After a while, Marko finally stopped kicking his hooves against the stone and uttered a sigh. “So, Logan, you’re all quiet. It’s freaking me out. What are you doing here?”
Logan nodded his floppy yellow cap. “Just taking in the sights. Like you, I guess. I like it out here. I could totally rock a swamp dungeon, I think. Or is that rot a swamp dungeon—as in rot ’n’ roll? It’s a long way to the top, if you want to rot ’n’ roll.” He grinned and shook his head. “Either way, it suits me now.”
Marko smiled, though his eyes remained sad. “Shadowcroft said puns would be a problem. Long live rot?”
“Long live rot,” Logan agreed. “Carpe carrion. Seize the decay. I think that might just be my new motto.” He reached for the bottle, uncorked it, and took a sip. It was strong wine, dark and red like fresh blood. “Did you know that alcohol is more about yeast than bacteria or fungi? Though I consider yeast to be my cooler second cousin. More people like beer than they do mushrooms.”
“Funny,” Marko said.
Logan offered him a thin smile. “Saying funny and not laughing means it wasn’t that funny.”
The satyr couldn’t help but chuckle for real. Then he sipped from the goblet. Logan’s heightened senses told him it wasn’t wine, but plain old water.
“You know,” Marko said, “I grabbed that bottle from Vralkag last night. I figured I’d come out here, get drunk, maybe throw myself over the waterfalls and see if I’d fall forever. Normal Friday night. No big deal.”
“Sounds like a big deal,” Logan said quietly.
“Yeah. Probably.” Marko set the goblet down with a clink on stone. “I couldn’t do it. I like the party, Logan. I’m all about the party. On Sangretta, we have wine gods and beach parties, and it’s all so much fun. We enjoy life. Me sitting here alone? There’s no fun to be had in that. I just couldn’t bring myself to drink the wine. Didn’t even want to.” He shook his head sadly. “Worst. Party. Ever.”
“How come you didn’t come find us and talk to us?” Logan asked.
“I meant to.” The satyr turned to look at the Tree of Souls, the single branch piercing the flat world of Arborea. A stone wall surrounded the sacred wood. “But I couldn’t leave. Sitting here, I feel the Tree. I feel how connected we all could be. Every time I stood up to walk to the portal to go and find you guys, I ended up back here. This dungeon business is important. I see that now, though I didn’t when we first started. I understand so much more. I guess I absorbed more of Shadowcroft’s stupid Ethics of Murder class than I’d realized. Unfortunately, my enlightenment came too late.”
“It’s never too late,” Logan replied.
Marko threw his horned head back and let out a frustrated grunt. “Don’t play that game with me, Logan Murray! This is not the time for any sort of cheerleader speech. I’m screwed. Take one look at the leaderboard and that fact is completely self-evident. There is no way I can create a dungeon in four hours, with my cultivation abilities, in the worst location on Arborea. You know I’m going to get the SandScream in the World Forge Wastes. The SandScream, Logan. There’s sand. There’s me. Screaming.”
In his gut, Logan knew Marko was right. Unless you were Tet-Akhat, or another Egyptian-themed desert dungeon core, the SandScream was a brutal place to craft a dungeon. And Rockheart was pissed beyond belief at Marko. Rockheart would ensure that Marko had the worst possible dungeon for the final.
Despite that, Logan still wanted to launch into a cheerleader speech. He wanted to talk about his combat experience or the fact that he’d progressed so far at Shadowcroft or that they’d survived the dungeoneer attack in Kyvandry’s Slaughter Pits.
He wanted to tell Marko that anything was possible.
Now wasn’t the time, and this wasn’t the place.
So instead, he simply nodded and sipped more of the wine, wincing. “The alcohol can’t kill my spores, but it sure is killing my stomach. I’m pretty sure you could use this to clean a carburetor.” He paused and glanced down at the bottle. “I suppose that’s what Inga would call a culturally specific reference.”
“Inga,” Marko said sullenly. “She hates me now. But you have to know something, Logan. You have to know I tried. I truly did.”
“I know,” Logan replied. “You’ve been different since the Slaughter Pits. And from what you told me, those nights we thought you were out partying, you were actually studying with GK.”
“Never party with someone who is smarter and more responsible than you. Always drink with stupid people you can feel superior to,” he said in all seriousness.
“Too late. I’m best friends with Inga Thosa Therian.”
Marko exhaled long and loudly. “You got me there. For most of the year, I figured GK was as hopeless and messed up as I was. Nope. All along, he was this secret genius. He passes easily, and I’m at the bottom of the barrel. It figures. I shouldn’t be surprised. Yet somehow I still am.”
Logan let a beat pass. “Listen, we saw you trying. All of us did. And I know I can speak for both Treacle and Inga. We want you to keep trying. We have two weeks before the Final Exams start. You’ll get another chance. We can work with you, maybe help you find a way to survive this thing.”
The satyr gave him an annoyed look. “And there’s the cheerleader speech.”
“Guilty as charged. My punishment? More of this stuff.” He sipped more of the wretched wine. “Also, what is this stuff?”
“It’s Enrico Kagster’s finest vintage, known as Liverkill. It’s designed to kill you, slowly, especially on Monday mornings. Bottled last night in Vralkag, it’s basically fermented Coptician viper venom, aged in Bone Vault coffins. Kagster might’ve eaten grapes while mixing it up, though I’m pretty sure grapes aren’t involved at all.” Marko sat back, bracing himself with his arms, and gazed up at the swirling red of the sky. “I thought things had changed after the Slaughter Pits. I mean, I helped defeat those raiders. I kinda saved you, Inga, even Treacle.”
“You did save us,” Logan said. “But this isn’t about that, is it? It’s about your past.”
Marko turned and gave him a sly smile. “Ah, my mysterious backstory, the roots of my tragic self-destruction, and the source of all my miseries. I like drama. Perhaps it’s time you finally heard about my dramatic redemption arc. If you’re up for it, that is.”
“Give me a good redemption arc any day of the week,” Logan said.
Marko turned away and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “It’s all such crap. Why I’m here? What happened? It’s dramatic, but it’s also stupid. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of Marko Laskarelis. Dramatic, but stupid.”
The satyr sat in silence a long time.
Logan looked down between his feet at the water running under them, headed toward its own destruction. The metaphor was kind of too on the nose. No wonder Marko had sat there for so long.
The satyr finally braced himself and started talking, fast, like he knew if he stopped, he wouldn’t be able to start again.
“And the story begins, ladies and gentlemen, with the Forevergreen Festival Feast on the Peach Beaches of Sangretta. The sand was peach, the drinks were peach, we ate peaches. It was all peaches, all the time. And one young handsome man, Marquess Marko Laskarelis, the life of the party, was there, with his friend Emilio. Although best friend is more accurate. They were mates. They were brothers. No, closer than brothers. I have brothers, and I never felt for them what I felt for Emilio.