Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (37 page)

“A Neven D
’Carda is someone who is neither male or female,” Virgin said, granting Oleana his full attention as she reached forward to set her hands on the table. “They are usually creatures with great amounts of magical power, though I have only ever heard of such a being born under Elvish blood.”

“I
’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“You don
’t often hear of them so far in the northern world,” Oleana said, “but regardless, know that this is an honor that should not be passed up.”

“I don
’t plan on it,” Odin said, bowing his head. “Thank you, High Healer, for your help. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You are a very special person, Yamda. Jarden is interested in your magic and lineage.”

Odin turned his head up.

When the Elf looked into his eyes, piercing what he considered to be his most personal barrier and granting him but a second to realize that
she had just distinguished what he was, he nodded, then reached down to take Virgin’s hand, which lay perfectly accessible on the Halfling’s thigh.

Virgin
’s fingers tightened around his.

A breath escaped his throat.

With a simple nod, Oleana rose and began to make her way toward the entrance to the bar.

“We should go,” Virgin said, guiding Odin to his feet and heading toward the doorway.

“Where are we going?” Odin frowned.

“We will be in the presence of royals this evening. We should at least dress as such.”

“The color suits you,” the tailor said, flushing his hands along the curve of the golden-brown, long-sleeved shirt Odin wore before guiding his hair back and down his neck.

“You’re very handsome,” Virgin agreed from the doorway.

“Are you not buying a suit for yourself, young Yamda?” the tailor frowned.

“My partner is the one who will be attending this meeting, not I.”

“You don
’t plan on escorting me?” Odin frowned.

“Of course I do, but I
’m not the one looking to impress a high mage.”

“Such a dignified response from such noble Elves,” the tailor said, drawing a length of thread along Odin
’s legs before making a few slight adjustments to the threading along the pants. “I would think you would want shoes to go with this?”

“I don
’t need them,” Odin said. “Really, I—“

“He
’ll take the shoes,” Virgin said.

“Virgin—“

“I’m paying for it, Odin. Don’t worry.”

I
’m not,
Odin thought, grimacing as the Elven tailor began to pop the buttons along the length of his chest, then as he gestured him to turn and spread his arms.
I just don’t know how I feel about you spending stolen money.

He could not blame his companion
’s behaviors. They had likely been ingrained within him by family—or, at the very least, a sire who had taught him his art and what it meant to be a rogue living on the fringe of society. That secured within him the belief that, in the end, it was all right for Virgin to pay for the suit, if only because the situation merited it and courtesy need use for such a thing.

“All right then,” the tailor said, gesturing Odin to the side so he could remove his pants behind the privacy curtain. “If you come by at, say, dusk, I can have these to you just in time for your meeting.”

“Thank you,” Odin said, offering the finely-made pants over the privacy ring before reaching down to redress. “I really appreciate it.”

“No need to thank me, young Yamda. I do it for the love of the art.”

“You didn
’t have to do that,” Odin said, shoving his hands into his pockets as they made their way down the road and back toward the inn Oleana had arranged them at. “I could’ve paid for it myself.”

“Why let you pay for it
when I can just as easily?”

“I just don
’t want to burden you.”

“If you were a burden to me, Odin, I wouldn
’t have stayed on with you this far.”

He does have a point,
his conscience whispered.
He could’ve been long gone the moment he left you off at the inn.

Were Virgin a man of lesser values and of immoral stipulations, he could have easily turned his back on him on his deathbed and fled
to the woods—toward, what Odin could only imagine, was easy pickings on travelers making their way around this hellacious part of the world. He’d attempted to rob him easily enough—had, in but a few swift movements, placed a knife to his neck and told him to turn over everything he had—so for him to have not done that was a miracle unto itself.

We share something though.

What, though? He couldn’t say love, for he didn’t truly know whether or not he was in such a thing or if Virgin did, for a fact, care for him, nor could he say that their similar lineage was a bonding point between them, for they rarely talked about it. To anyone looking upon the situation, they could have been anything but similar—a champion and a thief walking hand-in-hand down the ever-changing road of life.

“I know,” Odin finally said, stopping in the middle of the road to better compose himself for the conversation likely to follow. “I
’m sorry, Virgin.”

“For what?”

“For acting needy.”

“You
’re nothing of the sort, Odin. If anything, you’re the least destitute person I’ve ever met.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“I do.”

Odin said nothing. Instead, he turned his head to look upon the situation before them.

Few people within the streets stopped to acknowledge them, much less turn. Unlike in human settlements, towns and villages, there were few women standing alongside the road chatting with friends or engaging in dialogue with husbands, no men handling animals or rousing their children in from long days of play. What unsettled him the most—and, possibly, most importantly—was the scarcity of children. He saw no Elven child seated within the middle of the street playing marbles with his friends, no little girl running after a kitten, crying with glee as she captured it within her outstretched hands and showed it to the world with pride, no little boy swinging a sword in the middle of the street to fight in his fantasies a monster that tried to slay his friends and family. There seemed to be none of that here, this normality he had become so used to, and for that he couldn’t help but stare at the few Elves he did see, for they seemed a sight that did not exist within these strange, empty streets.

It
’s so much different,
he thought,
than our world.

Could he honestly say that this place—this
city of greatness—
was not his world? He was, after all, two parts Elf, even if one of those were tainted, vile and rude, so he couldn’t argue with the fact that this place, among others, should have counted among his many homes. Felnon, Ornala, Lesliana—all were, in a way, bound to him, the first in youth, the second in age, the third blood. He could not deny the fact that he was now, with strength and resolution, standing upon the ground where part of him had come from once upon a time, in a land far away and a time too far off to tell.

