"There's another boy being put through the Questor Ordeal, Kargan,” Dalquist said with dread certainty. “I'd guess they're talking about Chag Jura-he's a Neophyte I took for Interpretation of Lore a couple of weeks ago. Thorn-Prelate Thorn-must have singled him out for special attention."
"I'd guess the note I received from Senior Magemaster Crohn has something to do with that,” the elder Magemaster said. “I must confess, I didn't read it. Politics makes me weary. Still, I bet you didn't know this nasty little conclave was going on yesterday, did you?"
Kargan's offhand tone showed that he had little idea of the torment that young Chag might suffer before-if-he ever became a Questor. Dalquist felt a bond with the Neophyte that few ordinary mages would ever understand; especially if the polite, pleasant youngster's treatment was anything like that accorded to Dalquist's friend, Grimm.
"I take your point, Magemaster,” Dalquist said, sighing. “We're in my memories, but out of them, so to speak. My act of remembering takes us to the correct place and time, but we're not a part of it. We're free to roam around, and see and hear whatever's going on."
"Exactly! So, if you'd just take yourself back to the moment when you knocked on Prioress Lizaveta's door, we should be able to see just what happened."
Dalquist nodded, trying to put thoughts of Chag Jura out of his head. He closed his eyes and remembered…
When he opened them again, he was standing behind another Dalquist, as the door to the Prioress’ chamber opened.
This is it! he thought. At last; now we'll get to the bottom of the matter!
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Chapter 18: Erik's Doubts
Shakkar felt himself sinking lower in the sky, as the ground cooled in the waning light of the dusk sun. With senses that only another flying creature could appreciate, he felt his dangling, human burden sapping his lift and burdening him with drag. His back muscles screamed, and he knew he could not remain aloft for long. A strong opposing wind did not help matters, either.
"Sergeant Erik!” he yelled, his wings feeling leaden and stiff. “I must set down soon. What do your glass eyes tell you?"
"They're called ‘binoculars', Lord Seneschal. And they tell me there's a city coming up. From my maps and charts, this must be Brianston."
With hope giving his wings new strength, the demon flew on until he too saw the conurbation. Magnificent it was, with splendid silver spires and crystal castles bordering gold streets, and even Shakkar felt impressed at the abilities of humans to create such wonders. Demon architecture, he had come to realise, was dull and unimaginative in comparison to even the most ordinary of human edifices. The buildings of this city were far from ordinary.
"Impressive, isn't it, Lord Seneschal?” Erik yelled. “I think we should make our way to the central plaza. There are a number of folk about. It looks as if they're having some sort of fiesta or party."
On the margins of the city, Shakkar banked his wings and began to descend. Ten feet above the ground, he released the sergeant, who rolled with practiced ease as he landed. In one smooth motion, he was on his feet as the demon's clawed feet contacted the earth.
"Looks deserted, Lord Seneschal.” The sergeant gestured towards the empty streets.
Shakkar nodded. “I presume they are all at the fiesta of which you spoke, Sergeant."
Despite the grandeur of their surroundings, Shakkar felt a little unnerved by the eerie stillness. This seemed like a ghost town, and he much preferred noise and bustle around him. However, the distant sounds of revelry soon reached his ears, growing louder as the man and the demon drew nearer to the town square.
"Not all,” Erik said, pointing to an approaching figure, a white-haired man dressed in flowing crimson robes. “We've got company."
Shakkar saw a broad grin on the old man's face.
"At least it looks like someone's pleased to see us, Lord Seneschal,” Erik muttered
Shakkar grunted, “Or he knows something we do not."
"Greetings, travellers!” the old man cried. “We do not have many visitors to our fair city, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to Brianston.
"My, you're a size, aren't you?” he said, eyeing up Shakkar.
"I am Shakkar, a being from the nether regions, mortal,” the demon rumbled. “I bid you greetings, likewise. This is my companion, Sergeant Erik."
"Shakkar, Sergeant Erik, I bid you most welcome. I am Revenant Murar, an elder of this city, and its traditional Guide and Protector. May I ask what brings you to Brianston?"
"We seek information concerning a party which may have passed through here recently, Revenant Murar.” Shakkar kept his tone civil. “A party of four warriors and three Guild Mages. The smallest warrior is of the elven race, and the eldest may be wearing a green uniform similar to that of Sergeant Erik. Do you know anything of them?"
Murar rubbed his white beard, his brow furrowed. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Three Guild Mages!” he said, whistling. “I'm sure I would have remembered such a notable party, Shakkar, and I make it a point to greet all our visitors. No, I'm sorry to tell you that your friends have not passed through here."
"Perhaps somebody else may have seen them passing through,” the Seneschal suggested, “while you were otherwise engaged. Perhaps we might consult a few of the other citizens?"
"Impossible, I'm afraid, Lord Shakkar.” The Revenant's expression suggested the deepest sorrow and anguish. “We are in the middle of our five-yearly ‘Festival of Life'. It is a religious celebration, which is closed to non-citizens. In any case, even when I am unable to greet a party of travellers in person, another Revenant will inform me of all movements through the city. Visitors rarely pass through here, as I told you.
"Still, you are free to roam through Brianston as you will, but please take care not to disturb the revelries in the town square. If you require rooms for the night, I can direct you to suitable lodgings on the edge of town. We maintain a skeleton staff in one of the hostelries, even in mid-Festival."
"Why do you keep on staff for visitors who never come?” Erik asked.
Murar shrugged. “It is an old tradition, kept over from the days when Brianston was a major centre of trade, Sergeant. We are a thoughtful folk, and we do not abandon our customs lightly."
"May we wait until the Festival of Life has finished?” Shakkar asked. “Perhaps someone was remiss in their duties, and he or she forgot to inform you."
The old man spread his arms, his palms uppermost. “That would be most irregular. If such slackness should come to my attention, you may be sure that the culprit would be severely punished.
"The Festival will last another month, I'm afraid,” he added, retaining his cheerful smile. “Still, as I said, you are free of our town, except for the central area. If you wish to tarry in Brianston, you are more than welcome, subject to that single caveat."
The demon's tail thrashed in uncertainty; Murar appeared helpful and open, and Shakkar had no reason to doubt his words. He felt cold, unfamiliar tendrils of confusion multiplying within him: if he could not obtain news of Grimm's passage through this apparently central town, his search might prove fruitless.
"Thank you for your time, Revenant Murar,” Erik said, filling an uncomfortable silence. “You've been most helpful, and you may be sure that we will respect your customs to the full. We're both tired and hungry after a long journey, so if you'll be as kind as to direct us to this inn, we'll be on our way. I'm sure things will be a lot clearer after a peaceful night's sleep and a good meal."
"An excellent suggestion, Sergeant Erik,” the Revenant crowed. “Just follow this side road to the east for thirty minutes or so, and turn left at the fork in the road. The ‘Wanderer's Rest’ is quarter of a mile from there, on your right. You can't miss it.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a central role to play in our festivities."