CHAPTER ELEVEN
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King Te’Korei
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16th of Decepter, 935 PC
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Without Ethel Marsalla, King was doomed. Even if he used every ounce of magic in his soul, he’d be be taking his seat beside The Creator before spring climbed over the frosted hilltops. He’d stood in the carnage of Steppe and asked himself how a man made of blessings could face such a fate, why his magic couldn’t save him. But when Colin said most people with the dark demise last only a week, two at the most, he realized the miracle was that he was alive at all. And though that reality had nearly knocked him off his feet, it hadn’t taken terribly long to decide that he’d be a warrior, not a victim. That’s not to say the things that had bothered him as they traveled to Steppe weren’t now heartbreakingly significant; Colin’s constant rambling, the beauty of nature – even when it was hideous – the sound of his own voice, the annoyance of incessant coughing, the agony of walking miles and miles. He’d give anything to be miserable for a few more years.
It had been Colin that eventually got them back on the trail out of the Emerald Forest, claiming he couldn’t stand looking at the litter of corpses in the valley any longer. Bad company, he’d called it. He’d also struggled with seeing how it made King cry. Naive lad, King had cried for himself. Perhaps, he’d shed a few tears for the others, but the brunt of his emotions were spent on selfish, pitiful crying. But how could he be any better when all his hope had just been ripped out of him? Not like he’d ever died before. In fact, he’d made quite an effort to avoid exactly that for three and a half decades now.
The lad was supposed to head back to Goro once King had been delivered safely, Rubora had made it quite clear how badly she needed him in her shop, but King wasn’t ready to be alone and Colin wasn’t ready to go back. So, they headed north, toward Haldar. A nice place for the two to say their goodbyes without taking the apprentice too far off his course.
The trek out of the Emerald Forest had been rough and slow but the rest of their trip to Haldar was smooth sailing thanks to King’s magic. A few drops of the good stuff and a wagon had come strolling down the Dirt Spine not half an hour later, heading in the same direction they were, obviously. As he’d expected, the driver and his wife were sweet as strawberries. Didn’t even charge them for the ride, though King had forced the man to take a few Leos. Sweet men seldom take what they’re offered, even when they want it. One must be persistent with them from time to time. And besides, what good was money to King?
They’d gone into the first pub they’d come across in Haldar. It was a well lit place with a subtle ambiance of uplifting music. The people were friendly enough without being too chatty. Exactly what King wanted right now. All in all, he’d seen worse, much worse. Better too though. This place hadn’t even compelled him to learn its name. A tough task given his current state of mind, but still. The interior left much to the imagination. A stingy owner, maybe? Or perhaps the practical nature of a mercenary town? Either way, the iron chandeliers had little thought put into their designs and only held a minimal number of candles and the tables and chairs would hardly inspire a budding woodworker. The place felt safe though and that was important when traveling the empire these days.
The Lotus knew better than to upset the Hounds of Haldar by sticking their noses in places they didn’t belong. Wouldn’t see any green gambesons here, that he could count on.
“It sure would be nice to have your magic around all the time,” Colin said, twisting his upper body in order to crack his back. He has no idea how true that is.
King slowly pulled his gloves off, trying to minimize the damage done to his skin. “Blessings in your pocket? Who couldn’t benefit from that regularly?” He winced as the second glove caught a painful spot on the outside of his thumb.
“That’s what you call it? Blessings. I would have thought it was luck. Same thing I guess.”
“There’s a difference, my boy. Who knows if luck will rear its pretty face when you need it. Blessings will come true. At least mine will.”
Colin was mulling over that one when the waitress approached the table. She looked at the odd duo with a hint of curiosity and a whole lot of impatience. A thin woman, skin like leather. She spoke with a voice that matched her stiff frown and reeked of smoke. “Well, what’ll it be?”
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“I’ll take a cup of water and… some… beef stew. Please and thank you,” Colin said, smiling wide but getting no reaction out of the waitress.
“Two ales,” King said. Nothing had ever helped him feel closer to The Creator than shedding his inhibitions and letting his rambling thoughts flood the world with brilliance she’d be proud of.
Colin looked at him, then the waitress. “I don’t drink ale.”
