Mark of the fool 8 a pro.., p.17
Mark of the Fool 8: A Progression Fantasy Epic, page 17
After entrusting a waiting attendant with his moose, the Guide began climbing stairs through the many courtyards, bridges, and walkways that made up the exterior of the fae lord’s citadel.
The short fae sighed, smiling nostalgically. In past adventures—during times when he’d found himself fleeing this place under less than ideal circumstances—these passages and courtyards had been far more confusing.
They used to contort around him in an ever changing maze, like the castle had come to life and was trying to stop him from escaping.
Mostly because it had.
It was a wonderfully entertaining puzzle, one he’d taken great delight in solving as he slaughtered any guard silly, or misguidedly brave enough, to bar his way.
Oh, how fun those days were!
It was a pity the castle was so depressingly compliant now, letting him pass with no trouble at all. Any old grudges between him and Aenflynn were long buried, every debt was paid, and the two were on boringly pleasant terms.
The sad thing was that the Stalker was comfortable enough with those terms to not cause any trouble, not even for the fun of it.
He gave a deep, sad sigh as he mounted a castle wall halfway up the towering citadel and began walking along a bridge of glowing glass leading to a tower separate from the main castle.
“I am getting old,” he chastised himself. “A younger me would’ve been cracking heads for chuckles. Bah! Ah well, youth for the young, they say. And wisdom for the wise.”
“A shame that you are neither,” Lord Aenflynn’s voice whispered along the wind.
The Stalker resisted the urge to shake his fist at the empty air as he finally reached the tower at the end of the bridge. It was a curious structure—even by fae standards—made of carved emerald—floating in the air seemingly unsupported.
Strange shadows moved in the green jewel’s facets, each seeming to whisper long dead secrets.
The Guide was reaching for the tower door, when it opened.
Inside, there stood a table of plain stone with two seats pushed against it, and a pair of cups sitting on it. Both were filled with a fine honey-wine that Aenflynn often drank and—frustratingly—refused to either share its name, or its source.
Long ago, the Stalker had promised he’d get that information out of him one day—one day still hadn’t come yet.
“So, you called for me, my lord?” he said, all smiles.
“Yes… I did,” Aenflynn answered distantly.
He was tall, and as lean as a young willow branch. His face was touched by an unearthly beauty, and a laurel of ivy crowned his brow, sitting just above his pointed ears. His eyes were pools of silver light, seeming both ancient and shrewd, and were fixed on movement within the wall and ceiling.
The chamber’s interior was crafted from the same emerald as the rest of the tower, and inside each jewelled facet, a hazy image swam. With much difficulty, the Stalker recognised that he was seeing certain sights and scenes from across Aenflynn’s domain in the fae wild, along with the mortal realm of Thameland.
In all of his many years coming here, he’d never seen anything clearly, everything was always hazy, fog shrouded shadows, and silhouettes within the facets. Though they had grown marginally clearer as the years passed.
From his understanding, where he saw only shadows, Lord Aenflynn saw clear images. And it was upon one of those images that the lord’s gaze was now fixed.
“The hour grows late,” the fae lord said. “Very late. The sun and moon move quickly over this realm of Och Fir Nog.”
“Ooo, a game of riddles!” The Stalker rubbed his hands together. “What fun! Mind if I have a seat?”
“We would be pleased if you did.”
“Good, good.” The small fae scuttled into the seat across from the lord and took a sip of honey-wine. “Mmm! That’s still mighty good, by bark and solstice! Ah! Feel like a little bet? How about if I win this game of riddles, you have to tell me the name of this wonderful—”
“No,” said Lord Aenflynn, his gaze fixed on the image.
“Oh, bah!” the Guide complained. “That’s no fun! Alright, the sun and moon grow quickly. The hour grows late… Aye, you’re saying that time is running out for something. And time is running out faster than you thought—you’re saying, ‘days and nights are passing quickly’—is that right?”
“Fie,” Lord Aenflynn sighed, looking away from the facet. “You are less fun than you used to be. No puzzling nor struggling.”
