The Siren & the Sacred Lie, Chapter 4

THE SIREN & THE SACRED LIE

Chapter 4:  The Storm Before Supper

         287 warped and mangled steps rose between Oashazeer and master Zenith's voluminous library. In his hands, he balanced two cups of boiled tea leaves; sprinkled with ginger and a dollop of honey-- the warlock's favorite morning potion. Cold, damp air spiraled up the tower, so Oashazeer needed to move fast, lest the brew lose its steam.

         He reached the top of the stairs without stopping, not even to steal a breath. Striding through the arched entryway, he saw the shelves racked with old books, a desk swallowed by ruffled manuscripts, a deserted chair. Where did he go? 

         Oashazeer stretched the collar of his robe, his neck hot with frustration. As he stomped back down the 287 stairs, he weighed all the time that had been wasted since the Arcaven men left. Should all the world's fortune deliver Hidelwine safely with lord Dwennon at his side, what will he say when he sees we've readied no armies, fashioned no arms, no battlements, nor ships to sail the shide men to war?

         After bringing the tea back to a boil, the sorcerer found master Zenith in his other favorite room. It might have been called many things-- The witchery, the apothecarium or alchemical laboratory. Instead, the wizards had affectionately named it the “haze mill.” There, the tables brimmed with glass speakers and filters. Encircling the room were shelves stocked with natural herbs and bewitching elements of prodigious variety-- rare blooms, weeds and mushrooms from all the five kingdoms. In the middle of it all, the warlock stood tinkering with something or other, his back to the door.

         “You decided to spend a morning away from your library.”

         “Oh...” master Zenith replied, startled. “Yes, I... I'm working on something. A foolish proposition, likely. But I suppose all enchantments deserve some bit of testing.”

         Another vague explanation. In recent weeks, that had just been the way of it. Once, the two had been dear friends. Perhaps their minds were more open back then, and their tongues a bit freer. But with every year that passed since their failed siege of the capital, the master arcanists had kept their dealings ever closer to the chest.

         This conversation will require some massaging. Oashazeer knew it was better not to poke at master Zenith straight away. For his was a warmth oft kindled from damp wood. “Here. I brought you a cup of white tea. The way you like it. One for myself, too. I thought we might have a chat.”

         The warlock continued tinkering until the silence became too apparent. “What's on your mind then?”

         “Hidelwine. His men and women. The Arcaven... You've no intention of returning to the Island Kingdoms. Do you, brother?”

         “Brother? It's been a long time since you called me that.”

         “I had hoped we could speak openly. As brothers do... As you and I once did.” Oashazeer entwined his fingers as if beginning a prayer. In his gentlest voice, he reminded master Zenith, “You gave a promise to the men of the Arcaven. You granted them our finest ship. But still, we've discussed nothing of their return.”

         “This already? Seems to me they just left.”

         “Master, it's been 26 days.”

         The number came as a surprise, but in the heart of the Godstorm, the days often passed without measure. “Well, it may yet be weeks or even months before Hidelwine fulfills his promise.”

         “Or never, I'll grant you. But if Hidelwine arrives with your prisoner and a host of rebel magi at his back, he will expect another siege upon the capital. A war, master Zenith. Will you not give him one?”

         “Please,” the warlock sneered. “That I did not promise. We needn't declare war to make a frivolous claim to the throne. Nor even to slay the emperor, himself... Oashazeer, you know what I want. If I can avoid spilling blood,” he said, meaning his own, “and have the ember laid in my lap, then all the world away can fall into the oceans for my part in it."          

         “But you made a vow. You said, 'Your will shall be bound to mine.' You'll recall that Hidelwine's will is to coronate you as emperor and serve in your court.”

         “Yes, well... I never said his ambitions needn't be curbed. Arcane power begets no right to ruling power, Oashazeer. Even Hidelwine will accept this truth."

         "Will he?" I've never known you to concede there are limits to your magic. His memory then strayed further into the past. You were a great leader once. A ruler in the making. Oashazeer's prodding was not going as planned. It was time to try something else. A different approach. “Perhaps I've gotten ahead of myself. Tell me truly. Have you placed much faith in these men? After all, their venture is... improbable.” To put it generously.

         “Of course it is,” master Zenith replied, stoic. “But what's the harm in having a little hope? Be a welcome change, would it not?”

         “The harm," Oashazeer underlined, "lies in hope's seduction. In its cruelty. Haven't we shared a lifetime of disappointment already? Of course, you most of all,” he noted as if a correction.

         “So you've come to question our war planning, and with the same breath, you would then pose it meaningless... Hidelwine believes he can succeed. For me, that's enough to harbor a small bit of hope.” The warlock strolled away from his experiment, toward the wellspring in the chamber ahead. “I spent a long time being angry, you know. Too many years dispirited, without purpose on this fog of an island... Oashazeer, I've been doing a lot of reading.”