“He does today,” King said. “Two ales. No food for me.” Modest men like Colin seldom knew what they should and shouldn’t do without a coax in the right direction.
The waitress left them lounging in their booth. King disguised a cough as clearing his throat, letting the spots of blood join the others on the sleeve of his dark green coat, then pulled a handful of knick knacks from his pocket and dumped them on the table. There were boxes, tubes, bones, toys, most of which had been doused in some kind of alchemical to enhance their capabilities. Colin reached for everything instantly. Not like a child though. Like an apprentice who’d been told to clean up messes so many times he was a trained pup now. King watched him go as he kept emptying his pocket.
“Careful.” King said, as Colin picked up a small knight made of limestone. The lad withdrew his hand and looked at him. “It won’t hurt but Sir Frederick can get in a bit of a mood after hours in the dark.”
Colin stood the knight up and watched him draw his sword. “How?” Now he acted like a child.
A suppressed cough escaped King in a pitiful sputter, not failing to bring pain with it. A few deep breaths resettled him but his eyelids suddenly felt very heavy. “Old tricks my ancestors passed down.”
Colin let the knight slash at his finger a few times before he laid it down, sentencing the hero to a lazy evening of rest. “It’s neat.”
“Useless though. A child’s toy. You can have it if you’d like.” Colin contemplated the offer while King picked up a box no longer than his shortest finger and removed an even smaller quill with black barb with fluffy white afterfeather near the tip from inside. He pinched the shaft between his fingers and showed it to Colin. “Now, this is a useful trick. Give me some parchment from your bag. Please and thank you.” The lad had said the courtesy enough for it to work its way into King’s vernacular as well. He gathered his special bottle of ink.
“Looks pretty unexceptional,” Colin said as he pulled his bag from the floor and dug through it. King didn’t miss the fact that Colin had slipped Sir Frederick into his pocket. “What is it?” He opened a book full of notes he’d taken while working with the herb doctor.
King took the piece of parchment Colin slid to him and touched the quill to his tongue. “A quill that refuses not to be heard.” He coughed into his elbow and tried not to be alarmed by the new stains on his sleeve.
Colin acted as though he understood what King was up to as the waitress returned with their drinks. She sat them down roughly and looked at the mess on the table. “Don’t leave any of that shit here.”
She was gone before King cared to look up from his work. He jotted down what had happened in Steppe and folded the note neatly then tossed the quill on the table and grabbed another tiny box buried beneath a few other odds and ends. He worked quickly, though there was little rush. What was done was done but he needed to tell someone important. Inside the box were square pieces of glass, stacked upon each other. Each piece was actually two panes pressed together, each pair holding a flake of dead skin between them. He dumped them into his hand, half a dozen at least, and spread them out on the table. The one marked “AS” was all he needed. He slid the others aside.
“What are you doing?” Colin asked. A look of disgust on his innocent face. “Is that dead skin?”
King pulled apart the panes of glass and placed the piece of parchment directly onto the flake as carefully as possible. He counted to three, waiting for the incredible ink he’d written the letter in to determine the recipient of the message – a science more than an art. “Excellent,” he said when the process was over. He looked at Colin. “Now all we need is a messenger bird.”
“I didn’t see any around here. How are we-” Colin stopped when he saw King smiling, realizing the Purist’s magic would make sure they found what they needed. “Incredible.”
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“Then what did you do?” Colin asked, leaning so far onto the table it could have tipped over under his weight. He was at the bottom of his second mug of ale now and beaming brighter than the sun.
King coughed but it wasn’t enough to keep him from smiling at the drunk lad. “I did what any self-respecting adventurer would do. I drew my sword and called him a name I’d rather not say again.”
“No! You didn’t! Probably made him awfully mad, didn’t it?!”
“Mad as a hornet! But he’d questioned my honor and you know what the men of Thandlecor say about their honor.” Colin stared at him blankly, eyes close to falling shut. “You don’t know! Lords, boy. If you don’t learn anything else from me, learn this! A man with honor is a man with morals. Take either and you’re left with a man that doesn’t deserve the life The Creator gave him.”
Colin nodded and lifted his mug. “The honor of a man with morals. Either take what's left or don’t deserve The Creator.”
King held his mug a few inches from his lips and smiled. “Close enough.”