Part Six

Distance

64

Oh, No, Not Again...

DeFrantis

It was the sound of lightning and its flash that awoke her. Immediately, low hanging smoke filling the room bit into her eyes and made them water. DeFrantis clenched them closed, then shook her head, and covered her eyes with her hands.

Her hands were heavy, and as she moved them she heard the clinking of metal. She looked down, and in the dim light she saw the shackles on her wrists, each attached to a separate chain. She stretched out her hands, and quickly the chains went taught, attached to something up above her head. She could only move her hands down to about her shoulder level.

She let herself breathe and instantly recognized the smell. Mage's bane! Again!

She felt cold, and shivered. The room wasn't drafty, but it was obviously not heated, either. There was another flash in the window, revealing strong rains falling on the glass. Rain. More rain. The more things change... She remembered what had happened last time a heavy storm blew across the Wynne River meadows. She had been captured and locked away, just as she was, now. That was how she had met Antonerri.

Antonerri! Her head jumped up, scanning the room. Then she remembered. They had been separated back at the inn, the dark market, when the explosion had gone off. For a moment, her mind lingered on an image of his face.

As if on cue, another lightning strike illuminated the room, and she saw another figure asleep against the opposite wall, chained as she was. Karendle! You're the reason I'm here. You're the reason he's not.

DeFrantis had crawled across the floor of the dark market place, toward the bleeding and dying Karendle, and tried to save her, tried to use her shadow powers to keep her from slipping into the darkness of death. It had worked, but she looked up and saw the points of swords in her face. Someone was shouting at her, but she couldn't make out any words in the chaos of the moment. Then something had hit the side of her head, hard.

She drooped her hands back against her shoulders, resting them uncomfortably as they dangled by the shackles. You're the reason I lost sight of the children.

She took another slow breath, then coughed. The mage's bane smoke made her dizzy. She hung her head. Her mind danced with images of life in the old abandoned chapel with the other street kids. Andrina was the youngest, at about six, and the most playful. But she had gotten a little sick with the rains right before DeFrantis had left to steal some food.

She remembered when Tomanas, who was almost her age, had first told her of the offer to buy the children away. She had been shocked, but he had pressed. "They'll be out of our hair, and we'll have enough to live on for months! Maybe we can even get a real place to stay, and some real food!"

Now here I am, locked away again. I'm of no use to anyone. I'm out of tricks. I'm out of options. Maybe that's just the darkness of the mage's bane telling me what it thinks I want to hear. She yanked on the chains in frustration. They laughed at her with a jangly chuckle.

Or maybe it's the truth.

65

The Prayer of the Wicked

Antonerri

Antonerri picked up a small reed from the cup by the candles. His arm was sore and stiff from the bruising he'd received at the dark market inn. He held the reed in the flame of a candle until it caught a small tongue of its own fire. Then he slowly, painfully, used it to light more candles for his own prayers.

The sanctuary of the cathedral was dark, punctuated only by occasional colorful outbursts of lightning coming in through the stained glass from the storm cascading outside. The room smelled of incense and heating fires. The warm glow of the candles in the rack surrounded him as he knelt down before them.

He bowed his head.

But no words came.

His heart was filled with emptiness. He knelt as an offering, but had nothing to offer his Creator, nothing to give. Only failure.

He heard footsteps behind him, but didn't look up or turn. He heard the rustling of robes as Brother Mathazar also lit a few candles and knelt down beside him.

After a few moments of silence, Brother Mathazar spoke. "We've moved the children you rescued safely to our orphanage. Are you well? You took quite a beating."

Antonerri kept his head bowed in silence.

"But I suspect," Brother Mathazar continued, "That the beating you have taken has been much deeper than what happened yesterday."

Antonerri breathed deeply but still kept his gaze on the candles. "And DeFrantis? Is there any word?"

The brother shook his head, and looked at Antonerri. "They say that confession is good for the soul..."

At that, Antonerri tensed, and stared at the monk. His eyes narrowed, and he hissed with menace, "The last time I was told to confess, to purify my soul, the powers of light were not so cleansing."

Brother Mathazar turned around and sat on the steps of the altar. "I don't know what you've been through, or what you may have done. I don't claim to have any answers, either. I'm just offering a chance for you to unburden."

Antonerri looked him over, then returned his eyes to the candles. "I am unworthy. But I don't understand it. I have been cast from the church, and my own powers have left me," He took a breath, "And I have no idea why. My greatest sin is to defend the weak, to fight for those that can't fight for themselves. Isn't that what we're supposed to do?"

The brother nodded.

Antonerri continued, "So what great sin am I guilty of? Why has the Creator abandoned me?" The rain blew on the windows as he fell silent again.

"Has He?"

Antonerri glared at him again, with a quizzical brow.