         “You've hardly left your library in days.”

         "Well, the ancient priests, the elders and chantry magi-- they inscribed very little on divined relics, I'm afraid. But time and again, through hundreds of years of text, I've encountered one kindred message over and over.”

         “And what is that?” Oashazeer replied, anticipating a mawkish answer.

         “The good men write that hope is the finest virtue of humanity. Not wisdom, not power or humility. More constructive than strength. More soothing than compassion. Ceaseless, it compels the will despite the failures of our past. To wish and to strive and to struggle-- to hope is to be human... Tell me. Are we no longer human, brother?”

         “We are... Perhaps something more.” Oashazeer grinned. He considered his friend's motivation, charmed as it may have been. “Ah, might be you're right. Let us have hope... as the good men do.”

         Does that grin bear empathy or mockery, I wonder.

         The grin flattened as he wriggled to his left, where he could better gauge the warlock's reaction. He was going to fish out an answer one way or another. “Then have you decided? If Hidelwine returns with lord Dwennon --or prisoner Dwennon, I should say-- and he still possesses the divined ember once promised to you, will you betray Hidelwine's ambition to usurp the crown? To supplant those who exiled us?”

         “Hidelwine's ambitions, or for that matter, your ambitions are not my burden. At any rate, the ember of Gwynneth is no weapon for war, despite what Hidelwine thinks of it. I'd be a dratted fool to bring her back only to hazard my own life.”

         “Yes, of course.” With a cold austerity, Oashazeer set his hook. “But will you know how to wield it? Can a divined ember truly give life to the fallen?”

         Master Zenith's memory then chased away the past twenty years. “This I know better than anyone. It was given to bestow life. Not to destroy it, as the ignorant have judged. The Empire would deem any power but their own as a provocation, as plunder stolen and abused. That somehow, they bear the only right to possess of it. This is why they hid lord Dwennon away. He frightens them. For his is a power they cannot govern. But here, at the fountain of Tychon's vengeance, I will find a way to wield the ember as it was intended. Gwynneth owes me that debt.”

         Yes. He's found something, Oashazeer decided.

         At the mouth of the fountain, the wizards stood in a prolonged silence, soaking in the ethereal haze. The well was a natural, albeit peculiar formation. Jagged stones jutted from the floors as crystal teeth uprooted from a cave. The pointed slabs rose waste high, forming a lip around the font of energy which sprang from within. For many years, the men had observed and absorbed from it, deriving a greater strength for their magic. To the rest of the world, the well would have seemed an ominous vestige. But to Master Zenith and Oashazeer, it provided a sense of wonder, a subject of endless study. And a power unlike any other. The chamber surrounding them was constructed, in part, to protect their discovery-- the fountain they named "Tychon's spout".

         “Banished from their kingdom for practicing witchcraft, only to find the cradle of all magic right here in our prison.”

         “A comical irony, isn't it?”

         The warlock's gaze remained steady. For a long while, he stared pensively into the well. “What do you suppose is down there?” he asked for what seemed like the hundredth time.

         “After all these years, I still haven't the faintest idea.” But Oashazeer was not without his theories. “The well must be connected with the chasm in some way. Beyond that I… I shouldn't guess.”

         Suddenly, heavy footsteps plodded in from the hallway behind them. As the figure entered from the shadow, he bowed his head, then spoke in a deep, quiet rasp.

         “Please. Forgive me, masters.”

         “What is it, Gawkliev?”

         “The mage apprentice has requested your attention.”

         In the weeks since his allies abandoned him, the apprentice hadn't asked for a thing. The masters shrugged. “Curious... Bring him in.”

         So Gawkliev shuffled back into the hall. In his own boorish way, he smiled and assured the man, “Calm yourself. They've no mind to hurt you.”

         But when he entered the chamber, the apprentice was still trembling. He then lowered his head and clasped his hands. Nervously, he knelt.

         “Get up, Lavernon. This is no court, and we are no lords.”

         “And Gauwkliev is no lady,” Oashazeer quipped, snickering.

         “M-mm-master,” Lavernon stuttered. “Please forgive my interruption... but... the Wind Shark... Something's happened...”

         “Well, spit it out. What is it?”

         “In the night... the storms… A bolt of lightning struck the mast...”

        “...Aaand?” Oashazeer urged after an awkward wait.

        “Th-the mast is splintered in half, and the sails caught fire too. But the rain drowned the flames before they spread far beneath. The deck and hull may be preserved, but I… I believe the ship's taking water… m-mmasters.”

         “I see,” the warlock acknowledged. “It was bright of you to tell us. We'll see it repaired.”

