Tal looked up and saw the figure staring back down at him, features just visible beneath the hood. Then, with a nod, the man turned away and disappeared from sight.
He kept staring up, exhaustion rooting him in place. Perhaps he should have been devising a way to escape the courtyard without being seen, or double-checked that all the glyphs had been destroyed.
But instead, all he could wonder about was why Kaleras the Impervious, the Warlock of Canturith, had just saved him.
The doors rattled behind him, and Tal slowly turned. The small part of himself not deadened with exhaustion registered that the Sorrowful Lady was disappearing above. Sure enough, just as the lock in the doors clicked, the various body parts of the ghouls began to melt, then sink into the stone, leaving behind nothing but dark gray stains.
The doors burst open, and guards poured out, steel bared and faces hard. Krador, the Master-at-Arms, stepped between them, a heavy, double-headed axe in both hands. As he saw Tal standing alone in the courtyard, his scowl lifted slightly, but only just.
"Tal Harrenfel!" he barked. "You're not who I expected to find when I opened these doors!"
What a sight I must make. Cuts bled all down his body. His stolen cloak was ripped to shreds. But though he could barely stand, Tal put on his maddest grin and spread his arms, the tip of his sword dipping down as his arm gave out trying to support its weight. "I just came out for some midnight practice, good master. My apologies if I caused a commotion."
The guards looked uneasily among themselves, while the Master-at-Arms frowned. "Right. Just you then?"
"I don't see anyone else, do you?"
Master Krador grunted, his eyes still scanning their surroundings. "That's good. But warn us next time you're going to screech like a score of demons."
Tal gave a mocking salute. "Consider it done, good sir."
The Master-at-Arms swept another look over the courtyard and pointed at the fountain. "What happened to the water?"
Tal shrugged. "I got thirsty."
"Damned lunatic," one of the guards muttered loudly.
Krador looked as if he might agree. But he just gestured sharply and led the guards back inside.
Tal watched them leave before he sank onto the lip of the fountain, Velori resting by his leg. His chin fell to his chest, and his eyes closed.
"Are they … all dead?"
Tal looked up to see Garin standing before him. He wondered how long he'd been sitting mindlessly on the fountain's edge.
"I'm glad to see you alive, boy. When they chased after you…" He shook his head, realizing how close he had come to meeting down his apprentice. "But they're all gone back to the moons. They can only exist as long as they're in the light of the Sorrowful Lady. Afterward, they melt back to the Pyres from whence they came."
"Oh." The boy's eyes flickered to the shadowed corners of the courtyard. "Then if they went inside the castle, they might… burst?"
Tal frowned. "Not burst, no. They couldn't stay long outside of the moonlight, but even if they stayed away too long, they'd just melt away. Why do you ask?"
Garin turned his back on him. "Nothing."
He shook his head. A mystery for another time. Groaning, Tal rose to his feet and felt every one of his forty years. But, for a miracle, he also realized that though he had many cuts down his body, none of his wounds were deep.
"Let's go, lad," he said, and together, they walked back inside the castle.
Passage III
If I believed in such a concept as fate, I might be tempted to invoke it here. For those of the Blood seem destined to rise to greatness, for good or for evil. But such a theory might be the result of a bias — for how could we hear of those who never perform any acts of significance?
Thus, I satisfy myself with this theory: that these Founts have, through their actions or by chance of birth, a strain of the World's own Blood running through their veins. And it is this that enables their easy mastery of sorcery that the Heart Races must labor to claim.
Yet this Blood comes at a cost. For though many Founts of Blood burn brilliantly, their lives often end tragically and disastrously. And as there is seemingly no origin to their sorcery and few limits, they have threatened, and will continue to threaten, the very fabric of our society.
I fear what havoc these Founts may wreak upon our World.
- A Fable of Song and Blood, by Hellexa Yoreseer of the Blue Moon Obelisk, translated by Tal Harrenfel
The Warlock of Canturith
"...Where could he have gone?"
Garin stood near the entrance to the Smallstage, pretending to study the large framed sets, while from the backrooms, the senior players of the Dancing Feathers continued to speak together, their voices heavy with concern.
Wren appeared from nowhere to stand by him, and for once, the fey mood that usually claimed her was absent. "It's Jonn. Ox's partner."
He hesitated. "That's who's missing?"
She nodded. "Since last night. Ox is out searching for him, but things don't sound good. Father was the last to see him, but it didn't seem like he was going anywhere in particular. He's just… vanished."
Garin's stomach churned. Last night. He had an uncomfortable feeling he knew exactly what had happened.
Last night, he'd led bloodthirsty ghouls through the castle halls. Who was to say one or two hadn't split off and found a lone trouper wandering the halls?
Wren was watching him. "You know something. I can see it in your eyes."
He wanted to look aside but knew it would only make him look more guilty. So he watched the gold spin faster in her eyes.
"I don't," he said somewhat truthfully. He wanted to say more, to admit everything, but he'd promised Tal he wouldn't. As close as he was becoming with Wren, as much as he trusted her, a promise was a promise. And I have to keep at least one of them to my mentor. Or patron. Or whatever Tal is to me.
She raised an eyebrow, then sniffed lightly and waved him out the door. "Come on. While the adults are distracted, we may as well have our run of the place."
Maybe it was already because he felt guilty, or because it felt like taking advantage of Jonn's absence. But as much as he always wanted to go trekking around the castle with her, Garin found himself hesitating.
Then she took his hand, met his gaze, and the glistening in her eyes banished all of his doubts.
Tal shifted, trying to arrange his clothes so that they didn't pull on his bandages. He knew his scratching and twitching made it seem like a mound of ants crawled up his body, but he couldn't resist. Let them kill a horde of ghouls, he thought blackly. Then they can criticize all they please.
Even standing before a king, it seemed, his manners rarely improved.
King Aldric stared coldly down at him from his throne. Around the room, the Mutes were chanting again, their Quietude hiding the conversation from those outside the chamber. On the King's right stood the Master-at-Arms, while Aelyn stood on his left. All Tal had by his side was Falcon, but at the moment, grief-stricken as he was from his missing friend, he would be of little use in this interrogation.
"So," King Aldric said at last. "You made quite the spectacle of yourself last night."