The Pleasure of Memory (13 page)

He urged the stool in closer to the desk and began leafing through the pages, picking out and reading the sections that summarized the war and its outcome. Fortunately, Chance and his mentor prefaced each chapter with a synopsis, sparing him the torture of pouring through the bulk of his mentor’s rambling prose. Still, even the summaries themselves sometimes ran for twenty or more pages.

He pressed his fingertips to the script and began to read.

“
The calamity of the Fifty Year War was the fruit of our now dead adversary, Fren’ba Shen
.
Even before the war began, Shen held the distinction of being one of only a very few Vaemyn born with the Birthsight, and was a bearer of a caeyl of Power. Vaemyn born with the Birthsight are uniquely rare among all the races in this world. The number of notable Vaemyn blessed or cursed with this gift may be counted on a single hand. In the end, his distinction as a Vaemyn Caeyl Mage was overshadowed by the immensity of his power.

“
Shen was a Master of the Fire Caeyl, the gem whose power is demonstrated through its control over demons, wraiths, imps and other forces of the Wyr Realm (see Chapter 12, pages 1296-1317 for descriptive detail). Unlike the Water and Blood Caeyls, the Fire Caeyl has never had a practical function in the mortal world. Its energy is of sinister nature, one with the singular purpose of conquest through destruction, intimidation, and enslavement, and its bearers have used it for that purpose since the beginning of...
”

Luren sighed. “My lord is a slave to melodrama.”

He flipped a page ahead.

“
Shen rose in the Council of Fates to the position of Council Eijf’ey at the young age of sixty-three. This is the Vaemysh equivalent of Prime Minister. It was also no small comment on his power that a mere ten years later, he was voted unanimously into the position of Noble Seer of the Circle of Twenty, the powerful society of the Birthsight Lords of caeyl Magic. Given such power and prestige, how was it any surprise he was able to coerce his people to storm into the jaws of war so willingly? Using his immense charisma...”

“And on and on and on,” Luren muttered, shaking his head, “For the love of Calina, I know it’s in here somewhere.”

He thumbed forward through the book, following his finger along each line as he looked for keywords that would identify the details regarding the war’s outcome. Finding information in this particular section was not easy, even despite his proficiency in speaking Vaemysh. The Vaemysh language was especially non-conducive to writing. The characters of the Vaemysh alphabet were fluid and spidery, and many words were nearly identical when written, despite the fact that they sounded nothing alike when spoken.

Finally, he found what he was looking for:

“
Suspicion and hatred toward the Vaemyn had been passed down like family traditions through dozens of generations of citizens of the Allied nations. A few unenlightened kingdoms, most notably the militaristic Pendts who inhabit the Plaguebrines east of the Iron Mountains (see Chapter 15, pages 2613-2688), even degrade to abducting them for use as chattel in that foulest of human enterprises, slavery. This—
”

Their old gander started bellowing outside the house. It was trumpeting its displeasure as loudly as if warning of the arrival of the seventh hell. Not that Luren took any surprise in it; the old goose was prone to hollering at the slightest provocation. They’d have served that damned bird up for dinner years ago if he’d had his way. He was tempted to go outside and give the ornery beast a good kick, but the bird went quiet before he found the ambition.

Sighing, he returned to the book. He sifted through the next few pages, skimming past the tedious details of the Vaemyns’ previous unsavory involvement in the Divinic Wars, which occurred nearly eight hundred years before the Fifty Year War, and which were considered by some academics to be the precursor to that later war.

“Gods almighty! I don’t care, Chance,” Luren grumbled as he searched, “Only you old timers care what happened a thousand years ago. Just give me the Fifty Year War.”

He flipped another dozen pages and thankfully found what he was looking for:

“
After the Fifty Year War, the Allies forcefully evicted the Vaemysh people from these parts, and the governance of Na te’Yed was eventually passed to me, Chance Gnoman. Na te’Tula, the southern half of the vast forest that had been the heart of the Vaemysh homeland, was so spoiled and corrupt from the fallout of Fren’ba Shen’s dark magic, it was deemed uninhabitable and was subsequently abandoned. It was eventually claimed by Shen’s young Parhronii apprentice, Prae the Biled.
”

Luren stopped. He realized that every time Chance referenced Prae in this volume, he failed to identify him with a surname. He often used the man’s diminutive moniker of Prae the Biled, and other times just Prae, but there was never any mention of a second name. It was most odd and he made a mental note to ask Chance about it when he returned.

He went back to his reading:

“
In consideration of their involvement in that great world war that was the Divinic Wars, and their subsequent initiation of the disastrous Fifty Year War, the Vaemyn were relocated to their current reservations in the southern scrubs. They were henceforth forbidden to trespass outside their new ‘homelands’ without approval of the Allied Council of Defense. Several dozen forts were constructed and managed by the Allies to supervise their ‘regulation’. When the Vaemyn did travel outward to trade or forage, they were banned from wearing battle dress or bearing weaponry of any kind. Any such intrusion would be considered an act of war and would result in the literal decimation of their state, their culture, and potentially even their very race. The Allies are bound by blood and their oaths to Gracious Calina and the Gods of Pentyrfal to eradicate the Vaemyn under such circumstances in order to prevent any possibility of a recurrence of another Divinic—
”

The old gander resumed hollering again. He sounded just outside the window. Luren stood on the stool’s rungs and leaned across the book and into the deep desk toward the glass. Through the irregular pane, he could see heat waves shimmering across the tall grass between the house and the old forest, but there was no sign of the goose.

He was about to give it up, when the honking grew louder and more determined. Luren leaned closer and pounded on the glass, yelling, “Will you shut the hell up!”

“Would you like me to shut him up for you?” a voice answered.

