Martin Hengst - The Darkest Hour

“Oh, Tia, Wynn. I’m glad to see you. You’re both looking well, by the way. I knew a couple of days in the capable hands of Ethergate’s healers would set you right.” His voice cracked and he hastily cleared his throat.

“In a hurry to get somewhere, Cabot?” Tia was curious what would have the normally imperturbable young man so out of sorts.

“I’ve been recalled to Dragonfell. I was hoping to catch the gate back to Blackbeach and shave some time off the trip.” He looked expectantly at Wynn. “What do you say, Apprentice Wynn?”

Wynn looked at Cabot, then glanced at Tia, silently pleading for her to intervene. She shrugged.

“I don’t know the gate ritual,” he finally said to Cabot. “I wish I could help.”

Cabot looked crestfallen. A shadow of something flickered behind his eyes so quickly that Tia was sure she had misread his expression. “I understand. Thanks anyway, Wynn.”

The young man turned to leave and Tia laid a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened and for a moment, she thought he was going to turn on her.

“Cabot?” she asked quietly. “What’s going on?”

“I just need to get back to Dragonfell.” He took a deep breath. “Harold. My father. The innkeeper. He died this morning. His injuries were just too severe.”

“Oh Cabot, I’m so sorry.” Tia’s eyes were suddenly wet. She could still see Harold sprawled on the common room floor.

“Yeah. I need to go. Maybe there’s a wagon heading east.”

Cabot all but ran from the room, leaving Tia and Wynn standing in silence. Tia wiped her eyes and turned to Wynn. She was surprised to see that his eyes were just as moist as hers.

“Wynn?”

“I’m fine. Harold looked after me for a while after Faxon brought me to Ethergate. He was…important to me. When Cabot came to see you in the infirmary, I knew he was familiar. I just now realized why.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. So let’s get to the library and find this relic before anyone else has to die.”

Tia chose to ignore the bitterness in his voice as they made their way out of the gate room and across the city toward the reliquary. The wall in the lower library had been repaired, the lightness of the new stone a telltale sign of the recent construction. The tunnel beyond had been collapsed with charges of flashpowder. Never again would Ethergate by breached by way of the old Xarundi bolt-hole.

Although the wall had been patched, no one had been in to set the library right. Shelves were still toppled in all directions and books and papers were strewn about without a care for their age or fragility.

“You’d think a city full of quintessentialists would be more concerned about their books.” Tiadaria was collecting the oldest tomes from the floor and piling them on the nearest desk.

“We all seem to have different priorities these days,” Wynn said absently. He was leaning against a fallen bookshelf, flipping through a small leather-bound journal. “I think I’ve found something, Tia.”

The excitement in the young apprentice’s voice was enough to draw Tiadaria to his side.

“What is it?” The prospect of a clue in their elusive quest for the relic had set her all aquiver.

“Alveron’s journal. I didn’t even know it was here. It must have been tucked back in one of the bookcases.”

“But I thought you said Alveron never returned?”

“He didn’t. There’s an inscription in the front that says it was returned to Ethergate with the rest of his personal effects.”

“Returned by whom?”

“Clan tradesmen, it says.”

Tiadaria snorted. “Probably the only time the clan ever did anything so selfless.”

“I doubt it was selfless,” Wynn replied with a wry grin. “The order pays well for artifacts returned. The clans probably account for about eighty percent of the bounty we pay out.”

“Figures. So what does it say?”

“Skip what it says for now,” he said and before Tia could wonder what he meant, he tipped the journal toward her so she could see the pages he was looking at.

It was a map, a detailed map of the area west of Ethergate. There was a series of notes and annotations in a scrawl that Tiadaria couldn’t decipher. What jumped out at her was a symbol scrawled far to the north on the map.

“What does this mean?” She tapped the symbol with her finger, daring him to dispute what she already felt.

“That’s our relic. Or rather, what Alveron thought was the relic’s resting place.”

Tia let out a low whistle. After so much anticipation, it seemed almost anti-climactic to have a neatly labeled map laid out before them. She scrubbed her palms on her thighs, trying to work off some of the nervous energy.

“So what do we do?” Even as she asked the questions, part of Tiadaria wanted Wynn to come up with some other plausible theory.

“We do what we were instructed to do. We stay put and wait for Faxon to arrive. When he does, we’ll turn over all this information and let the order take whatever action they see fit.”

“Seems like I was almost late for the party.”

Tiadaria whirled toward the familiar voice. Faxon stood at the foot of the stairs, his robes shimmering in the magical lamp light.

“Faxon!” Tiadaria broke and ran to him, throwing her arms around his middle and nearly bowling him over.

“It’s nice to see you too, Tia.” The quint chuckled, looking over her head at his apprentice. Wynn gave him a half bow.

“Master Indra.”

Faxon sighed. “Still with the formalities, Wynn? I had hoped Tia would have broken you of that by now.”

“It’s an ongoing project,” Tia said, disengaging herself from Faxon and trying to smooth his rumpled robes.

“Of that, I have little doubt. I’m sorry I was delayed. I had to attend to some other business before I could come to Ethergate, but it seems like you’ve done well enough for yourself.” He held Tia away from him by her shoulders, turning her this way and that, as if appraising her. “Bring that journal and let’s get out of this moldering dungeon. We have a lot of work to do.”

* * *

The Elvish Harlot was a different place, Tia thought sadly. She, Faxon, and Wynn were gathered around the largest table left intact in the common room. They were the only ones in the building. Cabot’s brother had told them to stay as long as they liked. He had been by to board up the worst of the damage. The other patrons had all moved on. She could understand why. She kept glancing at the broken bar, expecting Harold to be there, and rubbing it down with his tattered towel.

Faxon touched her arm and she jumped. “Sorry,” she said, inclining her head in apology.

“It’s alright,” the quintessentialist’s smile was warm. “I understand, but right now, we need to focus.”

“As I was saying,” Faxon continued without rebuke. “It is safe to assume that if we have figured out where the relic is, the Xarundi probably have too.”

“That’s a pretty big leap,” Wynn said uncertainly. “We have resources the Xarundi don’t. I’m not sure it's a given that they know where to look.”

“And under normal circumstances, I’d probably agree with you, Wynn. But there’s something you’ve forgotten to account for.”

“Which is?”

“The gargoyle.”

Wynn shook his head in disbelief. “I’m not sure how statuary is going to help them. Was there a map hidden inside it?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Faxon said with a grin. “That gargoyle was a living thing. The only reason it was still in its dormant form is that someone who died long before we arrived either accidentally, or through their own insight, put it in a building without windows. Had it been somewhere the moonlight could reach it, we’d likely be having a different conversation.”