         “What were you doing by the inlet in the middle of a storm? Have you gone mad?”

         “Oh. I wasn't outside, master Oashazeer. I saw it happen from the window. From the sitting room past my bed chamber.”

         “Trouble sleeping again, aye?”

         “Yy-yes, master Zenith.”

         Lavernon had spent scores of sleepless hours gazing out that sitting room window. Staring. Brooding. Lamenting I should not be here. Just before boarding The God Wind, Hidelwine presented him as a gift to Master Zenith-- a symbol of the union between the Arcaven magi and the exiled sorcerers of the forsaken lands. The offer blindsided the naive, then suddenly panicked Lavernon. “This is a great honor,” his archmage persuaded. “You are to stay behind as a token of my faith and the goodness in men. You are to serve them implicitly, however they wish. As you've always done for me. Remind them that not all denizens of the Island Continents oppose them. Rather, we should welcome those with their gift... with our gift. Once more, the realm shall become a haven for those touched by the haze.” The warlock needed only smile, and Gawkliev grew so excited he practically jumped. Ogarthorne, Shastine, and Ethan all complied, extending no more than pats on Lavernon's shoulder and cursory nods. They must have known, he figured. And none of them seem to care.

         As it was, he presumed little honor in staying behind. He felt nothing like a symbol of union. He felt abandoned. When lightning struck the mast of the Wind Shark, it was a symbol in itself. Without a ship, it was certain that he could never return home.

         Lavernon scampered back to his window to watch as the morning trudged on. Rain drizzled under the ever cloudy skies. But the gusts were calmer since the night's storm had passed. Intently, he looked on as one of the shide men climbed the Wind Shark's fractured mast. Every few feet, the agile figure braced the splintered wood with pliable copper plates. Below, Oashazeer meticulously inspected the decks and parts of the hull which rose above the still, inlet water. Three more of the half breeds labored by the shore, measuring and sawing repair planks and joists.

         

********************

        By midday, he finally obliged himself to fetching a plate of food. In the weeks since the others sailed away, Lavernon rarely worked up much of an appetite. A knot had taken residence of his belly where food was meant to go. Still, Gawkliev had persistently encouraged him to eat. On some days, he practically forced him to. The shide half breed no longer frightened the anxious Dravon Hill man. By now, his beastly appearance invoked a scarce feeling of comfort. And he'd remained just as affable and curious as the day the Arcaven men first arrived. What's more, he actually seemed to enjoy Lavernon's company. The toiling mage apprentice couldn't say that for many men (nor many women) he'd ever known.

         The other comfort Lavernon had found was in the beauty of the palace, itself. It was an extraordinary construct. The dark, imposing stonework was embellished with colorful mosaic tiles, gilded light fixtures and glass artworks of all variety. The grand hall was the crowning achievement of this beauty, where stained glass portraits and landscapes hung in frames from the vaulted plafond. There, Lavernon found the shide man tilting his head strangely in the center of the hall. Gawkliev gaped upwards, his hands fidgeting impatiently at his hips. By his foot, a rusty pail was positioned to capture a drip from above.

         “Ah, master apprentice. What can I do for you?”

         Lavernon had entered silently, or so he thought. Perhaps those beastly ears lend beastly keen hearing. “I was hoping you'd show me to some bread and ale, Gawkliev.”

         “Certainly.” But his view lingered on the huge candelabrum forty paces above his head.

         “What's the matter up there?”

         In his groveled voice, the half breed confided, “For longer than I can remember, those giant candles have burned. Every last wick, burning day and night for decades. But never has wax puddled over the edge and dripped onto this floor. I should climb up there to scoop it out, but...” he scratched his head, “...my ladder will have nothing to lean on, here in the middle of the hall.”

         It reminded Lavernon of a delivery he once made to the great fest house in Dravon Hill; when life was still hopeful, long before he'd taken a failing interest in sorcery. As a young lad, he often delivered goods for his father, a tool smithy who fashioned nails, pins, rivets and the like. When he entered the house, the men were hanging draperies from a crossing rafter near the roof-- preparations for the coming bazaar. Atop a shrewdly devised hook ladder, they gripped the narrow crossbar while a man on the floor held the ladder from swaying back and forth. The Autumngale bazaar will be coming soon, it occurred to him. Lavernon felt homesick then. For his first home, not Higherwere among the Arcaven men. Meekly, he offered, “I have an idea, Gawkliev.”

         “Oh? Let's hear it.”

         “We'll need two hooks. Iron or a heavy, solid wood will do. A hammer, rivets, a point chisel. Those and several feet of twine. Copper, bronze, iron. Whatever you've got.”

         “What's the idea then?”