“I am old and wise now, m’lord,” the Stalker said. “So what can I do for you? Need help speeding up plans?”
“You cannot do anything for me yet,” Lord Aenflynn said. “But we will need a certain service from you soon; for now, we seek information from you. How goes your quest to gain new hounds? How goes your hunt?”
The Stalker grinned, rolling his eyes. “Of course you would know about that. Well, so far, the hounds are motivated and the quarry’s good. The Fool of Thameland seems to be a wily one, gifted with strange powers. I’m sure he’ll be a fine challenge.”
“Good, we are pleased by this. You have our full blessing, and so we must ask this of you now.”
“You just said I couldn’t do anything for you right now.” The Stalker raised an eyebrow.
“That is true, but we aren’t asking you to do something. We are about to ask you to not do something.” Lord Aenflynn grinned, revealing sharp teeth.
“Bah! Cheap play on words.”
“What is cheaper, the play on words or the mind that fails to see through them? We know the answer.” Lord Aenflynn chuckled. “What you will not do is appear before the Sage, Chosen, or Champion of Thameland for a time. Not until we say so.”
The Stalker paused in surprise. “Oh? That wouldn’t cause me any problems—I haven’t sworn to be by their side, I’ve just been helping them on your order. If your orders change, so be it. But wouldn’t that cause you to break an oath with them?”
Lord Aenflynn grinned, beginning to recite his exact oath. “One hundred and twenty of your monsters, to be given once per moon in groups of thirty or more, not less. In return, you will have the service of one of my fae warriors for every three monsters you provide me. In addition, you Heroes will have full access to the fae gates, letting you cross the five highways of my realm and quickening your travels across Thameland. Your armies will have use of the same, though you will all be under fae law while travelling through the fae wild. If any of you violate our laws, you will be subject to our punishments.”
He then mimicked the Chosen of Thameland, “Aye, got all that. An’ if we betray you, then you will command your fae warriors to set on us and rip us to shreds. If ya betray us, then any Ravener-spawn we’ve gifted t’ ya will make things nasty for ya. We’ll also have folk ready t’care fer yer elderly changelings in two moons’ time.”
Aenflynn’s grin widened. “Those are the words of the pact spoken between us.”
“Ahhhh… I see,” the Stalker said. “Betraying you… ah, that can have so many interpretations and the Heroes are subject to fae law in this land.”
“Indeed,” Lord Aenflynn said. “We are bound to give them and their armies access to the fae gates, let them cross the five highways of my realm and quicken their travels across Thameland. Your guiding them was a bonus.”
“Which you can take away at any time.”
“Exactly, which frees you up for your own tasks,” Lord Aenflynn said. “When your hunt is over, would you take up another one?”
The Stalker raised an eyebrow. “Who would I be hunting?”
“The Saint of Thameland.”
Chapter 23
An Open Seat
“The Saint of Thameland, eh?” The Stalker sat, pondering his lord’s words.
Surprising words. Strange words.
As far as he knew, there was no enmity between the fae lord and the holy Hero of Uldar. Had the young man said something to offend Aenflynn?
He was easily offended, after all.
And what of his oath to the Heroes? Merzhin hadn’t broken any law of the fae wild, or betrayed either the lord nor the realm of Och Fir Nog. Then what was this all about. Wouldn’t Aenflynn be breaking his own oath if he was to work against the Saint?
He presented his concerns to the taller fae, who simply laughed.
“Our oath specified the word you in my conversation with the Heroes, and at that time, we were only speaking with three of them: the Sage, the Champion, and the Chosen,” Aenflynn said. “The Fool and the Saint are completely unbound by any oath to us, for better and for worse. They have full freedom to act, so it would be better if they were taken out of the situation, so to speak.”
“Fine by me, but it’s going to be a pretty boring hunt; the boy was close to being a broken shell when I last saw him.”
“Oh? You were at the Battle at Uldar’s Rise?” Aenflynn asked.
