Songreaver (24 page)

"Oh, yeah," Garrett said, feeling suddenly
uneasy, "They don't allow hoods in the temple, so I only wear it
when I leave."

"I think it's for the best, really," Marsten
said, "I mean hoods are so old-fashioned, don't you agree? We're
not skulking around churchyards like a bunch of midnight demoniacs
anymore, are we?"

Garrett laughed nervously.

"Still," he said, "if we are to bring you
into high society, we must do something about those scars."

"What?" Garrett said.

"Here you go," Marsten said, producing a
crisp white card from his pocket and handing it to Garrett. Printed
in thin, filigreed runes, it read:

Grandmaster Marsten

Resurrectionist

"Nothing is Ever Lost to Those Who Dare to
Love Enough"

630 East Primrose St.

"Uh, thanks," Garrett said.

"I know a few tricks," he said with a wink,
"and those scars will be nothing but a bad memory for you."

"Really?" Garrett gasped.

Marsten smiled and nodded. "It's the least I
can do for the young man who introduced me to this radiant beauty
of the emerald cloth." He inclined his head slightly toward
Serepheni.

"Oh, Marsten!" Serepheni laughed.

Marsten grinned. "Stop by whenever you have
some time, Garrett," he said, "You must give me an opportunity to
repay your friendship in whatever small way that I may."

"You can really make my scars go away?"
Garrett said.

"Marsten, you mustn't get the boy's hopes up
if..." Serepheni chided, her tone suddenly serious.

"I make no promises that I cannot keep, dear
lady," Marsten said, placing his hand over his heart, "but I
promise this, young Garrett will never again be forced to hide his
face beneath a shadowy hood. The young ladies of society will look
upon him and swoon with desire."

"Swoon?" Garrett said, "You don't mean
faint with fear?
"

Marsten's eyes went suddenly hard. "Garrett!"
He said, "Never belittle yourself! Leave that to your critics, for
a rising star will have many. Ignore them as you would an insect
crawling across the toe of an alabaster idol and give their spite
no credit by repetition."

"All right," Garrett said.

"What is it that you wanted, Garrett?"
Serepheni said.

"Oh... uh, I wanted to ask you if you knew
anything about Brahnek Spellbreaker."

"The man that conquered the city long ago?"
Serepheni asked.

"Yeah, I was hoping you could tell me a
little more about him," Garrett said, "Matron Beeks didn't seem to
think that he was all that important."

"Oh, I'm afraid that I don't know much about
him myself. I'm sorry," Serepheni said.

"Oh," Garrett said, "Thanks anyway."

"Doing a bit of research, I take it?" Marsten
asked.

"Yeah, sort of," Garrett said, "I just read
about him, and I wanted to know why they called him the
Spellbreaker."

"Ah, that
is
an interesting story,"
Marsten laughed.

"You know about him?" Garrett said.

"A little," Marsten said, "They say he
discovered one of the seven First Words, the Word of Negation and
used it to unmake the magic of the elves."

"First Words?" Garrett said.

Marsten nodded. "The words first used by the
dragons to shape the world. They were given to the dragons by the
Dragon Queen who gave each of the First Words to a single dragon
chosen to bear that word and use it. One of the words was the one
that could be used to undo whatever the other six words had done. I
suppose even dragons make mistakes from time to time." Marsten
chuckled and sighed.

"How did Brahnek learn the word?" Garrett
asked.

Marsten shrugged. "No one knows. They say he
went away into the mountains with a handful of his greatest
warriors, but returned many months later, alone. After that, he had
the power to break the spells of the Faefolk who opposed him, and
with that power, he wrested the bastion of Wythr from them. Of
course it wasn't called Wythr then, but the elvish name eludes me.
I'm not so great a scholar as I pretend sometimes."

"Who named it Wythr then?" Garrett asked.

"I don't know," Marsten said, "I would guess
that it had something to do with the Spellbreaker's entrance into
the city, and the effect he had on it."

"Huh?"

"They say that the gardens of the city turned
gray and withered away when he first stepped through the gates, and
that the sun has never shone again here since that day," Marsten
said. Then he laughed, "Of course that's just a silly folktale to
explain the dismal weather that the city enjoys, thanks to its
location, sitting snugly between the mountain and the sea."

