Dave Smeds - The Sorcery Within

Keron strode impassively between the ranks of grievers, many of them from the royal houses of Firsthold, capital of Elandris. Obo's reputation had reached many ears, though the man himself had forever hidden in the background of court life – his face would not have been recognized by most of those present. In fact, Keron mused cynically, the turnout would never have been this large had not the king himself briefly come to pay his respects. To those seeking to curry favor, the funeral had become the place to be.

They passed the Greater Mausoleum, its marble columns stretching almost to the city dome. Perhaps one day Keron would himself be brought to that place, attired in finery as magnificent as that he wore today, to join the ranks of the Blood who had lived and died since Alemar Dragonslayer had built this, the first of his cities beneath the sea. At the Lesser Mausoleum, the Keeper of the Tomb was waiting.

Keron saluted the old man. "I give to you this servant of the king," he said ritually.

"What name shall be entered in the Record of the Dead?"

"Obo Iremshan, son of Ibo and Phelopeen."

"Let him pass, and find his place among the generations who have labored for the House of Olendim."

The pallbearers approached the threshold, which they did not cross. An equal number of the Keeper's assistants received the coffin as it came forward. They carried it inside, to the niche within which it would be deposited and sealed, marked by a plate of brass containing Obo's name, age, rank, and the nature of the tasks he had accomplished for the rulers of Elandris.

It was done. Keron turned, thanked the pallbearers, and ambled down the steps, a dark expression tainting his features. The crowd had already largely dispersed. Lady Nanth joined him as he reached street level. He held her hand and walked with her toward the vast palace.

"My condolences, Admiral," stated Lord D'rul, a former naval commander who had served with Keron's father. "And congratulations on your promotion."

Keron thanked the man tersely and quickly excused himself. He could read D'rul's motives. Upon his return to the capital, Keron had found himself raised not simply to rear admiral in charge of the northern fleet, but admiral of the entire navy, following the recent assassination of one of his cousins. It was obvious that Keron was very much in the king's favor. Furthermore, most at court had come to suspect – correctly so – that Keron possessed one of the talismans of Alemar Dragonslayer. So he was now the object of courtiers and hangers-on. All the bilge of the empire wanted to be his friend.

"He was a good man," Nanth said of the deceased. "It was so sudden. He seemed in good health only last week."

"Obo was old. I am relieved he got to die of natural causes."

"He healed so many. He couldn't save himself, though."

"He only worked with wounds. The Lesser Art, he called it. Nor do I think he wanted to thwart nature."

"I will miss him."

"So will I," Keron stated emphatically.

Nanth and he seldom talked about important matters. She would obviously have liked to continue, but they had reached the palace door that would take Keron to his offices. "I have business to attend to, my lady. Obo left some final wishes. I will see you at home soon."

She opened her mouth, but he had turned a corner before she could protest. He cringed a little at his gruffness, but in truth he couldn't enjoy Nanth's company until the matter on his conscience was cleared.

He greeted his secretaries and locked himself within his sanctum. He found a cup of hot tea waiting for him. He raised it up to toast the bald figure on the other side of the room.

"Now you are dead, and are free to serve me," Keron said.

Obo smiled and raised his own cup. "And a fine retirement it will be, I hope. The tension in this city could be cut with a kitchen knife. Too much for this tired old frame. If I had stayed much longer, I would soon have died in truth."

"Your need and mine have come to terms," Keron said. "It gives me hope, master wizard. Teach my children well."

"I will," Obo said seriously. "You will be proud of them."

"If I ever see them again," Keron murmured. As full admiral, no doubt he would be unable to leave the capital for a decade or more. "Give my love…" He choked on the phrase.

"I will," Obo said kindly. "She will understand, if she's half the woman you've described. She'll realize that all men have their duty."

"I forgot mine, for a month," Keron said, in a haunted tone of voice. "Now I'll pay for that lapse the rest of my life."

In a voice more fatherly than he had ever heard Obo use, the wizard said, "Do not blame yourself. If not for the Dragon, you could have chosen another path. Blame Gloroc. It is he who warps the lives of every man in the kingdom."

Blame the Dragon he would. But it wouldn't be enough. Keron had known of his lack of choice before he had met Lerina. Still he had loved her. If the fates willed it, he might have his vengeance on Gloroc one day, but he could never erase the fact that he had cruelly toyed with the life of an innocent young woman.

RET AJHEHEPHwas a rich man. Half the wagons in the caravan belonged to him; the other half to the traders who had paid his stiff fees. If he were so inclined, he could ride within his own personal coach, cushioned in velvet and canopied in fine Cilendri silk. Furthermore, where other merchants endured the journey from Azurajen to Surudain without the comfort of their wives' company, Jheheph always brought at least five of his favorite concubines and provided each with accommodations nearly as luxurious as his own. The oeikani beneath his saddle was of the most exclusive, thoroughbred stock. Ret a Jheheph was used to having his way.

A man was blocking the path of his caravan.

The stranger was alone, waiting atop a hardy desert oeikani, in the center of the wide, shallow rut through which the wagons were travelling. Ret a Jheheph recognized the white garb. He smiled. He had been expecting this.

The Zyraii rider maintained his position, though the caravan's pace did not slacken. As the gap between him and the lead wagon shrank, the assistant caravan master looked questioningly at Jheheph.

"Continue on," he commanded.

Finally, when the caravan was only a few dozen yards away, the Zyraii began walking his animal backward. Jheheph shrugged. They were close enough. He signalled a halt.

Jheheph himself rode to the head of the line, a slave beside him with a broad feather fan to ease the effects of the sun. He waited casually on his thoroughbred. Soon another slave brought a platter of dates. Jheheph ate one very slowly, and spat the pit out in the direction of the Zyraii.

"You are in the way, Po-no-pha."

"I am Shigmur of the T'lil," the rider replied. "You are entering my tribe's land."

"So?"

"Tribute is required."

Jheheph smiled. "Surely you are mistaken. The Alyr and the Olot took no tribute."

"We are not Alyr or Olot. Pay the tithe, or you may not cross our land."

Jheheph raised his hand. Abruptly, two archers hidden in the lead wagon stood up and fired arrows.

The Zyraii ducked to the side. One of the shafts missed entirely, the other caught him through the veil. He was moving instantly. The archers fired again, but the rider weaved out of the way. By the third set of shots, he had gained speed and was soon out of range.

"Too bad," Jheheph muttered.

"Do we chase him?" the assistant master asked.

"No. We'll be seeing him again."

R'lar broke the arrow and pulled it out of Shigmur's cheek. It was a clean wound, in through the mouth and out by way of a cheek. All things considered, it was as minor an injury as he could have hoped for. Granyet brought a bandage.