Uriah pulled a face as gray banefire shot from his outstretched hand, splashing down not far away in the wake of the boat. The spell was a bit wispy, and it didn’t have the proper fireball shape, coming out more like a diffuse stream of flames. Still, it would work in a pinch.
“That was good!” Bernt said. “You just have to twist the shaping runes inward a bit more on the back end so the flames are all pointing toward the center. That’ll help it hold the denser ball shape when it’s moving.”
“Don’t be condescending!” Uriah complained, frustration clear in his voice. “I saw the spell just as well as you did – it was crap.”
Bernt frowned at the other mage, surprised at his outburst. “I’m not being condescending. The spell will work just fine as it is right now. You just won’t get very good range on it, and it might not kill a demon outright. But the first time I hit a possessed warlock, I didn’t use a proper fireball shape either. It worked fine.”
“Hmph,” Uriah grunted. “Still too slow, though. Damned fire spells don’t make any sense.”
“So practice it,” Bernt said and rolled his eyes as he turned away to dig around in his bag.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but this wasn’t it. Uriah was a terribly slow caster, likely due to his failed investiture as much as the unfamiliar spellwork, but he wasn’t a slow learner. On the contrary, it had only taken him two days to produce cold fire, and his first real attempt at Bernt’s banefire spell was at least a partial success. Despite that, the man was incurably self-critical to the point that it was beginning to get on Bernt’s nerves. He treated anything less than instant mastery as a damning failure.
It was an attitude Bernt couldn’t understand. All spells went wrong at first, and Uriah had to know that. Working out the kinks was a normal part of the learning process, and one that normally took days or weeks depending on the complexity of the spell and one's own familiarity with similar magic.
Finding his stone teapot, Bernt held it out to the surly hydromancer, who summoned a stream of water from the river to fill it without further prompting. Visualizing the appropriate spellform, Bernt set the water boiling and set it down on the deck for Nirlig to sprinkle in a few tea leaves. The goblin did so, barely interrupting his conversation with Torvald. Making tea had become a rote process for the group over the past few days.
Tea was practically the only way to stay warm, hunkered down in the open air on this stupid boat in the middle of winter. Predictably, most of the space belowdecks was used for cargo, leaving barely enough room for the Invigilation's priests to get out of the weather. Torvald probably would have been allowed to join them, but he stayed on the deck with the adventurers and the legitimators. Most likely, he didn't want people to think he was soft. Bernt hadn't asked.
Setting down a handful of cups, Bernt poured and picked one up for himself. He sipped carefully as the others grabbed theirs, doing his best not to scald his tongue and tuning out the conversation. It was too early to argue about the proper way to season catfish and he didn’t care, regardless.
They’d been traveling downriver for nearly three days and should arrive in Fergefield soon. Progress had been slow, because the boat moved barely faster than a brisk walk. That was mostly because of the season, from what Bernt had gathered. The river ran low during the winter months, revealing rocks and sandbanks that could damage or ground a vessel like theirs. The captain, a merchant sailor named Kelreig, maneuvered them carefully downstream, dropping anchor each evening when it became too dark to see.
As bad as it was, it was still a far more comfortable mode of travel than walking or bouncing around in a wagon. After today, that was what they would have to do. The fastest route to the Sacral Peaks was overland from Fergefield. From there, the road would take them another fifty leagues or so southward to Locholme before swinging around through Gobford toward Goldwater and eventually Norhold, which sat in a broad valley bordering both Madzhur and the Sacral Peaks. It wasn’t exactly a straight route, but it circumvented large swathes of mostly untamed wilderness in Besermark’s central highlands.
Finishing his cup, Bernt stood up to stretch his legs. He squeezed past a few crates and a few adventurers, making his way toward the prow of the boat. He wasn’t sure how much further they had to go, but maybe he’d already be able to see Fergefield in the distance. It was smaller than Halfbridge, but Bernt had never been to another city. Who knew what he might find there? Trying to peer through the thin mists ahead, Bernt almost tripped over a pair of booted legs that stuck out from behind a crate. He caught himself,
“Hey,” a woman’s voice said, weakly, “watch it!”
