Steel Wolves of Craedia (Realm of Arkon, Book 3) (19 page)

"I'm looking for Vaessa dar Luan," I said, and took note of the guards exchanging quick glances. "Tell her I have important matters to discuss."

"The magus doesn't like being distracted from her work," said the elder sentry. "I'll go, of course. If there's anyone who's earned an exception, I imagine it's you."

While the guard was away, I took a stroll down the alley, hands clasped behind my back, listening to birdsong and watching a myriad magic wisps chase one another through the air over the flowerbeds. At one point it dawned on me that I had grown so accustomed to this reality that I was no longer surprised by wisps buzzing over tulips, nor by clusters of colorful melon-sized spheres hovering in the air, nor by fruits hanging off trees whose color and form resembled giant raspberries. Even when I thought of the locals as NPCs, that was more out of habit than anything. I was no longer putting the same meaning into the term that all developers had been since the advent of video games. These people were as real as I was, equally capable of feeling love and pain, joy and hatred.

I bent down and picked up a pebble, one of the many that lined the flowerbed edges. It was an ordinary pebble, the kind I'd held thousands of times as a kid. And that was when it
really
hit me. Whenever I had played games like this before, I only reacted to my immediate reality, because nothing else really existed. Whatever was happening out of sight according to the script had already happened, and was simply waiting for me to show up and witness the outcome. But I realized now that when Elnar had left to oversee the clan's accommodations in the Callehzian district, he didn't disappear anywhere but was literally doing that very thing at this very minute. Well, more likely he was chatting up Salta... And pebbles like this one—there were billions of them in the game, and anyone could pick one up and hold it in their hand. You could pluck any flower, swim across any river, open any door. At that moment I felt as if the whole world passed right through me. It was a strange, staggering feeling. It wasn't the first time that I'd felt that Arkon had become real, but never before had the feeling been so raw, so
complete
.

"I'm sorry, dar," the returned guard's voice brought me back to my senses. "The magus is very busy and cannot receive you today. She said that she might find a few minutes for you next week," the demon scratched his beard awkwardly and shrugged. He seemed embarrassed somehow, as if he'd just told me to shove off, albeit politely.

Next week...
I thought, annoyed. Ugh, what a bitch! Who did she think... Stop! I took a few deep breaths, fighting down the rage seething inside me. Who did
I
think I was? Some big shot who could boss around a woman who was both a magus and the head of a guild?
Yes! I am an elder, not some bloody novice!
the thought flashed through my mind. It felt alien and mine at the same time. Was it the true blood talking or just your typical star fever? Damn it, this wasn't like me!

My inner turmoil must have reflected on my face, because the guards were both looking petrified. The senior guard even took a few steps back and put up his hand.

"Tell Vaessa dar Luan that if she wants to know how her father lived and died, she can find me in the part of the city where the Callehzians are staying," I growled, spun around and stormed away.

Suddenly a female tifling materialized out of the air before me. She wore a black beret, a fitted jacket and pants of black leather, and knee-high leather boots. All of her clothes bore runes, their silvery patterns complimenting her outfit most harmoniously, while her pale face, slightly slanted eyes and lips of bright scarlet made her look like a vampire out of some classic comic book. This was another break from the template—I had expected all necromancers to wear a dark hooded robe, but female necromancers were apparently no less eager to look good than ordinary women. The daressa wore her long raven-black hair in a braid, with a silver ribbon woven into it. A short straight-edged blade hung at her waist. She looked to be in her early to mid-thirties. Diarten's daughter must have overheard me through the open window, then used the Jump skill to spare herself having to take the stairs. It was an effective move.

"You're acting like a spoiled schoolboy, Dark One," she spoke quietly, studying me with those jade-colored eyes. "I really am busy and can't afford to be distracted by trifles, but news of my father..." Something flickered in her eyes, but I couldn't quite tell what emotion it was. "Come upstairs, dar. We can talk there."

She nodded to the guards as they parted, and made for the tower. Failing to come up with a retort to her reprimand, which wasn't entirely unfair, I followed after her in silence, admiring those slender legs and lithe figure. The fallen magus' daughter was level 240, making her the third highest level NPC in the city after the satrap and his top general. Despite her rather sharp features, she was rather attractive. In fact, if I didn't know Vaessa's true age, and if I could somehow forget about some of my, um, issues in that department...

What true age? All these characters are a couple of months old!
The sudden realization made me smile.
Well, that might just make a valid excuse, especially in the circumstances of a limited selection...

Chapter 8

The necromancer's daughter lived on level five, above the alchemy labs and the dwelling spaces of the guild's rank and file.

"All the mages are with the troops," the demoness said in response to my quizzical look as she climbed up to her personal chambers. "The battle never did come to fruition on account of your meddling, so the old man decided to run drills. Besides, there aren't many of us left anymore," she sighed.

"Then why aren't you with the troops?"

"I am the only necromancer and dark mage in a satrapy overrun with the undead. My research is far more important than my prowess on the battlefield, which isn't all that great anyhow. I transferred the command of the guild to Dar Tylan—he's an air mage, and a deadly one at that—and resumed my research here," she said, pushing open one of the doors on the fifth level.

I followed her in, passing through two rooms filled with stands spilling over with books, and ended up in a bright and spacious chamber. Somehow I'd imagined the abode of a dark mage differently—where were the bottled skulls or reptilian corpses plastered on the walls? Nowhere in sight. A writing desk of solid darkwood stood by the window. On it I saw several open books, a stand with a magic lantern glowing softly, a stack of papers and a marble figurine of a rearing unicorn. The rest of the room looked like this: a tall dark cabinet against the wall, a small dining table with several chairs in the center, and a brown leather couch in the corner. Four paintings were hanging on the wall: three depicted typical rural landscapes with houses and apple trees, while the fourth, hanging directly across the writing desk, was a portrait. I recognized it instantly. Dar Diarten looked rather introspective on it, and not at all like a magus of dark magic and necromancy.

