The Immortals of Myrdwyer (5 page)

Marac stared at him.

Probably trying to think of some smart remark
. Laedron asked, “You have nothing to say?”

“What could I say? These things, in the course of love, happen.”

Not quite what I expected, but I’ll take it.
“She needs some time to… cool off.”

“I hope she gets there soon. We have no time for games on the road,” Marac said, then crawled into the bed and rolled onto his side. “Goodnight.”

After Marac and Brice had fallen asleep, Laedron sat awake in the chair staring at the ceiling and wondered if his instincts were correct, if he would better serve them in the end by keeping his distance from her.
I can choose no other way at this juncture, for all other paths seem to lead inexorably to fault and defeat. Damned Fates, if only I could sleep, if only I could have a rest from these thoughts.

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Chapter Four →

Tracking Farrah Harridan

L
aedron glanced at Valyrie as they walked back to the bookstore the next morning.
She hates me. I just know she does, and I won’t be surprised if she takes the first ship back to Azura.
He felt love—true, unstoppable adoration—for her, but for the sake of everyone’s safety, he couldn’t indulge those feelings.
I care for her. That’s all that should matter now, but we can’t endure if we don’t maintain our resolve. Being open and acting however we might like could weaken our coherency and put us all in grave danger. Later, when all of this is done, when we’re safe to do whatever we please and live the lives we choose for ourselves, things will be different. I only hope that it won’t be too late to rekindle what we have—what we
had
.

After passing through the gate and entering the bookstore, Laedron locked eyes with an elderly woman seated near the fire.

Shanden said, “Ah, you’re back.”

“You’re the boy who’s found one of my books, are you?” the old woman asked, eying his every move. “Come to discuss Far’rah Harridan, have you?”

Far’rah. Is the emphasis at the end important?
“Yes, madam. Well, my friends and I—”

“We should speak in private. Come along, young man.” With the aid of an oaken cane, the woman rose and proceeded to go into a room in the back of the store.

Laedron turned to Shanden. “My friends can’t come with me?”

“My mother—Callista, to you—demands privacy.”

“Why? Anything that she says will be relayed to my companions anyway.”

“You’re the sorcerer, aren’t you?” Shanden wiped the counter with an old, dusty rag, his frankness striking to Laedron.

“Yes.” For a moment, he wondered if he had entered some sort of secret coven of mages, its existence hidden from the watchful eye of the Heraldan church.
Only by hiding their natures could sorcerers survive in Lasoron. The church’s grip on these lands is too tight for it to be otherwise.

“Then, she will speak only with you,” Shanden said, pointing over his shoulder toward the back room. “She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Laedron wanted to say, “And I don’t like to be apart from my comrades, especially in circumstances such as these,” but he didn’t. Reluctantly, he took the book from Valyrie—after she handed it over in a rather aggressive manner—and approached the door leading to the rear chambers of the structure. He took a deep breath, then entered through a red curtain.

Two fireplaces in a shop this small?
he mused, taking in his surroundings. The old woman had already claimed a plush chair at the fireside, and a blanket was draped over her lap. Beneath her straight silver locks, a large emerald adorned a golden pendant at her breast, and she wore the necklace over a long-sleeved shirt with a tight collar and a floral print.

“You’ve brought a book for my examination, young man?” Her voice reminded him of the kind, elderly ladies of Reven’s Landing, but she spoke with more strength, an underlying authority.

He handed the book to her. “Yes, madam. We seek answers—”

“Answers? Or power?” Callista leaned forward and filled her cup to the brim from a teapot. “Care for any?”

“No, thank you.”

“Why don’t you have a seat?” She gestured at the other chair.

He sat, but leaned forward in anticipation of what she might reveal. “You were saying? Power?”

“He’s hungry.” She laughed. “Perhaps you’re not the one
they
seek.”

“They? What do you mean?”

