The D'Karon Apprentice (6 page)

“How do I tolerate it?” Myranda said. “That’s
my home, Ether. That’s what a home is. It is supposed to be filled
with commotion, crowded with family and warm with the smell of
food. I’ve only had it back for a few months, and I’m already
dreading leaving it to go on this mission. I don’t know how I lived
without it for so long.”

“But you are
Chosen!
You are like me,
or as near like me as all but a handful of creatures could ever be.
You were meant for more than this! Even this ‘mission’ is little
more than a chore to mend the lingering symptoms of the disease
that we cured! Our job is done. Why devote yourself to this? It
doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.”

“It matters to me. And to a great many
others,” Myranda said. She placed a hand on Ether’s shoulder.
“Desmeres once said to me that a short life was a blessing because
it would end before we’d seen and done all we cared to do. For the
immortals, he said, a purpose must be found to maintain the drive
to go on.”

“I
had
a purpose, human. The grandest
purpose that could possibly exist. I was the guardian of this
world. And now that purpose is fulfilled. The world no longer needs
a guardian. And I watched my equal
die
, human. If Lain
could…” She stopped herself. “I shall be at the appointed place at
the appointed time. Contact me if you discover the taint of the
D’Karon in the south.”

Without another word, her form dissolved
away, leaving only the notebook hanging in the center of a churning
female form. She burst skyward. Myranda watched her soar away.
She’d just slipped from sight when Deacon joined Myranda, throwing
a cloak about her shoulders.

“What was wrong?” Deacon asked.

Myranda shook her head, eyes still on the
sky. “A few months ago she was the eternal defender of a world.
Then, in the same moment, her world suddenly no longer needed her
defense and she learned she might not be eternal,” Myranda said. “I
don’t envy her for the path she’s got ahead. I only hope she can
find her way.”

Deep in Tressor, on the eastern edge of the Tresson
desert, a well-fortified estate was tucked away in a sparsely treed
plain. Though utterly surrounded by troops, smiths, and other
elements of a strong military, the estate was nonetheless
luxurious.

A pair of men on horses, one in the red and
tan uniform of the army and the other in the rather shabby clothes
of a farmer, approached the ivy-clad trellis covering the cobbled
entry path. Four guards questioned the soldier, then showed him and
his guest inside.

As they walked through the halls of the
estate, the poorly dressed man seemed stricken with both awe and
anxiety. As he paced through the well-built and better-adorned
halls, he clutched his hands anxiously in front of him. Paintings
and tapestries covered the walls, each of them quite likely as
valuable as his whole farm to the south.

“Listen carefully. The man you are speaking
with is a military patron. You shall refer to him as Esteemed
Patron. Any question he asks, you will answer. Answer with all of
the detail you can manage and speak only the truth, is that
understood?”

“Of course,” the farmer said quickly.

“Good,” said the soldier. “Then this should
go smoothly.”

They approached a heavy door carved with an
intricate depiction of a great battle early in the Perpetual War,
the Battle of Five Point. The soldier knocked on the door.

“Esteemed Patron Sallim,” he announced.

“Speak,” came a voice from within, managing
in a single syllable to sound profoundly arrogant and entitled.

“I have here the man you asked to see.”

“Send him in.”

The soldier opened the door and ushered the
shabby man inside, shutting the door behind him.

Inside was an office that may as well have
been a museum. Finished wood shelves lined each wall. Leather
tomes, intricate figurines, and antique weapons were on display.
Seated at a massive wood desk at the far side of the room, a glass
window behind him open to the grandeur of the desert, was his host.
He was a man a few years the farmer’s senior, neatly dressed in the
formal equivalent of the lesser soldier’s uniform. He had black,
tightly curly hair trimmed short and a relentlessly superior
expression on his face.

“Sit, sir,” he said.

The farmer did so, treating the request as an
order.

“In the interest of saving time, I hope you
don’t mind if I skip the pleasantries. I assume you have better
things to do, and I know I do. I understand you’ve recently had a
traumatic and unexplained experience on your land?”

