“You seem as if you feel sadness at my father’s passing, but you never knew him.”
“I only sympathize with you,” he replied. “Seeing you now takes me back to the death of my teacher and how I felt, though it seems long ago.”
She turned to the improvised coffin. “Yet you’ve come to this city despite the dangers.”
“I carried on in her memory.” He joined her next to the crate. “At first, I sought vengeance against the one who killed her, but now, I see we must go beyond that. To end the war and prevent countless others from dying over a lie, that is a cause worth fighting for.”
She nodded. “My father would’ve liked you, I think.”
“Why?”
“It’s not because he would have agreed with you; that’s for sure. No, I think he might have enjoyed the debate.”
“He would’ve disagreed with what I’ve said?”
Looking at her father’s face, she formed a smile beneath her tears. “I don’t think so, but he wouldn’t have let you know that. He was the type to argue the unpopular end of any disagreement.”
“What about you?” He met her gaze when she turned. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath and stared into the coffin. “Goodnight, Father. See you in the morning.” She held her hair back, leaned over, and kissed Pembry’s forehead.
“Take care of him,” she said, turning and walking to the door. “You know, it doesn’t seem real. I keep telling myself that he’ll come back, that he’ll come through the door and give me a big hug, but he won’t-he can’t. Take care of my da, Lae.”
Once Valyrie was gone, Laedron gazed into the wooden box and sighed. How many more innocents will lie dead by the time we’re done?Far too many. He walked to the dilapidated stone altar, placed his tome upon it, and flipped through the pages. Thankfully, he’d become so skilled at reading Zyvdredi texts that he no longer needed the book Mathias had given him. Though he still had trouble with a few of the less common words, he could derive their meanings without the need of a manual.
He held his scepter above the crate and chanted slowly. Black wisps dripped from the ruby at the tip of the rod down to Pembry’s body. The wisps danced and coiled freely through the air like ink dropped into a pool of water. He held it until only ashes remained. He gathered Pembry’s ashes into a bronze urn, then moved the crate to the floor. He carefully placed the urn at the center of the stone slab where the coffin had been and took his spell book from the altar. After one last glance at the urn, he returned upstairs.
When he reached the hallway, he noticed the door to Valyrie’s room was closed, and he prayed silently for the Creator to watch over her and guide her during her time of mourning. Remembering how he felt when Ismerelda had been killed, he decided to leave Valyrie be. He could only imagine how it must’ve felt to see her father killed before her very eyes-a feeling which likely would not have been matched even if they had been tortured by Piers and his men.
“Might I have a word?” Brice asked, snapping Laedron out of his thoughts.
Brice led Laedron into his room, then closed the door behind them. “I wanted to ask if you would mind if I trained with Caleb?”
Laedron raised an eyebrow. “Training?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about things. I’m not as big as Marac, and I’m not as smart as you-”
“Don’t put yourself down.”
Brice grinned. “I just want to make the most of my abilities, you see? I helped my parents in the loom, and I’ve always been handy with a needle. Such work takes nimbleness and precision.”
“So… Caleb is a tailor?”
“No, not at all.” Brice sighed, seeming frustrated. “I saw him practicing with locks a little while ago, and he showed me some of the basics. I was thinking maybe I could learn from him. Maybe that would be a useful skill to have.”
Laedron smiled. “Useful indeed. Very well, but don’t forget to practice your swordsmanship, too. We must always be ready for a fight.”
Opening the door, Brice bobbed his head. “Thanks.”
“Get some rest,” Laedron said on his way through the door. “Tomorrow will come sooner than we expect.”
Joining Marac in the common room, Laedron took a seat at the table, put down his spell book, and sipped from the cup he had been given earlier. “How do you feel about all this?”
Marac looked up from sharpening his sword. “Dangerous, but isn’t everything we do?”
“Perhaps.” The glints of candlelight on the blade drew Laedron’s eye. “It would seem we will be splitting up for a while. Jurgen and Valyrie, Brice and Caleb, and you and me.”
“Brice and who?” Marac was busy sharpening again.
“Piers’s man, the one I punched.”
“Ah, what’s the thimble doing with him?”
Laedron took another sip. “Learning of lock picking.”
“At least he’ll be making himself useful.” Marac held up the sword and inspected the edge. “About time.”
“Why are you so hard on him?”
“He’s soft.” Marac put the weapon on the table and took a swig from a cup. “He hasn’t had a hard day’s work in his entire life, and it shows.”
“Neither have I. Does it show in me, too?”
“It’s different with you, Lae. Your ma taught you to be strong and persevere, but Brice’s parents had resolved to see him working a loom for the rest of his days.”
“No matter. It might take more time, but I’m confident he’ll come around.”
“That makes one of us,” Marac said. “I’m not so convinced.”
“Give him time.” Laedron stood, grabbed his spell book, and patted Marac on the shoulder. “Apparently, we have plenty of it.”
“Lae?” Marac called out before Laedron entered the hall.
“Yes?”
“The wand and the scepter, what purpose do they serve?” Marac glanced at his sword. “Simply tools of the trade?”
“Yes,” Laedron said, then paused to consider a more thorough explanation. “To manifest our spells, we require three things-concentration, a focus, and an incantation. The wand, with its intricate carvings, sturdy weight, and rough finish, gives something real to focus upon.”
“And priests? They use staffs?”
“Or rings, like Jurgen’s.” Laedron grinned. He was glad Marac was showing interest in his craft. “Goodnight, my friend.”
After entering his room and closing the door, Laedron put the scepter on the nightstand, then placed the tome in his pack. He saw his practice wand poking through the flap on the side. As he traced the intricate carvings running deep along the shaft, he remembered how, during his training, he couldn’t reproduce an illusion of his wand. Then, he recalled the powerful image he had conjured from his memories, his happy days with Marac and his sister Laren by the old oak in Reven’s Landing. Before going to bed, Laedron knelt and appealed to the Creator for Ismerelda’s soul to arrive safely in the heavens.
2
The morning light drove away his nightmares, and Laedron opened his eyes to sunlight dimmed by the foggy stained glass in the narrow window of his room. The hazy yellow image suggested the figure of a holy man of some kind, probably a Heraldan saint whom he neither recognized, nor deemed important. To think, an entire world littered with such icons. Well, I suppose there are worse ways to waste glass. At least it’s pretty to look at. He snatched the scepter from the table, then headed to the common room.
Caleb was busy stirring a cauldron suspended from an iron hook in the fireplace. The scent of a fine stew drifted into Laedron’s nostrils, exciting his empty belly. He wouldn’t have thought of eating anything the day before; his near miss upon the executioner’s table and his sympathy for Valyrie’s situation had been enough to ward off any hunger pangs. Sitting at the table, he eyed the clean bowl in front of his chair and waited as patiently as he could.