“We’ll get to that in due time.” She eyed him as if inspecting prey just before the kill. “Tell me, what do you know of Far’rah Harridan?”

That emphasis again. So strange.
“Know of her? Well, I—”

The old woman erupted with laughter. “Nothing, I see. Will it be for the best, though? We shall see.”

Frustrated, he sat in silence.

“Good.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It would seem you are willing to listen. I’ve met many sorcerers, young man, and before now, I figured them all for fools.” She must have taken the tea down the wrong pipe because she choked, coughed, and covered her mouth with a frilly napkin. “Drunk with their own ambition, they were unwilling to listen to a wise word from an old woman.”

“I think you’ll find me quite atypical of most mages.”

“I
hope
that is the case.” Despite the apparent danger of doing so, she sipped her tea again, then placed it on the table next to her. “So, this book. A wondrous thing. A dangerous thing.”

He watched her while she rubbed the blank cover, her eyes closed tight, her face exhibiting a sort of longing.
I’ve seen mages obsess over spellbooks before—Ma was the world’s worst—but I can’t recall anyone feeling this strongly about some regular old book.

“A transcribed history,” she said, opening her eyes and peering at him. “Well, as close as one can make a transcription without the original. A book of rituals and magic. A cry for help.”

He furrowed his brow. “A cry for help?”

“Indeed.”

“How so?”

“To attract those seeking out the secrets of which it speaks, to draw them here, to me, and only the ones clever enough to find me can proceed.” She exchanged the book for her cup and sipped more tea. “The allure of everlasting life, of limitless magical power. Attractive, is it not?”

“No,” he replied flatly.

She spit the tea back into her cup, the liquid dribbling down her chin. “No?”

“The greater the power, the more men seek to possess it. If I were ever to find it, I would do best to be rid of it.”

“Interesting.” Dabbing her mouth and chin with the ruffled cloth, she set the teacup aside. “If you mean what you say, you would be the first.”

“Then, I might be the best to help you. What do you mean by ‘a cry for help’?”

She looked around the room as if the answer were written somewhere on the walls. “We have time, and we’ll get to that.”

He leaned back in the chair.

“The best place to begin would be with your questions. What are they?”

At the present time, I’ll be careful about what I reveal. I’m still unsure of this woman’s intentions.
“This book speaks of an ancient ceremony, of becoming a wizard, and a font—”

She closed her eyes. “’He would take on the qualities of magic itself; he would be restless, impervious to toxins, and needing little sustenance. Flowing through him like water in the river, magic would embody his existence.’ Yes, I know the passage well.”

Remarkable. She can recite the tome as if reading straight from the page
. “What does it mean?”

“Exactly what it says, young man.”

“Are you a sorceress?” He studied her for evidence of sorcery, but she had no wand, spellbook, or anything else that mages usually carried. “You must be.”

“You confuse memory with ability.” She smiled, and although she probably meant no harm, the grin was unsettling. “No, I’m not a mage myself, but I’ve known quite a few. Did you have any other questions?”

“I’ve been troubled by restlessness lately.”

“Go on.”

“My appetite has been easily quenched, and no matter how much ale I consume, I feel nothing.”

She rubbed her chin. “It would seem that you’ve been dabbling in things not meant for mere mortals, Sorcerer.”

“It was done
to
me. I had little choice in the matter.”

“Nonetheless, it would seem that you’ve been put on the road to becoming a wizard. What you do next will determine your ultimate destination.”

“And what choices lie ahead?”

“You speak as if they’ve already been made for you.”

He sighed. “Enough of these games.”

“The choices are simple: become a wizard or do not.”

“That’s it?”

“In essence, yes. I merely point out the way to both, and in the end, you decide.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And what lies along the way?”

“Many things.” She glanced away. “The village of Laslo shall be your first stop. From there, head west until you come upon a road in disrepair, an ancient highway.”

“And after that?”

“Follow it to its end, and if you were meant to, you’ll find the choice you seek.”

“What’s out there?”