Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

He rose and left the temple. Walking down the avenue of temples, the fire of anger flickered at last. The irony struck him. That morning, he had projected his fury at Struth because she had stolen his totem; now he resented his ancestors and had to wonder if the frog god had done him a service by containing them.

He nearly bumped into a fat acolyte of one god or another, who cursed him. Gibberish, more gibberish. Other passersby mumbled their unintelligible gossip. What was he to do with himself? The confrontation with his totem had proven that he had, after all, somewhat adapted to this northern world, but that did not mean he belonged here yet.

How could he get back to the Wood? Only there, in familiar lands, could he possibly let his totem live as it had before. No, he was deluding himself-he could never let his ancestors speak freely again. They would always remind him of what he had done. But the Wood was still the only place he could call home, and Rhi waited for him there.

To leave the continent, he would have to cross the ocean. He would need to know the speech of the sailors to find passage, work off debts, and avoid opportunists. The only scheme that tempted him was to return to Irigion. He knew the route, and once there, some of those who spoke Mirienese could teach him the tongue that most of the northern principalities seemed to share. A year or two might be consumed before he reached the Wood, but that would still return him home long before his son came of age.

He threw the dream up at the wisps of clouds gathering in front of the setting sun. Struth had snared him well.

His warrior instincts told him that one of the people walking behind him was making straight for him. He turned.

Geim joined him. For an instant, the sight of another Vanihr reawakened his totem. His ancestors strained at their bonds. Toren winced, but kept them in check.

"You are well?" Geim asked.

Toren laughed wryly. "I am healthy, if that's what you mean."

"Not exactly," Geim stated, but let the matter drop. The bracelet on his wrist, the talisman of pursuit, drew Toren's glance. Geim shrugged. "You know you're too valuable to us to let you wander far. Struth felt you needed the time alone, but now it's best that you return to the temple."

"Why not?" Toren said, and reversed direction. "Thank you for reminding me of my imprisonment. I was just reflecting on what a clever cage it is." Under the sarcasm, it astonished him how good it felt to be able to discourse with ease and subtlety.

"The precautions are for your own safety. Gloroc's spies and assassins have a formidable reputation, and even Struth's eyes cannot be everywhere."

"The concern of the goddess touches me," Toren said.

"You really are free to go, if you wish."

"I may do that-later." The language matter refused to settle down and leave Toren be. "Tell me," he asked as they turned down the alley toward the side entrance, "why did Deena teach me her native tongue, and not the one that you and she shared? Was that deliberate?"

"You mean, why did we keep you from learning the main language of the north?" Geim asked bluntly.

The forthrightness pleased Toren. "Yes."

"It was not to handicap you, if that's what you're thinking. Just the opposite. Struth wants you to learn the High Speech immediately. Deena and I were prohibited from teaching it to you, in part because it is not a native tongue to either of us. We each speak it with an accent. Would you like to start now?"

Toren blinked. "As a matter of fact, yes."

The drelb admitted them to the temple. "Very well," Geim said. "We had planned to wait a day or two, but I think tonight will do. Come. There's someone you need to meet."

DUSK HALLOWED THE CORRIDORS of the main edifice of the temple complex as Geim led Toren up spiraling stairs to the third floor. They stopped before a door in the northeast corner of the building. Geim knocked. A thin, warbling voice responded.

They entered a small, hexagonal chamber whose walls overflowed with books, scrolls, and tablets. A high, arched window provided a view over the wall of the temple grounds-the city climbed into the heights of the gorge, and the final traces of sunlight scintillated off the snow banks of the high peaks. Sweet herb incense burned in a freestanding brazier. A narrow bed took up space along one wall; otherwise the only furniture consisted of a small round table and a broad, soft chair.

A man sat in the chair. As they entered he touched the lamp on the table and the wick caught, staving off twilight's impending gloom. The illumination flickered over a flowing white beard and glistened on a bald, age-mottled scalp. Toren stared at his host's hand, but the fingers held no match or striker.

Geim uttered a sentence. The old man nodded. Geim turned back to Toren and said, "This is Obo, former counsellor of Keron, King of Elandris."

The name jogged Toren's memory.

Obo inclined his head. "I see you've heard of me," he said. Though his voice quavered, each word seemed to echo.

"You were Ivayer's teacher. The wizard who made Geim's net," Toren replied. "You speak Mirienese?"

At the mention of Ivayer, Obo's eyes clouded. "Yes. My apprentice was with the party sent to capture you," he stated sadly. "And I made the talisman, though Struth had to teach me a few tricks to do it. As for the last, I was born in Mirien."

"Ivayer died well," Toren said. It was the highest compliment a modhiv could pay, but he could tell that Obo was not consoled.

"Yes. Geim told me." He ran his fingers through his beard. "Such a promising lad. I had hoped to finish training one last apprentice before my days came to an end."

"The men who killed him did not escape unscathed," Toren said.

"I care nothing about that," Obo said, ending the matter. "Geim tells me you're in a hurry to learn the High Speech. Did he mention what's involved?"

"No. The topic came up by accident."

"It's a dramatic technique. I've had to prepare for several weeks. But the result will be worth it. I would be happy to get it over with early. Have you eaten?"

The question took Toren by surprise. As if in response, his stomach growled. "Not since dawn, before entering the city."

"Excellent. That's best for this type of spell."

Toren's eyes narrowed. "Another spell? I am getting worn down by all this sorcery in my life."

"Young man," Obo said flatly, "if you could see your own aura, you would know that you were born to have sorcery in your life."

Geim shuffled. "I need to report to the high priestess that I located you, Toren. Are you staying?"

The modhiv shrugged. "Yes. I suppose so."

Geim made his excuses to Obo and departed.

"Very well," Toren told the wizard, "another spellcasting probably won't bruise me more than what I've been through today."

"It won't," Obo said reassuringly, as if he knew all about the totem's restoration. Toren had no doubt that he did. The modhiv had never met a person who projected such a sense of wisdom and knowledge. "Though I suspect you gained something, however uncomfortable the experience may have been."

"That remains to be seen," Toren said. It bothered him to think the sorcerer could guess that.

"Indeed." Obo lifted a tiny flask off a shelf and uncorked it. "Drink this. Be forewarned it will make you sleepy."

Another potion. Toren sighed and sniffed the concoction, catching a hint of licorice. He sipped carefully, no more than a drop, and a few moments later was surprised to discover that he had eagerly swallowed it all. He stared dumbfounded at the flask.

"More?"

"That's plenty," Obo said quickly.

The potion left a warmth like wine. His stomach stopped complaining. The promised effect was immediate. Drowsy and calm, he let Obo lead him to the bed. The modhiv tugged off his moccasins and stretched out on his back.