Luren jumped back from the desk, tearing the open page nearly in half as he and the stool crashed to the floor. Across the room, the front door was wide open. The dark silhouette of a man who was seven feet tall if he was an inch filled the frame.

Luren quickly scrambled back to his feet. His heart was pounding hard enough to bust a rib, but he couldn’t let it show. Chance had taught him to project an air of stubborn authority when facing the unknown, even if he had to fake it.

“In these parts, it’s customary to knock before entering another’s home,” he snapped at the intruder.

The figure stepped casually into the room. “Forgive me, young lord, but I’m not from these parts.” The voice was harsh and grating, like the sound of glass scraping slate.

“Who are you, then?” Luren asked him, “And what do you want, barging into our house so boldly?”

The intruder casually moved a few paces closer. As he left the brilliant light of the door, the details describing him came to life. A deep, satiny gold cowl concealed his face. The cowl melted into a richly embroidered cloak that cascaded over wide shoulders and fell to the floor where it dusted the planks as he walked. He wore a suit of smooth, silvery armor beneath the cloak, armor that hissed strangely as he moved. Luren didn’t recognize it as the uniform of any nation or clan. He was about to order the man out of the house when four Vaemysh warriors abruptly slipped into the room and formed a half circle behind the man. Each wore the traditional Vaemysh sleeveless mail, and leather leggings engraved with symbols and runes that faded and darkened to match the tenor of the room’s shadows.

As Luren watched them take position behind the tall man, he thought of the sentry down on the road. Seems its energy charge wasn’t as weak as Chance had believed. In that moment, Luren swore to the gods above he’d never, ever, not for the rest of his miserable life, ever again tease Chance for that singular mistake if he’d only just walk in that door right now.

“I’m looking for the Water Caeyl Mage,” the man said as his hood surveyed the room, “Chance Gnoman is his name. I don’t sense his presence here, though I suspect you can tell me where he is.”

Without taking his eyes from the man, Luren picked up the fallen stool and placed it between them. “What’s your business with Lord Chance?” he demanded as firmly as he could manage, “You’re clearly no merchant.” It worried him that he couldn’t see the man’s face.

“You’re a bit on the small side to be the palace interrogator, aren’t you?” the man replied in that grating voice, “What’s your name, boy?”

“I’m Milaas,” Luren lied, “Son of Wahl. I’m tending to Lord Chance’s property while he’s away.”

“Really? Well, if you’re tending to his property while he’s away, you’re likely to know where he went, then, aren’t you.”

Luren looked at the warriors, who were staring back at him too intently. Despite the peculiar grins dressing their faces, they looked as serious as a funeral pyre. “Of course I do,” he said, turning his attention back to the intruder, “He’s in Barcuun.”

“Barcuun,” the man repeated.

“Yes. He has business with the Baeldonian Royal House. He won’t be back for several days.”

“Business with the Royal House of Baeldonia? My goodness, he must be a very important man.”

“He is very important,” Luren said, “But I guess you’d know that if you had business with him, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, look at you. You’re one sassy little bag of meat, aren’t you?”

Luren braced himself against an icy chill. He was suddenly very afraid. “What…what did you say?”

The man was now standing directly across the stool from him. “You seem ill at ease,” the hood said from a mile up, “We mean you no harm, young sir.”

“Truly?” Luren asked, nodding at the warriors standing directly behind the man, “Do they know that?”

“Fear not, Milaas. They don’t breathe without my blessing.”

Luren backed slowly away from the soldier. As he did, his hand slipped along the desk’s edge toward a tall iron candlestick perched at the corner. There was a window on the wall ten or twelve feet behind him. He counted the steps it’d take to throw the candlestick at the intruder, run for the window, and dive out into the yard. The odds weren’t inspiring. His fear promoted itself to full-rank terror.

“Where are you slipping away to, little man? I pray you’re not harboring any silly notions about fleeing. I just told you we’re not going to hurt you. We merely wish to have words with your master.”

Luren seized the candlestick and thrust the base up at the soldier. “You stay away from me!” he yelled, holding the candlestick up like a mace, “Stay back or I swear I’ll dent that helmet clean through to your skull, I don’t care how hard it is!”

“Which?” The intruder asked.

The question confused Luren. “Which?”

“Yes, which?”

“Which what?” Luren pressed.

“You don’t care how hard which is? My helmet or my skull?”

“I...I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, really. I don’t believe we’ll put either to the test today.” The man slapped the stool out of the way. It spun across the room like a tossed rag before rolling into silence at the foot of the hearth on the other side of the room.

“You just stay back!” Luren yelled, waving the candlestick threateningly, “I mean it! Don’t you come any closer!”

“Well, you certainly are a brave little beating heart, aren’t you?” the man said in that offensive voice. He held a hand out to his side. One of the warriors behind him pressed the handle of a long knife into it.

Luren watched the man tapping the knife blade manically against his armored forearm. His legs felt so weak, he suddenly doubted he’d be able to run if the opportunity presented itself. He wanted to see the man’s face, to see what this giant of a soldier looked like.

“What do you say we put that bravery to a test?” the man said, “I’m wondering how long you’ll be able to maintain it under a properly applied threat.” Then he made a queer gurgling noise that Luren guessed was something akin to a laugh.

The wind suddenly kicked up outside the house. The man turned toward the window and bent down low to look outside. Luren saw the massive form of the sentry settling to a landing out in the middle of the yard. Maybe it was a sign of hope. Maybe the sentry could intervene, or maybe it meant Chance was close at hand.

“Ah, just in time,” the man said, turning his cowl toward Luren, “I have to say, that’s one of those many little things I most love about this mortal world, the concept of timing.”

Luren’s breath locked in his chest. Mortal world? The situation turned suddenly surreal. He felt ripped from his body, felt like his consciousness hovered up in the high rafters as he watched the scene unfolding below.