         “Just bring the materials. I'll show you.”

         “We have all that down in the ship house... Bread's in the store pantry past the hearth and ale's in the cellar. Can you help yourself while I gather the tools?”

         

         Lavernon's finicky appetite was sated by the time Gawkliev returned. Together, they began rigging up the top of the ladder. It took them almost an hour to safely fasten the hooks, and with every teardrop of wax, the shide man had grown increasingly anxious.

         “Alright, up you go.”

         “Are you sure it will hold?”

         “The hooks are bound tight, and we've got a snug grip on the base rod up there. That candelabrum must weigh five thousand stones. Steady as'ye could hope for.”          

         “But are you sure the ladder will hold?”

         “Only one way to find out.” Lavernon chuckled as though he'd said something clever.

         “Oh, there are more than one, master apprentice. I could climb up there, or you do the climbing while I hold.”

         “No, no. It's not my duty to keep candle wax off the floor, is it?”

         And with that, Gawkliev snorted and hoisted his foot onto the first rung.

         Knees knocking and sweat dripping, the steward squealed a handful of times, much to the amusement of his gawking ladder-holder below. It was the most Lavernon had laughed since the Arcaven left Higherwere Bay. Even so, Gawkliev was able to scoop out enough wax to stop the dripping... for now. “I owe you one,” he said with a wry smile. After they lugged the heavy pails away from the hall, the two left about their separate ways for the afternoon.

         Lavernon retreated again to his sitting room. Spread over the table were the spell tomes and grimoires his masters had plucked from their libraries. He knew he should spend this time studying, that he'd never make progress otherwise. I wonder if he'll stop by to check on me today. In the beginning, Lavernon stomached visits from master Zenith every four or five hours. They reviewed lore books or rehearsed spell chants, but mostly, he attended questions about his time spent with the Arcaven. Shy as a scolded child, he stumbled through every answer. Even Lavernon recognized how immensely dull he'd sounded. Like everyone else, master Zenith eventually concluded his company was of little value, and soon after, his visits diminished. In fact, in recent days the warlock had seldom shown his face to anyone. It had fallen on master Oashazeer to tutor their so-named apprentice. But even Oashazeer's visits were few... which was just fine with Lavernon. No matter how deep he buried his head into those books, he never exhumed a fruitful passage or verse. Nothing that resulted in casting a proper spell. Sorcery just isn't for me. Or rather, I'm not for it. It was all too discouraging. I just want to go home.

         When he grew frustrated with lore books and spell tomes, Lavernon spent his time with another book. One that hadn't been chosen for his beginner's course in magic. Coincidentally, it was the same memoir archmage Hidelwine had thumbed through on the morning of his departure. Lavernon flipped back the leather binding and drew out his mark, peering around like he might get himself into some sort of trouble.

         An hour here, an hour there, he'd finished the first few chapters over a handful of tome-weary afternoons. 'The Orphan of Gwynneth' was a personal account; much detail paid to the author's childhood. So far, Lavernon had learned much about Viggo Enzore, the author's father. Viggo was a butcher's huntsman who could loose an arrow as fast as any man in Crescent Wood. Though his skill in archery was well known, he was never half as successful in developing meaningful friendships. I can relate to that, Lavernon had sighed. Viggo was a sullen, awkward man. Despite his surly reputation, at 19, he wrangled the affection of the nearby mason's daughter. Her name was Gesilia, and the two wed under the moonlight of Gwynneth in 2939. They had their first child, a boy, just eleven months later. They gave their boy a traditional Bassylian name, but in the years to come, the fables would christen him the “orphan of Gwynneth.”

         

        For an hour Lavernon read on, until the tale finally took an unfortunate turn. In 2954, the Crescent Wood monarchy suspended free hunting to all village men, deeming the land beyond their walls too deadly for lone huntsmen. After the ruling, only those appointed by the king's barons were to be compensated for stocking the butchers' shops and taverns. So Viggo filled out his papers and made his appeal. But in spite of his great talent, the hunter was not elected among the new falconers of Crescent Wood.

         “I suspect this will not end well,” Lavernon uttered. He'd been talking to himself more often of late. It comforted him to hear the sound of his own voice. The apprentice paused from his reading to look for a map, trying to recall what little he'd ever learned of Viggo's homeland. It took some searching, but eventually he found one under a matting of dusty scrolls. “There. Almost due south of here.” Crescent Wood Isle was a craggy, highland continent a hundred leagues across the stormy sea from Tychon's Palace. Explorers named the mountainous kingdom for the towering skyline of redwoods which had flourished there for centuries. The prickly pine leaves and even the bark of these soaring trees grew in the odd shape of a crescent. In time, logging the fallen among these forest monuments became a livelihood for many, serving traders and merchants from Bassylia to Maplewood. Make no mistake, this was hard work for a hardy people. To be raised among the natives of Crescent Wood was to grow as cold and rugged as the land, itself. And to be thought of as “surly” among these folk was practically an accomplishment. Hardened as they were by their labor, the cold, and the great beasts which stalked their wildlands, the people were just as devout to the chantry. Perhaps they needed to be. Almost 3000 years before the time of Viggo Enzore, it was Crescent Wood's ancestors who discovered the ancient Temple of Gwynneth. And it was they who heralded her testimony across all the realm.

