Brian Kittrell - The Immortals of Myrdwyer

“What’d he say, Lae?” Brice asked through a mouthful of oats.

“From his recollection, it’s a bookseller. Not much else.”

“Come on, Thimble.” Marac stood. “You look like a fool eating that.”

“Do not.”

Driving his companions out of the inn like a shepherd, Laedron led them through the door and down the boulevard.

Just as the innkeeper had directed, Laedron found the shop along the wide avenue, and unlike the stone buildings surrounding it on every side, the bookstore, from the base to the roof, had been built of pine timbers. The dark brown panels of its exterior stood in stark contrast to the white faces of the other buildings, and years of disrepair were evidenced by the patchwork of lumber covering holes and weak spots. Laedron reached the wooden gate fronting the property and studied the sign, a wooden oval painted with a black field behind a golden moon and stars. He knew that such placards often decorated the shops and establishments of mages. Lasoron isn’t known for its sorcerers. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence.

“Something bothering you?” Marac asked.

Laedron gestured at the sign. “Strange to see that here. Regular merchants rarely use such symbols to mark their shops.”

“Maybe it’s customary here in Lasoron.” Marac nervously scratched his arm. “Or maybe they’re mages.”

“Be ready for anything,” Laedron said, passing through the gate. First onto the porch, he peered through the window and saw only dim shelves full of books and the glimmer of a small fire in the hearth. He pushed open the door and immediately caught the scent of old tomes and dust mixed with the smoky aroma of the fire pit. Then, his eyes met those of the man behind the counter.

“Greetings,” the man said, closing an old volume on the counter in front of him. He had hair similar in length, color, and style to Marac’s, a sandy brown, trimmed short. “I’m Shanden Grey, proprietor of this establishment. Might I interest you in a book?”

Laedron held out his hand to Valyrie. “The book, please.” After she handed it to him, Laedron walked over to the proprietor and slid the book across the counter. “I was wondering if you knew anything about this. We came across it in Azura, and its contents are a curiosity to me.”

Shanden opened the book and fixed a pair of spectacles on his nose. “Can’t say that I do, unfortunately.”

Laedron produced from his pocket the ledger that Jurgen had given him, then pulled out the sliver of paper noting the origins of the book. “It came from your shop.”

“Truly?” Shanden closely examined the book from back to front, then the ledger. “Strange. I’ve never seen it before.”

Laedron studied the man and noted that the bookseller seemed rather young compared to the presumed age of the Farrah Harridan novel. “Have you always owned this place?”

“It’s been in my family for quite some time. If you would care to, you could return with it tomorrow, and I’ll ask my mother to come along and see about it.”

“No way to see her today?”

A concerned demeanor draped Shanden’s face. “She’s elderly and infirmed, I’m afraid. She has her good days and her bad days, and this is one of the bad ones. To be honest, I fear that she may have few months left in her.”

“Then, tomorrow?”

Shanden nodded.

* * *

“Another night’s stay?” Marac sat on one of the long benches in the inn’s common room. “I hoped we’d be on our way by now.”

Laedron joined Marac at the table. “Little we can do. The only lead we have is this Shanden’s mother.”

“I can think of worse places to spend the night,” Brice said, sitting across from Laedron. “An old, abandoned church in Azura readily comes to mind.”

“You can say that again.” Valyrie sat next to Laedron and snatched an apple from a fruit bowl. “I only spent one night there, and my back still aches when I recall the bedding.”

“Mine still aches from it,” Marac said, reaching back and massaging the base of his spine. “The fight with Andolis and our time on the ship didn’t help, either.”

Laedron reached for his wand. “I can-”

“No, no. It’ll be fine.”

“Why do you stop me? With the wave of a wand, I could take all of the pain away.”

“And leave me with nothing but pleasant feelings?” Marac asked, hovering over a loaf of bread. “A little pain is good for you, my father used to say. Reminds us that we’re still alive. Keeps us fighting.”

Laedron tilted his head in confusion, but who was he to force Marac to do one thing or another? “As you wish. You need only tell me if you change your mind.”

* * *

Having finished his evening meal, Laedron stood and said, “We’ll meet here in the morning.”

“What will you do?” Marac asked. “The night’s young.”

“I thought I might work on my new spell-”

“The one where you appear and vomit?”

“That’s the one.”

Marac glanced at Valyrie. “Maybe you can convince him not to do anything dangerous.”

“It’ll be fine.” Laedron reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’ve considered things, and I believe I have a solution.”

Marac shook his head. “Please, take care. The more you meddle with new magic, the more nervous I become.”

Without another word, Laedron ascended the stairs, and Valyrie followed him to their room. Once the door was closed, he retrieved his old notes that he’d tucked into one of the Zyvdredi spellbooks and reviewed what he’d written of his traveling spell. He was unable to purge his thoughts of the nausea that had accompanied it; the sickness quivered in his belly at the idea of uttering the incantation again, but to leave the spell tucked away would mean its end, as if he’d never invented it in the first place.

“Anything I can do to help?” Valyrie asked.

“Keep practicing your vibrancy illusions.” He picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and perused his notations.

Holding the wand before her, she chanted, and the spell flickered. Her words and motions faded into the background as he concentrated, searching for a way to improve his spell and to rid it of the negative side effects. For a moment, he felt how he thought a regular student of magic might, the death, destruction, and underhanded dealings swept away and only spellcraft remaining. Try as he might, he was unable to forget the reason that he found himself in a strange, foreign land, hundreds of miles from his mother, sister, and everything familiar.

There must be a way to prevent the spinning and tumbling he thought, scratching some notes on the back of the paper. Then, it hit him like a flash-bolt. Encasing.

He imagined manipulating the space around the target of the spell instead of affecting a person directly. Like the shell of an egg. A protective barrier, with calm and serenity within. The shell travels, carrying the contents inside.

He barely noticed his tongue poking through his lips at the corner of his mouth, an almost involuntary reaction to deep contemplation. He wrote faster. Like a madman, he scrawled line after line until the page had been filled. Throwing the papers aside, he shot up from the bed.

Valyrie spun around with a look of surprise, her spell fading from existence. “What’s gotten into you, Lae?”

“Sorry. I think I have the answer to my little problem.”

“This time, I’m going with you.” She returned the wand to its sheath at her belt.

“No, you can’t-”

“Yes, I must. If Marac expects me to keep you out of trouble, I go where you go.”