“I have.”

“And how long ago was this?”

“I… uh… about four months.”

“About? You aren’t certain?”

“It’s been… I’ve had to handle the funeral.
Things have been…” he said, flustered.

“It’s fine, sir. Would you say it is safe to
say it is at least four months, or at most four months?”

“At least.”

“Very well. What exactly happened?”

“I…” he began uncertainly. “I was warned not
to tell anyone.”

“Yes, sir. That warning came from my
immediate superiors, through me. I assure you, I am the one to whom
you may recount the events.” He opened a drawer and retrieved a
stack of parchment, then dipped a quill in an inkwell. “Now please
do so.”

The farmer took a breath. “Like I said, it
was about four months ago…”

#

Several Months Prior…

It was nearly dusk and a weary pair of
farmers was pacing back from the fields. They were brothers, and
each was looking forward to a good meal and a long night’s rest.
This far south in Tressor, there wasn’t much that would grow
without a tremendous amount of work. Most fields were left to grow
coarse grass and then were grazed by goats and sheep, but their
family had made a good living growing hazelnuts for some years, and
they were determined to keep the land producing. It simply took a
bit more effort each year.

A rustle in the fallow field to the side of
the road drew their attention. Something small and fast was
disturbing the wiry blades of grass that grew there, causing a wave
of motion streaking south.

“Hmph. Wildcat. Or maybe a jackal,” muttered
the first man, the older of the two brothers.

They watched the disturbance retreat into the
distance.

“At least that’s something we can be thankful
for,” said the younger brother.

“What, wildcats?”

“That’s right. Maraal and Temmir have been
complaining about all sorts of curious losses lately, particularly
when they bring their flocks and herds to the open fields to graze.
Maraal claims he lost half his flock overnight. Plenty of things to
worry about with an orchard, but there is little fear of a pack of
wildcats preying on the crop.”

“There’s that, I suppose.”

As they reached the turn that would take them
around the southern corner of the property, the older brother
glanced to the south and noticed a figure approaching. That in and
of itself was rather odd. Their field was just about as far south
as anyone in their right mind would have any interest traveling on
foot. There was nothing between it and the sea but dry grass,
barren fields, and a few mountains. He stood, pulling his coat a
bit closer about his shoulders, and watched the figure as it drew
nearer. With little else to do, his brother lingered beside him.
Sure enough,
someone
was coming.

“Suppose the goatherds are getting desperate
for grazing land,” the older brother reasoned. “No sense heading
home with the mystery hanging in the air. A few more minutes and
we’ll say a friendly hello and ‘What brings you to the hind end of
Tressor?’, eh?”

They leaned against the fence, and the
stranger crept closer. After a few minutes the figure was near
enough for them to make out a few more details.

“Looks like he’s wearing some pretty rough
skins. You figure him for a nomad?” asked the younger brother.

“There wouldn’t be any nomads this far south.
They stay to the deserts or the plains. They
might
linger
near the shore, but the shore is clear on the other side of the
mountains,” countered the older brother, squinting. “Is that… is
that an old woman!?”

Without thinking, the pair rushed into the
tall grass. An old woman, alone in the Southern Wastes. They
couldn’t imagine how it might have happened, but it was a wonder
she was still alive. She was quite a distance away, and as such
they were badly winded when they reached her, but one look was all
it took to know she was… not right. She was a frail thing with
long, scraggly white hair. In one hand was a white ivory walking
stick. In the other was a curved knife. Her feet were bare yet
somehow undamaged by what must have been a lengthy trek through
rough terrain. Despite no doubt being alone in the Wastes for quite
some time, the old woman didn’t seem to be in poor spirits. Indeed,
a wild grin came to her face as they approached.

“I offer greetings to you, pair of men who
are not yet of middle age!” she crowed, gesturing vigorously with
her knife and stick.