“I was close enough to nearly singe my beard, m’lord.” The Stalker gave him a grim smile. “If you were there, you would’ve seen explosions as bright and as hot as dragonfire, or even the sun’s breath. Life and death. Oaths given and wills shattered. All in all, it was good, bloody fun, I’d say. Made me crave hunting the Fool even more. And you? You watched as well?”
“Indeed,” Lord Aenflynn said. “The mortals’ secrets are not as secret as they might think. I have known of Uldar’s secret enclave for as long as it has existed.”
“Right, and is it something that happened there that made you want to go against poor St. Merzhin?”
“No and yes.” Aenflynn looked up at the ceiling again. “There is an opportunity coming, my friend. An opportunity so grand and so succulent, that any number of fae lords, wizards, and mortal kings of the world would give their first born to take advantage of it. Yet, we are fortunate enough to have that opportunity simply fall at our feet. We only have to bend down and pick it up… We would be fools to let anything or anyone get in our way.”
“Aye, alright, I’ll take care of ’im,” said the Stalker. “No two hunts are equal, after all. I’m sure the Fool’s hunt will more than make up for the Saint’s humdrum one… What would be the payment for Merzhin’s life?”
Aenflynn smiled and took a deep sip from his goblet. “You have been asking me for longer than I can remember where you might lay your very capable hands on this vintage… So, how about this? If you kill the Saint when you finish your hunt of the Fool, then you shall not only know its name, but where you can get it as well. Further, I will supply you with a century’s worth.”
The Stalker lit up like a human child on Sigmus morning. “I won’t let you take that back, my lord!”
“We have no interest in taking anything back.” Lord Aenflynn raised his goblet. “You do this for us, and you will deserve your reward.”
“Hah! I knew there was a reason I stopped killin’ your warriors!” The Stalker toasted his lord. “Here’s to opportunities!”
“To opportunities.” Aenflynn drank deeply.
The Stalker put his drink down. “Mm, speaking of that, you mind telling me what this opportunity you mentioned is about?”
“And spoil the surprise? Absolutely not!” Aenflynn chastised him.
“Oh, come on, don’t tease me like that!” the Stalker said. “You have me all curious now!”
“Hm.” The fae lord looked at him evenly. “Fine, then. We will grant you a small piece of the puzzle. If you can put the rest together, you will have the knowledge you seek.”
“Goody, more riddles!” The Stalker rubbed his hands together like a greedy fly.
The lord set his goblet aside, looking back at the ceiling. “Long ago, a friend of ours missed an important date. It was the kind of date that one does not miss unless one is indisposed. And that friend was in a position to become indisposed. So I went to the deepest wells of my realm, where its power is greatest, and sought to read the winds of fate.”
He gestured to the shadowy images dancing in the emerald. “But they were more obscure to me then than these images are to you now. It was as though we were seeing far distant shapes through a milky fog. With what we suspected was likely to occur, we sensed that we would get our chance.”
“A chance at what, m’lord?” the Stalker asked.
“I will answer you this way; let us say you walked into this chamber,” Aenflynn said, “and you were handed a glass of wine. But better wine was being served only to those seated at this table.”
“How much better?”
“Let us say that you are more than satisfied with the wine you were handed. You think it is delicious. But the wine at this table? You know it is even more delicious, even though you have never tasted it.”
“Well, I’d be curious about this mysterious wine, to be sure, m’lord.”
“Of course, so would anyone with blood in their veins,” Aenflynn said smoothly. “But, alas, every seat at the table is full. What then?”
“Am I looking to make enemies of those at the table? Can I just take the wine?”
“No, and no.”
“Hmmmm,” the Stalker puzzled. “Well, I like my own wine. So I’d keep drinking that. Maybe I’d get the chance to drink the other wine at another time.”
“Of course you would. Your life is long, and opportunities await. No sense in starting a fight with someone filling a seat… but let us say… someone were to leave the table.”