"I don't know, but it seems to me that he's still using you to help the weak. You have saved three children from the depths of misery. You have three friends who value you enough to save you, and it looks like there is at least one other friend that needs your strength now. I wonder how they all feel about your 'worthiness'." He reached out, grasped Antonerri's shoulder, and patted it in reassurance. Then he pressed on it to support himself as he stood. "I'll bet they lean on you, too."

He stepped away from the altar. "I'll leave you to your prayers."

66

The Dragon's Flame

Granthurg

The rain wasn't hard, but it was steady, forming pools and streams in the street. Grathurg and Thissraelle held their cloaks tightly as they moved through the dark from the cathedral to the wharf.

"Slow down a little!" Thissraelle complained, "Where are you going?"

"Back to the barge. And I don't want to be seen." He said, glancing back over his shoulder. She ran a few steps to catch up to him.

"What's at the barge?"

"Answers, I hope." He kept up his stride. Assuming everything is still there.

They approached the wharf. The waterfront in Dirae was a few street blocks long, and there were several docking ports for boats and barges. There were crates and boxes all along the street above the docks, and Granthurg slipped between them to cover his movement. It wasn't easy, as tall as he was. Thissraelle followed suit.

"You OK?" He asked, as they paused behind some cargo at the top of the dock. She nodded. He looked up and down the riverfront, illuminated by a couple of bright oculi suspended on poles high above the wharf structure. He moved quickly, but carefully down the slippery dock to his barge. When he got there he stepped onto it, and helped Thissraelle. He immediately moved past their own cargo toward the steering platform at the stern. As he did, he saw that the boxes and crates had been untethered and tossed around. Many had been opened, with their contents strewn over the deck, now soaked and ruined. He heard Thissraelle say, "What happened here?"

Granthurg stepped over the clutter and said, "They've been here. I knew it. They probably searched here when their man didn't come back from the dark market. I'm glad we were safe up in the Cathedral."

He stepped up onto the platform, under the tarp. The noise of the rain beating on it was oppressive. One of the barge's lighting oculi had been taken, and the other was dim, making it hard to see. Before him on the deck was his trunk, opened and overturned. He sighed and bent down, righting it. He knelt and began putting scrolls and clothing back into the trunk. Thissraelle knelt next to him and helped. He said, "Some of these got a little wet from the rain. Still, it looks like they're not badly damaged." They latched the trunk closed.

"Is that what you wanted? Your scrolls?" Thissraelle asked.

"Yes, partly." But there's more. Before she could ask, Granthurg had turned around and stepped off the stern of the barge, landing in the river with a huge splash.

"Granthurg!" Thissraelle scrambled to the edge of the platform, and looked over just as his head bobbed up out of the water. He spat and shook the drops from his face, a gesture that was a bit useless in the rain. Then he rose up and stood on the bottom. The water was just below his shoulder. He smiled up at her. "It's not that deep here." He stepped forward, then ducked his head as he passed under the barge, between the long floats that kept it buoyant. He felt along the floats as he moved further into the darkness, his hands searching.

"Are you OK back there?" Thissraelle was leaning over, with the rain falling on her head, trying to look over the edge.

His hands found a box, and he reached up to untie it. Once it was freed, he held it over his head and moved through the water back to the stern. His boots were slow on the slippery, muddy riverbed as he ducked to come out from under the barge.

He handed it up to Thissraelle. It was a small, wooden box, only a few feet long and a half a foot wide. She set it on the platform.

"Can you lift me up?" Granthurg said with a smile.

Thissraelle laughed a little at the irony, then extended her hand. Nothing happened. Granthurg looked up, blinking in the rain.

"Hang on", she said, and refocused. Her hand began glowing slightly with a shade of blue, and Granthurg raised up, dripping, until he was even with the platform. He hovered there, and shook most of the water out of his shirt and pants, then stepped onto the barge. He knelt and reached for the box, being careful not to drip on it.

"What is it?" Thisraelle leaned in to look.

"I don't know. It's Rinkmoor's. I suspect it's what these attackers have been after, so I hid it that night that everyone else slept in the inn." Granthurg set it in front of him. "It's not mine, so I didn't want to open it. But if our life is at risk, I need to know what we're dealing with." He looked at her, as if for approval, or reassurance. She nodded.

He reached to his right and grabbed a small metal wrench from the deck, and easily twisted off the lock. Gently, he raised the lid.

Inside was a beautifully ornate dagger, with a curved white blade and a finely stitched leather hilt, set on soft black velvet. Granthurg picked it up and turned it in his hands. The blade looked like ivory, but not like any he had seen before, and was etched with intricate and overlapping lines. The crosspiece was a dark metal and shaped like two arms with clawed hands. The pommel at the end was a large disc with a pattern carved into it. Granthurg turned it in the dim light to see it better, and sharply drew in his breath. "Oh, Rinkmorr, what have you gotten yourself into?"

"What?" Thisraelle asked, "What is it?"

He turned the blade to show her the design. It was a dragon, breathing fire.