“Sorry!” Bernt said automatically before pausing to take a closer look. She sounded terrible. “Are you alright?”
The huddled form was wrapped in a thick cloak, though a few strands of black hair escaped from the hood. She clutched at a wooden bucket that reeked of sour vomit.
“Go away!”
After a second’s hesitation, though, her head jerked up. “Wait, Bernt? What are you doing here?”
When he saw her face, Bernt had to stop himself from flinching back. It was Elyn, and she looked terrible. Her face was haggard with deep dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was disheveled and skin looked sickly pale, nearly translucent. He hadn’t seen the half-elf, or most of his adventurer friends, in over a month.
“What?” Bernt said, confused. “What are you doing here? What happened to you? Did the others come, too?”
“No,” she replied, letting her head fall back against another crate behind her. “They’re taking a break over winter. They have other jobs to do, and they can afford it, regardless. But there’s not a lot of work for bards in Halfbridge right now, after the fighting. Nobody has money for entertainers, and every desperate refugee in Halfbridge is flooding the guild, desperate to make a few silvers to feed their families. All the local quests are gone the moment they're posted, even the dangerous ones. I can’t afford to sit on my hands until the spring thaw.”
“Right,” Bernt said. “That makes sense. I got picked as one of the legitimators – the one for Torvald, the Ruzinian.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
He hadn’t really considered what would happen to someone in Elyn’s position now. Most of his adventurer friends had other jobs. Sort of. He couldn’t validate Oren’s thievery as a job, even in his head. But Syrah was a consecrated priest, and Furin worked as a part-time smith in the new Crafter’s Quarter. Therion was rich…
“Wouldn’t the others have helped you out until a better quest came along?” Bernt asked carefully. “I mean, it’s pretty clear you don’t like traveling on boats…”
“Therion, you mean,” Elyn said, her miserable expression twisting into something faintly annoyed. “He offered, sure. Elves are practically allergic to sailing, and it’s not much better for me. But no. I don’t need charity like that in a relationship. It’s not healthy.” The half-elf stopped for a moment, going pale and breathing heavily over the bucket before letting out a ragged burp. “You have to stand on your own feet,” she grated, “or you might find that you can’t walk away anymore. Dangerous, for a bard especially.”
Bernt nodded. He could understand that attitude. Therion was a good person, and he tried, but he just didn’t know. How could he? When you were in need, all gifts came with strings attached. Some were meant kindly, but that didn’t mean the strings weren’t there – just that no one was pulling on them. It had taken him a long time to accept that it was worth it to accept help anyway, sometimes. Still, he would never fault someone for being wary.
“Hey,” Elyn said, looking left and right. “If you’re here with all those stuffy old priests, where’s Jori? You didn’t leave her in Halfbridge by herself, did you? I haven’t seen her in forever!”
“Ah, no.” Bernt said carefully. “That’s kind of a long story, actually. Did you hear the rumors about her dragging Nuros back to the hells?”
She shook her head. “No… what? What are you talking about?”
Bernt gave her a skeptical look. How could a bard have missed a rumor like this? Sensing his confusion, Elyn shook her head and continued. “I’ve been away. I went to visit my mother early in the siege. Figured it would be a good time to be gone. I only got back two days before the boat cast off. Barely managed to get the quest and pack. There wasn't time to catch up on all the latest gossip."
“Oh.” Bernt said. “Well, then I guess I have a story to tell you. Why don’t I help you back to the others and I can fill you in.”
Elyn frowned at him. “What others?”
***
Bernt helped Elyn toward the stern of the boat where he introduced her to the rest of the group. She nodded shallowly to each of them, still clinging miserably to her bucket. Nirlig, pleased to make the acquaintance of a real adventurer with ranks, kindly offered her a small bag of peppermint tea, which was apparently supposed to relieve nausea.
“My mother packed up enough herbs for me to supply an apothecary, and I didn’t have the heart to fight her over it,” he explained. “They’re mostly meant for tea – it’s a cultural thing.”
Considering all the things Lin could do with her teas, Bernt was curious to see it work. Pulling out his teapot once more, he brewed some up for the sick bard.
