumbling room.

I lifted a hand and wiggled my fingers. This was not necessarily, but it occurred to me that some kind of physical movement would help convince the two that it was in fact I who was the source of what was about to happen. Then I smiled, curled my hand into a fist, and gave life to the shadows at Amaline’s feet.

A pool of shadows coiled upward, taking the form of a black, featureless snake. It writhed in the air in front of it, standing upright. Amaline jolted back, sending her stool flying; it landed on its side. She reached for something—a weapon, no doubt—hidden within her cloak, but when she straightened up, moving on reflex, she hit the top of her head against an overhanging piece of weathered stone.

“It won’t hurt you,” I said calmly. “I’m in complete control of it.” And to demonstrate the truth of this, I waved my hand and caused the snake to lower itself and then slither across the room in the opposite direction of the concerned woman.

Camillan hadn’t moved. He watched the shadow snake with glinting eyes. “Is that demonstration enough?” He asked his companion.

Amaline, scowling, had regained her composure. She turned her stool upright and once again sat. “Yes,” she said grudgingly.

“Don’t sound so sour, Amaline. We’re currently sitting before perhaps the only arcane practitioner on the continent who isn’t a tool of the Autarch.”

“That we know of. Perhaps the Order sent him—”

Camillan held up a hand. “Do not throw around such accusations unless you have at least a shred of proof.”

“You used to be more cautious.”

“I’m as cautious as ever. Our friend here, however, has the trust of Justinia, and since I very much trust Justinia, I also trust Aurion.”

“Thank you,” I said sincerely.

“As for that…” Camillan gestured to the snake, which was now moving around the room in a slow, mesmerizing circle. “I believe the point is suitably demonstrated.”

I nodded, and with a mere thought banished the snake, which melted away into the nearby shadows as though it had never even existed at all.

Camillan leaned forward. His smile was eager. “And now that we know we’re all aligned, and that you are what you say you are…it’s time to talk business.”