Her voice and diction were bizarre, but she
spoke with great certainty, as though she had no doubt that she was
communicating properly.

“Do you need help, old woman? Are you ill?
What is your name?”

“In a manner more slowly. You desire that I
inform you of the name that belongs to me?”

“Yes, and how did you—”

“
In a manner more slowly!
I shall tell
to you the name that belongs to me. This information I am quite
certain of, and it is an action that will give me great pleasure to
perform for you on this day. The name that belongs to me is
Turiel.”

“She speaks like those old prayers they used
to make us say,” the younger brother muttered.

“You seem healthy enough,” said the older
brother, speaking loudly and slowly. “Those furs you’ve got are
strange. They look fresh. Well-tanned, too. It is the wrong season
to be tanning hides.” He turned to his brother and added quietly,
“But then I suppose the nomads don’t keep to the same schedules as
the rest of us.”

“You sure she’s a nomad?”

“Absolutely. You can always tell a nomad.
They look out of place no matter where they are.”

“But look at that skin! She’s pale as a
ghost. That’s a Northerner.”

“I’ll buy that she’s a pale nomad before I
buy that she’s a Northerner this far south.” He turned back to the
woman. “Do you need help? Something to eat?”

“After some amount of thinking, my mind has
presented to me the suggestion that I do require help. And a thing
for me to eat would be quite useful in addition.”

“If you’ll just follow me to the house…” the
older brother began, but his word trailed away when the tip of her
walking stick touched his chest.

There was a dull blue glow, and the color
quickly began to drain from his face.

“What are you doing? Get away from him, you
witch!” he cried.

He attempted to rush toward her, but before
he could even move a foot, something clawed its way up his back
from behind, while at the same time something wrapped tightly
around his legs and constricted them. Both brothers fell to the
ground, the first stricken by whatever magic she had conjured and
the other tangling with some manner of beast he’d not yet been able
to see.

As the younger of the two desperately tried
to free himself of the grip of whatever had attacked him, the old
woman began to reap the benefits of her spell. The years began to
peel away from her face. Her craggy skin became smoother, her white
hair earning streaks of black. Withered muscles became firm and
healthy again. In the space of a few minutes she went from a hag at
death’s door to a woman perhaps old enough to be the mother of
either of these young men.

“That’s enough, Mott,” she said, clucking her
tongue.

Instantly the beast that had immobilized the
younger of the two brothers released him and scrabbled around her
to cling eagerly to the head of the staff. It was the same beast
she had hastily constructed in the cave some weeks prior upon
awaking, though since then it had been… improved. The jackal skull
now had flesh again, though the lower jaw hung a bit further open
than nature had intended and lacked a tongue. The flesh and fur of
the head faded gradually into the serpent body, which was covered
with dark green scales, but rust-colored jackal fur jutted out from
between the scales like weeds on a cobbled street. Bony flesh, like
the legs of a stork, covered the six spidery legs, and a pair of
undersized leathery wings fluttered madly on its back. Notably
absent was a pair of eyes. Instead it had horrid empty sockets with
embers of violet light within.

Now free of his attacker, the younger brother
scrambled through the grass to see to his sibling, but it was no
use. He was gone, just as shriveled and decayed as the old woman
had been moments before, and somehow already cold to the touch.

“He’s dead.”

“Yes! He’s quite dead. It couldn’t be helped,
boy. I’m a necromancer. I speak to the dead. Once it became clear
my mastery of the Tresson language had become obsolete, I had to
learn the newest inflections. Forgive me, but a lifetime of
communing with the dead has made it much more efficient for me to
absorb knowledge along with life force. And since I was going to
drain him
anyway
, I may as well put the energy to good
use.”

“But… but you…” he said, nearly sobbing in
anguish and fury.

“I must say, the language has become so much
less
formal.
I quite like it,” she said, disregarding his
emotional state. “Odd it would have changed so
much
since I
last spoke to a Tresson. I suppose it has been a while. What’s the
year, boy?”