         Lavernon's attention returned to his place in the memoir. “Goddess, help us.” The writer's plea gave him a chill. Though his father knocked at every door and answered every post, suitable work still eluded him. In fact, it seemed it was avoiding Viggo altogether. A stubborn man, he couldn't let go of his appeal for a falconer's title. “I'm a finer huntsman than all of them,” he resisted. But as the weeks passed and his stores emptied, he learned that talent was useless without opportunity. And for opportunity, it helped to have friends.

         The weeks turned to months until winter finally threatened. Viggo had already been jailed twice for sneaking into the woods in search of game. In Crescent Wood Township, the law was not open to negotiation or circumstance. What little work he could find became increasingly demeaning, if not outright repulsive. After a while, even those jobs deserted him, and the livelihood of his family fell into peril. In this time of great need, he asked his wife, his son and young daughter to place their faith in Gwynneth, the goddess of will and vitality. Before long, every evening became a seance of prayer. But still, the nights grew hungrier and ever more tearful. No sincerity of faith or urgency of prayer could put food on the table.

         “This memoir is turning quite sad.” I believe I've had enough to feel sad for of late. Lavernon bothered to place his mark before slinging the book shut. I suppose I shouldn't complain. Least I'm surrounded by plenty of food to fill my squeamish belly.

         A hammer then echoed from outside, so he rose from his chair and dragged his sleepy legs over to the window again. By this time, the Wind Shark's mast was repaired, and he watched as shide men drove nails into fresh planks aboard deck.

         With Lavernon's eyes on the inlet and his back to the door, Gawkliev was served an easy chance for revenge. Silently, the half breed snuck another step closer...

         “Master apprentice!”

         He blurted so loudly, he scared the poor man out of his wits. Lavernon might have jumped out the window had his legs not collapsed on him. Then came the laughter, a squall of howling racket.

         “You son of a...”

         “Hahauaha! Aha, haha, aaah. I owed you that one for giggling your heart out at me this afternoon-- when I was up on that hook ladder a'yours. Oh, the revenge is sweet, I have to say it.”

         “Well I hope you're satisfied. Nearly made a chamber pot out of mi'sodding small clothes.”

         “Ahaha. Hahahahuuua.”

         “Laugh your own bloody heart out then. Go on. So long as we call it even. If I'm to be scared of you, I'll have nothing for peace around here.”

         “Ahahaha. Aha. Ha aaah.” Gawkliev finally muzzled his laughter. “Aaah, master apprentice. You worry too much. The men I serve are not inclined to needless violence.”

         “Needless violence, you say. Well, I was pretty good at aggravating my archmage's nerves. And I'd hate to rile up the temper in yours.”

         “Then don't be late to sup with us this evening. My masters have bid that you and I join them.”

         "They what?" Lavernon gasped, then swallowed. Now what's this about?

         “I have no idea what it's about. Maybe nothing. On the other hand, master Zenith usually takes his suppers alone. And they've not asked me to break bread with them for many months... As for your invitation..?” Gawkliev shrugged.

         “I... well, I suppose I'd taken them for having lost all interest in me.”

         “Not all interest, it seems. Now I must be off. Though my masters were kind enough to invite me to supper, I am still required to cook it for them first.”

         Lavernon chuckled. “Very well. Can't speak for my appetite, but I'll be there washed and ready.”

********************

         The rain had started again. The thunder growling. Another storm.

          He must have checked his hourglass a dozen times. Down the spiral staircase, through the dark corridors and into the grand hall, Lavernon's palms dripped of cold sweat. Why do I get so bloody nervous? he chided himself, again swabbing his hands over his cloak. He then heard a clattering from the kitchen. The double doors creaked like old mules as he poked his head in between. “Am I early, Gawkliev?”

         “No, you're in good time. If you like, have a chair and sip on some wine.”

         “I better not.” Not yet anyway. “Can I do anything to help you? Perhaps set out the stoneware?”

         “No,” Gawkliev barked. “I mean... no thank you, master apprentice. The layout needs be precise.”