“Ooooohohoho, now things are getting spicy! I can taste the cinnamon already.” The Stalker clapped. “And am I invited to the table?”
“No.” Aenflynn’s eyes flared brightly. “In fact, no one is. But someone might just sit in that chair. Or the chair could be removed completely, leaving one less seat at the table. What would you do then?”
“Of course, I’d grab the seat before anyone else could get to the table, or before it was taken away!” the Stalker said.
Now Lord Aenflynn’s smile became sly. “Indeed. Of course that is what one would do… when there is an empty chair. Keep your ears open my friend, for my riddle is easy to solve. With the right information, the answer will fall into place. Now, go and see your hounds. We have kept you from your hunt long enough.”
“Aye, true, true, m’lord.” The Stalker stood up, stretching. “Say, could I get you to send your guards after me on the way out? I miss the chases of old.”
“Fie, begone with our blessing. We shall have no clownery in my castle today.”
“Bah, you’re no sport, I swear.”
“Well, well, well,” the Stalker said. “You’ve certainly been busy, haven’t you?”
The short, stocky fae looked around, taking in squat stone houses carved from the island’s rocky surface. Crops were springing up in plots and gardens around them, and the beginnings of a road was being cut into the earth.
Uldar’s displaced servants were hard at work, transforming their barren refuge into a new home and fortress that would provide them with protection against the elements and enemies.
Tall stone walls had been raised around the settlement, and the Stalker sensed a powerful divine ward sheathing the small island. In a nearby lagoon, a number of priests were working away, catching fish, cleaning and drying some on flat rocks, and smoking others over low flame.
Others were carving boats from the island’s sparse trees.
Standing at the centre of their new settlement was a rough-hewn church dedicated to Uldar, the very first structure that they’d raised.
The white hand of Uldar seemed to wave at the Stalker as he took in the labour of his hounds.
“We have indeed been busy,” Third Apostle Izas answered, standing at the fae’s side while viewing the community with pride. “Hard work and holy toil are excellent balms for grief, and they have the added benefit of providing us with shelter, food, and drink while also preparing us to dispense retribution.”
“Aye, it seems I’ve picked some real good ones to hunt with!” The Stalker rubbed his hands together. “And speaking of that, we should be ready for the hunt soon. Where might your fearless leader be?”
“The First Apostle is in seclusion, contemplating Uldar’s will and what needs to be done so we may serve him,” the Third Apostle said. “He’s instructed me to meet with you and speak with his full authority. We are to discuss the hunt.”
“Ah, of course. So, when will you all be ready?” the Stalker asked.
“In half a month’s time, we will be completely secure, and the seeds of destruction will be growing throughout Thameland,” Izas said matter-of-factly.
“Oho? Care to tell me what it is you mean? No wait, tell it to me as a riddle! I love riddles!”
“I will speak plainly.”
“Ah, boo!”
“We have sent a few agents back to the mainland to begin spreading word of the Fool’s identity,” the Third Apostle said. “But their number is small, and since there are so few of us now, they must move with caution to avoid discovery. Without holy leader Eldin here to coordinate those activities, things are harder.”
A sorrowful look crossed his face, followed by one of pure rage.
With a single breath, he banished all emotion.
The Stalker filed the reaction away for later. It always paid a kennel master to know how to motivate their hounds.
“We will have to learn to live without Eldin,” the Third Apostle sighed. “But as followers of Uldar, we are focused and must become used to loss. But, forgive me, I am rambling. Those we sent out were to meet agents already embedded across Thameland. Even as we speak, the information is spreading. I estimate that—within a week or so—it will have reached well placed lords of the realm, and highly positioned members of the church. Within a couple of weeks, High Priest Tobias Jay and King Athelstan Merciex will know. Then? The Fool will be made to return home. And he will be ripe for our hunting.”
“Ahhhh, a solid plan, a solid plan.” The Stalker ran a hand through his beard. “Better to hunt him here than in his faraway city.”
“We could not hunt him in Generasi,” the Third Apostle said.
