Soon the guardsman returned with a shorter, slighter man in tow. The newcomer wore royal blue silk trimmed with golden thread. Silver streaked his yellow hair at the temples. He carried a wooden staff, darkly-stained, which tapered to a four-toed, black-nailed claw clutching a faceted ruby. His lined face appeared friendly. He confronted Larson and Gaelinar with raised brows, and his narrow features framed a tight-lipped smile. "The guard tells me you've brought a rankstone."
Larson uncovered the sapphire.
Ketel spoke a heavy, unrecognizable syllable. In response, Silme's rankstone darkened to black. Ketel raised his palm, his eyes fixed on the gemstone in Larson's hand. Gradually, it took on a weak, purplish glow. Larson looped his fingers about the stone, uncertain whether he should allow the sorcerer to manipulate Silme's life aura. Before he could whisk it back into his pocket, Ketel dropped his hand, and the light winked out as if choked.
"It's a rankstone," Ketel confirmed. "Sapphire-rank." He seemed impressed. "Who sent you?"
Larson returned the gemstone to his pocket. "Lady Silme." He did not bother to clarify the term "sent."
"We've come to speak with Karrold," Gaelinar added impatiently.
Ignoring the sentries on either side, Ketel nodded agreement. "And indeed you shall." He ended the sentence with a low-pitched sound, and the wrought iron gates swung outward, as if of their own accord. The guards stepped aside, grips rigid on their spears. The smaller one shifted nervously from one booted foot to the other.
Gaelinar and Larson walked through the entry way, and the gates inched closed behind them.
Ketel leaned on his staff, eyeing Larson's knives and the swords, shurikens, and less familiar weapons which girded Gaelinar's waist. "Before we go on, as a show of good will, I must ask you to leave your weapons here."
Larson hesitated, the memory of Gaelinar's threat in the pine clearing still strong within him. If he would kill a friend for merely touching his sword… He did not dare to finish the thought. Even as it came to his mind, he saw the larger guard reaching for Gaelinar's katana with reckless boldness.
Larson cringed away from the inevitable combat.
Gaelinar's features remained placid. He waited, motionless, until the sentry's hand nearly touched his sash. Then, fast as a ferret, he slapped the guard's wrist away and dodged aside. He glared at the younger man, his voice deadly calm. "In my country, the value of a katana is judged on its ability to cleanly decapitate a man in one stroke. Touch it, and you'll receive a demonstration."
The sentries raised their spears, the sharp, steel points leveled at Gaelinar. The three men stood in a silent triangle of threat. No one seemed willing to make the first strike.
"We've come in peace. No need for violence." Larson sidled beyond spear range and glanced at the sorcerer for aid.
Ketel did not disappoint him. "At ease. These men carry a sapphire rankstone. That means either a powerful Dragonmage holds them in her complete trust or they killed her. In either case, I don't think the two of you can stand against them."
Obediently, the sentries backed away and lowered their weapons.
Ketel faced Gaelinar and spoke soothingly, as if to a frightened child. "We'll return your weapons after your audience with Karrold, I promise. It's just a show of good will."
Gaelinar remained crouched, his gaze still fixed on the bigger guard. "And how will you show your good will? I suppose Karrold's guards and sorcerers will leave their spears and staves outside the school grounds? I've tired of nonsense. Either we see Karrold as we are, or we take the rankstone elsewhere and our business into our own hands."
Larson chewed his lip, aware he, alone, understood the consequences of Gaelinar's words. In order to find and slay a sapphire-rank Dragonmage to replace Silme, we would need free run of the school grounds. That would require us to kill every guard or sorcerer who tried to stop us. The thought reawakened the doubts he had quelled in Hel. It makes no sense. How can killing another magician restore Silme's life? Larson addressed his own question with another. Why do I find that any stranger than Ketel's opening and closing a gate with a thought, a talking wolf who can haunt my dreams, or a god trapped within a sword?
Ketel turned his gaze upon Larson, then the spearmen, and back to Gaelinar. "Very well. You may carry whatever you have to Karrold." He added, as if in apology, "But we cannot grant a private audience as long as you insist on bringing swords."
Larson spoke before Gaelinar could open his mouth. "That's fine. The more Dragonrank who know Silme's dilemma, the more likely one will come forward to help her."
Gaelinar relaxed.
Ketel gave a slow, sad nod. "So Silme is in trouble?"
Larson found the question a gross understatement. "As bad as it comes."
"We must see the schoolmaster," Gaelinar said for what seemed like his hundredth repetition.
This time, Ketel responded to Gaelinar's insistence. "Follow me carefully, and, for your sake, don't stray from my path. I, for one, want to hear what you have to say to Karrold." He trotted toward one of the gardens and the palatial structure at the center of the compound. "Silme is a talented sorceress and an avid teacher. I credit her with my promotion from semi-precious. There aren't many things I wouldn't do for her."
Would you die for her? Larson wondered as he and Gaelinar followed Ketel, the spearmen in single file at their backs. As they passed through a garden artistically decorated with fountains and beds of soil in animal shapes, Larson felt smothered beneath a sudden avalanche of uncertainty. Could Ketel substitute his life for Silme, or must we find another sapphire-rank? Does it matter that one is male, the other female? Exactly what does this exchange require? Larson scarcely noticed the withering vegetation of the Dragonrank garden. He recalled Hel's words, indelibly burned into his memory. ' 'To bring her back to Midgard, you would need to open a place for her… I have told you all you need to know. "
They passed a patch of dirt sculpted into the form of a bear. Emaciated, brown stalks stood in a line, each bowed to the ground by a single, plump, orange fruit. But the significance of the magical harvest was lost on Larson. Open a place for her. What does that mean? Gaelinar believes we have to find a person of "Silme's means and bent willing to take her place in Hel. " But just how like Silme must her alternate be?
Oblivious to Larson's concerns, Ketel led his visitors through a stone archway. The view beyond jolted Larson from his thoughts. A two-story building lay before them, stately as an ancient castle. Cut blocks of white granite formed each wall. A portico set off the arched doorway.
A single, crenelated tower rose from the center of the ceiling. A sculpted dragon, lifelike in its clarity, curled about the base of the tower. Fangs jutted from its open mouth. Its tail hung over the building to merge with the stonework of the colonnade.
Larson stared in slack-mouthed awe. Since his arrival in Old Scandinavia, he had seen no architecture more complicated than an ivy-covered, decaying temple and the granite wall around the Dragonrank grounds. Yet this structure appeared flawless. Though smaller, it stood as grand as any palace in his own school textbooks. A pair of sentries, dressed like the spearmen at Larson's back, stood motionless as carvings before the wooden door.
Ketel brought Larson and Gaelinar directly to the portal. Without a word, one of the guardsmen opened the panel, and the three passed through into a hallway more splendid than the outside of the building. Shelves lined every wall, garishly covered with figurines of glass or pewter interrupted by stretches of leather-covered books. Between the shelves stood mute sentries, each with a spear and sword and a matched twin against the opposite wall. Lush, crimson carpet lined the parquet floor, and gold filigree wound like veins through the polished walls.