         So Lavernon sat by, watching the shide man skip back and forth, chopping up vegetables, slicing bread and filling carafes full of cool water and red wine. Gawkliev then picked up a long, wooden ladle. With every swish and stir of the savory stew, Lavernon's disparately idle hands grew ever more restless. “Smells delicious,” he remarked. The garlic and chives lapped at his nose, trying their best to revive his dormant appetite. “I've changed my mind, friend. I think I'll have a pour of that wine.” Just to settle my nerves, he reasoned.

         The grand hall's small table was perfectly staged. The silver bowls, centered on their plates. A precise finger's length parted each fork and knife, laid deadly straight over the neatly triangled wipe cloth. The only sounds, the crackling hearth and the twirling of Lavernon's empty cup. Gawkliev had just returned with a second carafe of wine when at last, his masters arrived. Oashazeer, from his tower of the castle and master Zenith from his, they entered almost in concert.

         The ward sorcerer donned a flowing, midnight blue robe that shimmered as he strode past the hall's sconces and candles. He always wore that particular shade of blue. It was like he had taken it for a sigil. Upright in his usual chair, he then drew back his hood, exposing the lengths of his beard and the strange mark on his neck.

         “What is that black ink brand above your collar, master Oashazeer?” Most of the time, Lavernon's angst hamstrung his every word. Other times, it caused him to spit up anything that came to mind. Wine did this to him, too.

         “You've never seen one of these before, master apprentice?” Somehow, 'master apprentice' sounded a slight the way Oashazeer said it. “What am I saying? Of course you haven't. This is an Imperial brand of expulsion. The scar maimed to those irrevocably banished from the realm... I suppose they wouldn't be serving their purpose had you seen Islands men running about with these on their necks.” It had been 23 years since the wizards earned their contemptuous scars. As dawn broke over an unusually clear morning, legion centurions stormed the high country of Crescent Wood, where they disbanded the Sacrament Arcana and condemned Oashazeer, master Zenith and all their disciples. There, the outlaws were sentenced for a myriad of crimes. Among them-- observably practicing witchcraft, cultivating banned apothecarial crops, and willfully violating 6 of the 9 tenants named in the treaty of New Birth. In fact, theirs was the most egregious violation of this treaty in known history. Unjust in their discipline, the centurions did not conduct a proper hearing. Nor did they arrange for a trial in the Imperial court. On sight, they forced every man and woman to choose between banishment from the realm or indentured service to the Assembly. "Slave labor,” though, was a truer term for the latter. Among the 240 accused, only 3 chose exile over enslavement. In excruciating fashion, the Sacrament's masters and Ailisse, the witch matron, were branded before the eyes of their fellow magi. The instrument of their torture was a fiery, wrought iron “x” forged with two forward slashes instead of one. Scorched to a glow, then seared into their flesh, the next legionnaire followed with a hundred pricks from an ink-blackened needle. This, a measure to ensure the scar's permanence. No healing magic in the world could remove such a mark.

         Master Zenith then pulled down the collar of his robe. A thumb's length below his left ear, he revealed his own unsightly brand. “Did you ever wonder why it's customary to unhood yourself in the presence of company? Many people have forgotten this origin.”

         “Odd, isn't it?” Oashazeer added. “A common courtesy to prove there's no bounty on your head. Or your neck, I should say... You know, if a man bearing this mark were seen on Imperial soil, the reward for his capture stands at two-hundred silvers.”

         “Two-hundred silvers? In Dravon Hill, you could buy a calf and a hay bale for that kind o'coin.”

         “So you can see the motivation.”

         “And what of the exile?” Lavernon followed. “What happens to him?”

         Tersely, Master Zenith replied. “Put to the torch.”

         A death worse than most.

         “May as well,” Oashazeer scowled. “As far as the Assembly lords are concerned, exile is a death sentence in itself.”

         “How do you mean?”

         “Well... Once, many years ago now, merchant ships would sail the exiled across the sea, to the cliff walls surrounding the Channel of the Banished. Aboard rickety little canoes, the marked ones could then paddle there way into the harbor. But in time, the journey proved too deadly for a few too many ship captains. In fact, one legend tells of a crew of fourteen, chartered to search for ships gone missing in the choppy waters. With decades of experience aboard their huge, expertly constructed freight vessel, the crewmen left port. But once they passed beyond the horizon, not a single member of the crew was ever heard from again. In the three-hundred years that followed this mystery, banishment became a much rarer sentence, levied only against the vilest of lawbreakers... like master Zenith and me, here,” he mocked, smiling. “For we forsaken few... we make our own way to exile.”

         “You might say it was our choice to come here, Lavernon. Lest we'd taken our chances sailing off the map. Into the vast, blue unknown.”

         A bead of sweat trickled down Lavernon's neck. “I'm sorry, master Zenith. I--”

         “There's no need.”