A pair of arms slipped around his shoulders.

Odin turned his head to look into Virgin’s eyes. “You ok?” he asked.

“I
’m fine,” Virgin said. “Don’t worry.”

“I
’m not.”

“Good. Let
’s get back to the inn and kill a few hours before we have to come back to the tailor shop.”

Odin stood before what was perhaps one of the most ornate mirrors he had ever seen looking upon his ensemble. A golden cape at his back, a pair of white gloves upon his hands, his long-sleeved shirt buttoned, secured, framed upon his broad chest and his pants and boots shining in colors of bronze—he had never felt more confident in his appearance than at that moment, when the tailor finished securing his hair into a fine braid and adjusting the bangs at the side of his head.

“You look… amazing,” Virgin said, stepping up behind him to look at Odin
’s reflection.

“Thank you,” Odin said, almost shy with jealousy.

“It is quite the outfit if I do say so myself,” the tailor said, counting the money secured within his palm. “I never made it with the intent of ever having a Yamda wear it, but I have to say, it really does suit you.”

“It does,” Virgin agreed, clapping Odin
’s upper arms before taking a few steps back.

“Is there anything else I can do to thank you?” Odin asked, turning his attention on the tailor who stood no more than a few feet away. “I really can
’t thank you enough.”

“There is no need to thank me any more than you already have. Seeing it on you is thanks enough.” The Elf slid the gold into his pocket and gestured them to
ward the entrance of the shop. “I hate to say it, friends, but I must close for the night. Good luck at your meeting, sir.”

“Thank you,” Odin said.

The door closed firmly behind them.

“Guess this is it then,” Odin said, training his eyes on the distant silhouette of the castle.

“Might I have your arm, sir Odin?” Virgin asked.

“You may,” Odin said.

He slid his arm between Virgin’s elbow and chest and started forward, all the while wondering just what it was they would encounter come time they entered the castle.

It could, in a few simple words, be described as magical. Torches burning along the corridor walls, the halls flushed with green tapestry and covered in rugs of the same color, those bearing upon their surfaces an insignia resembling something of a creature carrying a city upon its head, the few windows along the western scope of the ornately-created castle gilded and made in stained glass—they marched up the southern expanse of the corridor with two sets of guards in rows of three both behind and in front of them in preparation for what could have been one of the most important moments of their lives. As commoners, they were instructed to do whatever it was they were told without question, and as refined guests they were told to be honored, so when they turned into a side hall with little word of warning, Odin simply followed suit and kept his silence as Virgin held his head high and proud in the face of such noble persecution.

This place,
Odin thought.

He could truthfully and honestly say that this castle was far more beautiful than anything humankind could have ever made, if only because it seemed with a simple conscience that shapes abstract and lacking def
initive shape could, in fact, be beautiful. Ornala was, in a way, a modernization of art that would likely lead only to more and more standardized creations. Buildings would be made square, towers reduced, reshaped to rectangles, squares, the occasional triangle, structures would be cast in geometric shapes that resembled things commonplace and without diversity—humankind, it seemed, wanted to create a world completely devoid of art, which made Odin tremble in the fact of such ornate beauty around him.

You would never find something this far north,
he thought.
Or west, or east.

“Or anywhere,” he whispered.

“You say something?” Virgin asked.

“No,” Odin said. “Don
’t worry about it.”

With a simple shrug, the
older Halfling set his hands at his side and continued following the guards down the hallway.

For
what felt like hours they marched through corridors—first straight, then rounded, then completely angular and, at points, heading up inclines and then descending down declines. There seemed no end to this convoluted mess of halls, walls and tapestries, so when they finally stopped in place for several long, undeterminable moments, Odin thought that they had finally come to the place, only to find that the guards had just stopped in order to let someone passing down the hall go forward first.

“I hate to complain,” Odin said, “but how much longer will it be until we
’re at High Mage Jarden’s office?”

“We will be there soon,” one of the guards said, shifting his shoulders to allow the thin but obviously-protective armor to fluctuate over his upper back. “As to his
‘office,’ the High Mage does not live within an ‘office.’ It is Jarden’s own personal quarters, where you will likely be dining and meeting in his personal living room.”

“I see,” Odin said.

Virgin only offered a shrug in response.

They continued through the halls for several longer perio
ds of time. It occurred to Odin in the expanse of time it took to round one level and then another that this castle, as small as it seemed to be from the outside, was obviously much larger he had initially anticipated. Had he a common thought about it, it would have been that the interlaced hands-like structure was actually a mere illusion to the actual size it held, for though his pursuits through Ornala’s castle had been aplenty, he had never spent this much time going from one end to the other.

Will this ever end?
he thought.

Just when it seemed like it never would, the guards stopped in the middle of the hall, directly where, to their left, a door stood in plain and simple glory.

“Is this it?” Virgin asked.

“This is High Mage Jarden
’s office,” the only guard who’d managed to speak the entire time said, turning in unison with his fellow Elves to face them. “Knock on the door and wait for it to open.”

“It opens on its own?”

None of the Elves answered.

Stepping forward, but carefully as to not trip over his own feet, Odin raised his hand, knocked on the door, then stepped back in preparation for the moment he would meet the
Neven D’Carda and thereby either succeed with his plan or fail in it.

As one, the guards stepped away.

Virgin frowned.

Odin was about to open his mouth and say something when the door opened, revealing to them a long, darkened hallway with what appeared to be a single candle alight on a second door at the end of the corridor.