"Do you think he might have written the word
down somewhere?" Garrett asked.

"I don't know," Marsten admitted, "but I
think it unlikely. He died without heirs and nothing that I've read
mentioned anything him sharing the power with anyone else. He
probably took the secret to his grave, too jealous to give another
the power he held in life."

"Hmn," Garrett said, "Do you think he's
buried in the city somewhere?"

"Who knows?" Marsten said, "And why would you
want to know how to break magic, anyway? It is through magic that
we make the world a better place... through magic that we can even
bring the dead back to life. Why would you undo that, even if you
could?"

"Oh, I don't know," Garrett said, "I guess I
was just curious, that's all."

"Well, I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help,"
Marsten said, "but do stop by my townhouse as soon as you can. I'm
looking forward to helping you with your... little problem."
Marsten waved his fingers around the top of his head, and nodded
gravely at Garrett.

"Yeah... and thanks," Garrett said.

"Anything for a friend," Marsten
chuckled.

****

Garrett made his way down the hall to Uncle's
study. The light of Uncle's lamp spilled out into the dark hallway
beneath the crack of the door. As he drew closer, the sound of a
quill pen scratched across parchment, pausing only occasionally and
briefly for more ink.

"Uncle?" Garrett called softly, "Do you need
anything?"

"No, thank you, Garrett," Uncle Tinjin said,
then more pen scratching. It had been almost a week since the last
time Uncle Tinjin had asked Garrett about his day.

"Is your research going well?" Garrett
asked.

"Quite well, thank you," Tinjin said. More
scratching... pause... scratching.

Garrett slipped his hand into his pocket,
feeling Marsten's card there. A part of him wanted to tell Uncle
Tinjin about Marsten's offer to help him, but he still did not know
why Tinjin disliked the man. What if Tinjin told him not to see
Marsten again? Garrett pulled his hand from his pocket and walked
back to the kitchen where Tom was charring a fish on the stove.

Garrett sat and ate his dinner at the kitchen
table in silence, listening to the slow scuffling of the dead cook.
He looked across the table at the empty chair where Uncle Tinjin
used to sit for their meals. Perhaps he should have Caleb sit there
and pretend to eat.

A sudden idea seized him then, and Garrett
got up from the table and hurried into the hall.

He glanced down the hall toward Uncle's study
and retrieved his essence flask from his satchel by the front door
before quietly making his way to the doors of the dining room. He
winced at the creaking sound as he pulled one of the doors open and
slipped inside. The witchfire sconces flared to life, illuminating
the room and the table where two dead men sat, staring at their
withered hands before them on the table, Max and Cenick's
proxyliches.

Garrett crept to the far end of the table
where a tiny skull lay in the bottom of a silver bowl. He pulled
the stopper from his canister of essence and dribbled a little bit
of the glowing green fluid out into the palm of his hand. He was
going to have to make this part up.

Garrett picked up the little white skull in
his free hand before lifting his glowing palm to his lips. He
whispered, "
Please work."

He then placed his palm to his throat and
whispered, "Max, Cenick, can you hear me?"

Nothing happened.

A bit of the essence dribbled down into his
collar, but he felt the rest of it grow cold and fizz against the
skin of his throat. Something was happening.

"Max, Cenick," he said again, louder now,
"can you hear me?"

The little skull in his left hand began to
vibrate.

"Max, Cenick, please hear me," he said.

Suddenly one of the dead men lifted his
crowned head and turned to face Garrett with open eyes. "Uncle? Is
that you?" the proxylich croaked.

"No, it's Garrett. I'm using Uncle's skull to
talk to you."

"His skull!" the proxylich hissed, "Garrett,
what happened?"

"No, I mean the little skull! Uncle is fine!"
Garrett said.

"Ah... good to know," the dead man's voice
rattled, "Garrett, don't scare me like that."

"Sorry," Garrett said, "I just had a
question."

"A question... Garrett, how are you using
Uncle's skull? It was attuned to him specifically. It shouldn't
work for you at all," Max's proxylich said.