         For a little while, the four were content to slurp up their stew. Lavernon, though, had been stewing on another question. “May I you ask you something else, master Oashazeer?”

         Straightening the fold of his wipe cloth, he nodded.

         “If... If I may be so bold, from where do you obtain so many rations? I've been wondering. Such fine ales and wines, cured meats, potatoes and spices. Seems you've gathered delicacies from every corner of the Island Kingdoms.” The wine had loosened his tongue more than he'd realized.

         “Not every corner, Lavernon. But I'll confess, I think I like you better when you've had a cup too many of wine.”

         Lavernon didn't know whether to thank him or unhand his cup.

         “Not all traders are motivated by a purse full of silver,” he continued. “The crystals mined by the shide men in the hills-- they are rare. We've made a handful of brave merchants far richer than what a couple hundred silvers can buy. And in the caverns of The Gray Barrens... the ogre chiefs never ask for a look at my neck before settling a trade.”

         Lavernon almost choked. “The ogre chiefs?”

         Master Zenith dashed in, “Yes, Lavernon. The ogre chiefs. Now spare us a moment to eat before we discuss what you've been asked here to discuss.”

         I'm to simply brush away a mention of ogres? But the time for small talk, even talk of ogres, had passed. The warlock had taken command of the table.

         “I should start by saying we've been lucky. The Wind Shark will survive its repairs and sail the oceans for us again. But last eve's storm could have left us without a longship left in our fleet. We can not risk Oashazeer's trade commitments in Crescent Wood. Delicate as these dealings are for our partners, we mustn't allow our shipments to fall behind schedule.”

         Oashazeer nodded agreeably, a cue Gawkliev turned into a nod, as well.

         “As you all know, I granted control of The God Wind to Hidelwine, who now hunts the oath keepers in my service. His mission to free lord Dwennon and recover the goddess ember is very dangerous. Perhaps stupid, even. Partial as I may be, we cannot rely on seeing The God Wind, nor its captain ever again.

         Where did all that hope of yours go? Oashazeer wanted to say.

         To Lavernon, master Zenith's admission was stark. Sobering. Despite the way his archmage often belittled him, despite being discarded, left to the warlock's discretion like a human trinket, when faced with thoughts of Hidelwine suffering misfortune, hardship, or worse... Lavernon winced. He had never worried for his archmage before. Ordinarily, his cautions were entirely devoted to himself. Did he leave me here to protect me? The apprentice suddenly felt lucky to be sitting by a fire under the steeples of Tychon's Palace.

         “Men, it's time we get to work on building a new vessel. For years, we housed two, often three or four supply ships at any given time. It was wise then and remains just as wise now. We should do everything we can to ensure Oashazeer's means to our allies.”

         “Indeed,” the sorcerer affirmed. Though I would sooner call them “opportunists” than “allies”.

         “Only the sturdiest wood can reliably withstand the violence of the Godstorm. But it would require several trips, months of hard travel for Oashazeer to return with enough lumber to build a ship; as we've almost no suitable wood left on the Island... unless...” Master Zenith turned his head to Lavernon, “... it rests in Castaway Harbor.”

         Oashazeer spoke next. “When you lucky sons of tavern wenches snaked through the Channel of the Banished, how much damage was endured by your ship?”

         Lavernon coughed, the scare of drowning still palpable. “I couldn't say for sure. My eyes were shut tight. I was shouting prayers at every god I could think of... and the lightning crashed louder than a thousand war drums beating all at once.”

         “Think hard."

         “I... I don't think we hit the rock walls. Drifting in, we scraped along the bottom of the harbor, but I believe the ship remained mostly in tact. Archmage Hidelwine had the Arcaven sailed in from Crescent Wood. Where they make the best ships from the best wood in all the world, he said.”

         “Excellent.” The wizards glanced at each other with an unspoken accord. “Because you and Gawkliev are going to go get it.”

         “We're what?.. Out there?”

         Gawkliev was taken aback, as well. “But Master Zenith... if I leave, who will ready your suppers? Who will keep the palace swept, fetch the rain barrels and wash your linens? Who will keep your candles burning, the hearths lit, change your coal pots, your chamber pots, count stalk bales and bottles and grains?”

         Oashazeer echoed the steward's rebuttal. He hadn't known that sending Gawkliev away was part of the plan.

         Master Zenith could barely hide his grin. “We will do it ourselves, of course. Believe it or not, Oashazeer and I survived many years in the wild before you came along, Gawkliev. We settled dangerous, uninhabited territory in the mountains. We cleared land, built cabins and shelters... even started our own fires when the sun went down,” he added lightheartedly.