Vaessa followed my eyes, frowned, and nodded at one of the chairs.

"Have a seat. What are you drinking?"

"Nothing, thanks," I declined politely.

The daressa took a seat at the table, locking her fingers on the tabletop, and looked down. A silence ensued, interrupted only by the chirming of a cricket hiding in the next room. At last, the woman sighed and raised her eyes at me, jade-green with vertical pupils.

"You said you had information about my father? Tell me about him, Dark One..."

It took me no more than ten minutes to recount the vision. I told her about the goddess of death Celphata's arrival in Suonu, and about how she'd stopped the Soul Devourer who'd been summoned by the disavowed. I told her about the mission entrusted to Diarten, about the magus' final journey from the city to the swamp cave, and where his ashes were buried.

"I have the soulstone. Your father asked me to finish what he started, and the goddess appears to have approved of his choice. He also wanted me to tell you how much he loved you," I said, shifting my gaze to the Master of Death's portrait. "He had too little time, so, unfortunately, that is all I can tell you of him..."

"My mother was from the Striped Leopards clan," Vaessa said softly after a short pause. "According to tradition, females remain with the tribe by default while males must win their patterns, that is earn their place in the clan. The only possible exception is made for those who are bound by the trueblood oath. All his life my father was torn between Erisjat and my mother, and when she died of pestilence, he took me in. We barely saw each other—I could count on one hand the number of times my father spent more than a few consecutive days at home. He really loved his work," she said with sorrow in her voice. 

"He loved you more," I fixed my scabbard and looked into her eyes. "I was there with him on the path from Suonu to the swamp cave. I felt everything that he felt. And above all else, he regretted that he would never see you again..."

"He's with the Mistress now," the woman's eyes glistened with tears. "Did you know that only her chosen servants can behold her face and not go mad, Dark One?" she chuckled bitterly. "My father was a very powerful mage. I wouldn't have been able to survive it."

"There's nothing scary about your goddess," I shrugged. "Just a young and beautiful woman. Personally I found her a bit pensive, but I reckon that's to be expected. There's nothing funny about death, is there?"

"You're a dreamer," Vaessa wiped her tears with a beige handkerchief, tossed it into a drawer, and smiled. "You can behold the Mistress without any harm to yourself."

"Look, I've been hearing this from others too, but I have no idea what being a dreamer means. Nor how in Hart's name I'd managed to become one."

"What's not clear? The meaning lies in the word itself. You see things in those dreams of yours that others don't. To be a dreamer is a great honor and a great responsibility."

Getting up, she walked over to the cabinet in the corner, reached in and produced a potbellied bottle, along with a pair of tall glasses. After splashing a viscous blood-colored fluid into both, she offered a glass to me.

"You have taken on my father's burden, Dark One. Let us celebrate his legacy. And let us toast that his burden won't prove too heavy for you."

A cinnamon aroma filled the room. I accepted the glass from her, doing away with its contents in two sips. When toasting to something, drink fast and all at once—that was my father's rule that I'd followed my whole life. A pleasant warmth spread throughout my body, and the sense of awkwardness that seemed to hang in the air dissipated. No, Vaessa didn't judge me for trying to kill her father, and my clan
would've
killed him if Diarten hadn't taken his own life. Still, a faint sense of guilt had taken root deep inside me and wouldn't let go. The necromancer didn't
have
to die—all I needed was to take the soulstone from him.

"There was nothing you could have done, Krian," Vaessa said, as if reading my mind. "The Lord of Darkness' essence had infiltrated my father's consciousness. After his death, it was reabsorbed by the soulstone. Did you think he would have killed himself for no reason?" 

The woman was perfectly calm on the outside, but I could still see pain and bitterness lurking in her eyes. An old grudge against the whole world for taking a loving father away from his little girl.

"Here," wanting to break the tension, I rose from the armchair and laid the black flame-bladed dagger on the table. "This belonged to your father. You should have it."

"You..." the woman raised her incredulous eyes at me. "You mean to give me Hanteryon's Claw, just like that?" 

"So what? It is yours by right, and I don't want anything that doesn't belong to me. No need to tell me how valuable it is. I have an idea, and I'm not asking for anything in return." 

"Thank you," Vaessa said, her voice breaking.

Attention! You have garnered the attention of a higher being. Setara, the Goddess of Justice, is friendly to you.

You can use
Setara's Shield
no more than once every thirty days.

Setara's Shield dispels all hostile spells and protects you from all types of damage and curses for 20 seconds.

Great, I'm half way to becoming a paladin,
I chuckled to myself.
A full twenty second immunity to everything with a month cooldown ain't half bad.
It was the third time I'd caught Setara's attention, but I had yet to find occasion to utilize her gift. Perhaps that was why the skill kept improving each time? Whatever the reason, I wasn't complaining. Raising a mental thanks to the goddess for her continued patronage, I vowed to visit to her shrine in Nittal or anywhere else I might encounter it to repay the goddess' benevolence more tangibly. Sure, even a million gold coins would be nothing to Setara, but it really wasn't about the money. An offering was a sign of attention and respect, a confirmation that you remembered your patron. All women appreciated such gestures, even goddesses.

In the meantime, Vaessa took the dagger by the hilt, made a deft cut on the wrist of her left hand, and pressed the blade to the wound. Not a drop of blood spilled from it. The light from the magic lantern shuddered as a dark cloud shrouded the black kris, expanded down to her arm, and disappeared underneath her clothes. The woman's body jerked, beads of sweat forming on her forehead, and she fell back in her armchair, gasping for air.