The dead man with the painted face hissed
with laughter. "I guess you aren't as clever as you thought you
were," Cenick's voice spoke through its lips as though from
somewhere far away.

"Are you guys all right?" Garrett asked.

"Quite well, actually," Max's lich said.

"Speak for yourself," Cenick grumbled, "I've
got every knight in Astorra lined up to challenge my men in the
tournament. Have you ever tried to teach a zombie to joust?"

"Tournament?" Garrett asked.

Max's lich cackled. "Good luck with that. You
got yourself into it."

"It was the only way to keep them busy
without killing each other," Cenick's lich said.

"Have your
knights
won any tourneys
yet?" Max asked.

"A few, by default," Cenick said, "It is
surprisingly difficult to knock the head off of a man in plate
armor."

"Well done," Max said, "Just keep them busy a
few more days before you acknowledge defeat and retire from the
field. I should have a solid foothold in Weslaen territory by then.
The Astorrans won't pursue me there, and the redjacks aren't
putting up much of a fight."

"They aren't?" Even through the proxylich's
croaking, Garrett could hear the concern in Cenick's voice.

"Only a few token troops guarding the
border," Max said, "Either they've gone soft, or they're trying to
lure me into a trap. Their mistake either way."

"Be careful, Max," Cenick said.

"I've planned this assault for years," Max
said, "The advantage is mine."

"Overconfidence is a weakness," Cenick
said.

Max's proxylich made a rude noise. "Just keep
the tin soldiers distracted a little longer and let me worry about
the Chadiri."

Cenick's proxylich creaked as it shook its
head.

"What was your question, Garrett?" Max
asked.

"Oh, I wanted to know if you know where
Brahnek Spellbreaker is buried?" Garrett said.

Max's lich laughed. "Looking to make a name
for yourself as the city's greatest necromancer while I'm away, are
you?"

"No, I..."

"I'm just kidding, Garrett," Max said, "The
truth is that we've been looking for the Chamber of Kings for a
long time. It's supposed to be buried deep beneath the city
somewhere, but, even with the ghouls' help, we never found it. If
you're up for an adventure, I'll go hunting for it with you when I
get home."

"The Chamber of Kings?" Garrett asked.

"A place where they buried the ancient kings
of Wythr before the Church took over the city. It's said to lie far
deeper than the deepest catacomb. If it exists at all, it's deeper
than we've ever been."

"Garrett," Cenick's proxylich spoke up,
"Don't go looking for it without one of us. Max and I have stumbled
across some very dangerous things in the catacombs, and there are
places that even the ghouls won't go."

"For once, the big scaredy-savage is right,"
Max said, "Just wait 'till I get back and you and I will ferret his
old bones up out of the ground together."

"All right," Garrett said, "Thanks for the
help."

"And when I get back, I'll make you your own
proxylich so you don't have to borrow Uncle's," Max said, "I'll
find a good skull for the purpose as well. Would you prefer
Chadirian or Astorran?"

"Max!" Cenick growled.

"Thanks again," Garrett said, "and be
careful."

"Of course, Garrett," Max said, "Oh, how is
the Templar thing going?"

"Pretty well," Garrett said, "They mostly
have me working in the library these days."

"Learned any dark secrets yet?" Max
asked.

"That's enough, Max," Cenick said, "Don't you
have a war to fight?"

Garrett laughed. "Nothing interesting," he
said, "Boring history stuff mainly."

"What was that?" Max said, "I can barely hear
you now." His voice trailed off as the magic faded, and the
proxylich's head slumped again to its chest.

"Goodbye, Garre..." Cenick's lich said as its
voice faded and it slouched into lifelessness once more.

"Goodbye, guys," Garrett said, feeling the
palm of his hand, dry and warm again, against his throat.

Garrett yawned, blinking to clear his vision
at the outskirts of Marrowvyn. He extinguished his torch and
slipped it back into his bag, anxious to have the use of both hands
for carrying the heavy bucket that Uncle Tinjin had insisted he
bring.

When he reached the little ruined house that
Warren and his father called home, he blinked again, startled by
the sound of music and light that spilled out through the old
cracked windows of their home. A pipe whistled a merry jig, and the
warm light of an oil lamp filled the old house.