         “Master Zenith,” Oashazeer cut in, “It would take dozens of men to strip out the plank boards and haul them back to the palace. Even if the Arcaven is still watertight, they would need dozens to push it off the marsh, to paddle her through the channel and sail the coastline 'round to the inlet.”

         “You're right, Oashazeer. Which brings me to the other half of this venture. The first half, in fact. On your way to the harbor, you will deliver food, ale and other amenities to the shide men in the hills. It's time their hard work was justly rewarded. For this, you will need several hands to wheel and carry the supplies. Those hands will aid you in salvaging the Arcaven, as well.”

         Lavernon guessed whose hands those would be.

         “The two of you will depart with twenty of your kinsmen, Gawkliev. They will handle the heavy lifting under your command. I'll have you choose them, yourself.”

         Reeling, the steward called upon his usual subservience. “Yes, master. Thank you for placing such faith in me.”

         Oashazeer seemed accepting of the warlock's reply.

        Lavernon, though, was a wreck. This whole idea was souring his stomach all over again. He had been trying so hard to settle in, to settle down. To adapt to this new life in Tychon's palace. Just gut it out until Hidelwine returns, he'd told himself time and again. But now this? His mind raced for an excuse. Any ploy to resist the frightening mission. “But Master, I-- What about my lessons? All my studying? I've been practicing every day... I've made great progress, master Zenith.”

         At that, even Gawkliev rolled his eyes.

         Oashazeer couldn't resist. “Oh? Tell us about this progress you've made.”

         Still flailing, Lavernon beguiled, “The fire magic we've been working on. Like archmage Hidelwine and I practiced for so long... I... I think a spark flashed from my rune yesterday... And... I felt a warmth in my fingers.”

         “Well listen to that. He felt a warmth in his fingers.” Oashazeer's smirk certified that he didn't buy a word of it. “And you're certain you weren't sitting too close to your desk candle?”

         The table then broke into laughter. All but Lavernon's laughter, of course. It was beyond a stretch to say he'd made any progress. But he would have said anything to avoid leaving. Even if it meant becoming the butt of another joke at yet another host's supper table.

         “Well, this is good news,” Oashazeer teased. “It gets cold out there in the hills. That fire magic of yours will come in handy.”

         The apprentice puckered his lip, his mouth pitched to the side of his face. Is there no way out of this?

         “Lavernon... When you were younger, you spent your days running forge works to your father's customers. Am I right?"

         The dismayed apprentice nodded, surprised master Zenith remembered the conversation.

         “Perhaps you are better suited for delivering goods than conjuring spells. Only a few in a hundred are born with any aptitude for magic, you know.” Hidelwine had never told him this. “You might accept it rather than fight it, Lavernon.”

         “Wouldn't you feel better if you earned that bread you've been eating? That stew you've been poking at? Birds portions as you've required, a man still ought to work for his share.” Oashazeer added.

         “It will be good for you. To get out of here and feel the wind again. To accomplish something. To earn the pride that comes with duty and success. This is important work I've asked of you.”

         Didn't sound like you were asking. Again, Lavernon felt the strokes of coercion, firmly strumming at his nerve, nudging him in directions he didn't want to go. The same way Hidelwine had convinced him to stay behind in the first place. Master Zenith had struck a bruised and battered spot. 'Earn the pride' he says. Ever beaten down by others, ever ignored by his mother and father; this broken pride was suddenly tugging at his shoulder-- calling to be restored. Or was it just the wine?

         Lavernon wasn't especially smart or quick-witted; never blessed with a great talent or useful vocation. He was a simple smithy's son, born neither to a lordly estate or reputable name. The proudest he'd ever felt was when he leaped from the nest his father had built. When he joined with the Arcaven and pledged fealty to his new overlord. With the guild, I can make my own way. Reap my own rations and sleep in a bed of my own making. Six years it had been. What little pride Lavernon had gained in minding Hidelwine's every whim and drudgery was now lost, marooned on Godstorm Island-- where the “apprentice” lived as a glorified pet, his value weighed in the appeasement of his new masters. A man of 27, they treat me like I'm 12. But if I can deliver the Arcaven... They might stop laughing then.

         

********************

         By the time his head hit the pillow, Lavernon's usual bane started wrestling down his spirit again. Always, he was frightened by what he'd never seen or didn't understand. But always, his fears turned out baseless and unmerited... He knew that. With time, the anxiety he felt around Master Zenith would have faded, too. But outside, in the haunting, storm-stricken hills, the air was cold and the nights were dark. Spiders, snakes and fouler creatures reigned. Out there awaited the same beasts which had chased Lavernon to the brink of death. And now I'm supposed to walk as one of them? Hidelwine would not be there to protect him this time. And Master Zenith would not arise to save him from their savagery. Out there, his fears were justified. Out there, the fears were real.