As it turned out, it worked – at least in the sense that Elyn now sat in a miserable heap holding her cup of tea rather than the bucket. It wasn’t an enormous improvement, but the half-elf made her appreciation clear, drinking one cup after another as if hoping to boost the effect. By the time they arrived in Fergefield, Bernt had managed to catch Elyn up on what had happened to both himself and Jori during and since the battle.
“They sent Jori to the hells?!” she cried, aghast. “Those monsters – she didn’t even do anything wrong! She was helping people. What’s going to happen to her little interns?”
The genuine outrage and dismay in her voice tugged on Bernt's own emotions. It felt oddly cathartic. Many of his friends had sympathized, and a few had offered help, but they hadn’t really understood. Even those who might have, like the Underkeepers who had worked with Jori every day, had treated her banishment like something regrettable, but also inevitable.
It was personal for Elyn, and her reaction resonated with the anger that had been simmering in Bernt’s chest over the entire affair for weeks. He wanted to tell her about the familiar bond and the portal, but he stopped himself, clenching his jaw. The others were his friends, and he could probably talk to them now that they'd left Halfbridge behind. But Uriah… well, he had a problem with demons, and he clearly didn’t care that Jori had been fighting on their side. Bernt would have to get the man's measure before saying anything in front of him.
“Josie is in Teres, suing the Solicitors on her behalf,” he told her instead. “She thinks she might be able to argue that they’re not allowed to deport a government employee.”
Elyn shook her head at that. “Solicitors? I don’t know, Bernt. That could take forever, if it works at all.” She scowled pensively, before looking at the others in the group, and then back at Bernt, before adding, in a careful tone, “We should come up with some other ideas, for when we get back.”
"I'm sure it'll work out," Torvald replied with a reassuring smile. "Josie's very smart. If she says she can get Jori back, then she can."
Uriah raised an eyebrow with a frown, but he didn’t say anything.
Once the boat was moored at the city’s docks, they helped her down to the pier and let her catch her breath for a minute as the others disembarked and began moving into the city. One of the other priests, an older woman named Surin, stopped to tell Torvald where they were going to be staying.
“Ah.” Torvald said, shaking his head. “No, thanks. I’ll join you tomorrow morning for our departure with my legitimator at the south gate. The goddess has a task for me here, and I doubt I’ll make it back to the city before night.”
Surin frowned at him, but then shrugged. “Ruzinia always does work her people to the bone. Never saw the appeal, myself. You should take some of the guards along, make them earn their coins. They're here for our safety – that includes yours. We’ll see you in the morning, alright?”
Uriah watched the priestess go with a dead expression before sighing, mumbling to himself so quietly that Bernt could barely make it out. “Well. Honest work, at least, right?”
Nirlig turned to Torvald, clearly excited. “You have a quest for us? What is it? Why didn't you tell us before?”
The paladin shifted uncomfortably. “Oh. No, I mean, you don’t have to come – the call was for me. Bernt only has to go because he’s my legitimator.”
Elyn, now looking like a completely different person with her skin returned to her usual shade and standing tall, strapped a small backpack on and started walking, waving them along. “Come on! We’re all going. Can’t let a bunch of green first-rankers get themselves killed on their first day outside.”
“Hey, wait!” Torvald said. “You don’t even know where to go.”
Elyn turned around, walking backwards and pointing to her left. “That way! There’s a bakery by the west gate with the best cinnamon buns in the entire country. First Lesson: Never break into your travel rations when there’s real food to be had!”
Nirlig slapped Bernt on the shoulder and followed, already digging in his pockets for loose change. His pockets jingled heavily. Nirlig, as they'd all learned, had a phoenix's luck when it came to dice.
Bernt was sure Elyn's bakery wouldn’t measure up to a proper cabbage wrap – he wasn’t really much for sweet food – but it did sound like something he should at least try. Besides, Bernt needed a minute to drop into the Mages' Guild to notify Iriala of their arrival. This would buy him a little time.
He exchanged a glance with Torvald and shrugged. The paladin sighed in defeat, and they followed, trailing a stoic-looking Uriah behind them.