RIST JUMPED AT THE KNOCK on the door. He folded over the corner of the page and slipped his book under the covers of his bed. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to hide it. He just did.
There wasn't much in the room. A small bed with a wooden frame. A desk for reading and writing, adorned with a single candle. Two wooden chairs, a small dresser, and a woollen rug. There were no paintings, decorations, or ornamentations. It was simple. In honesty, he didn't mind it too much.
The man who had knocked did not wait on an invitation to enter. He never did. He looked middling in his years, with a plain enough face, a strong jawline, and short, cropped black hair. A black robe adorned his shoulders and flowed down over his body. As usual, he carried a covered silver tray with that evening's dinner.
Roast lamb, by the smell of it.
Rist had been there nearly two weeks, by his count. Every day flowed in much the same way. He woke with the sun to an empty room and a locked door. He ate one meal a day, which was always delivered by the same man.
When he needed to wash or relieve himself, he did so under guard. That was it.
"Are you well?" The man's voice was firmer than Rist had expected.
There was an authority to it. He caught Rist off-guard. This was the first time he had spoken. Two weeks. He brought him his dinner every day for two weeks and had never said a word.
"I… I am. Thank you."
A hint of a smile sat on the man's face as he lifted the lid from the silver tray, showing two plates of food. Lamb, carrots, potatoes, and a small pitcher of meat gravy. The food had been like this every night. It was better than home. But there had never been two plates.
The man took the plates from the tray and lay them down on the desk, then placed the tray and lid on the floor under the table. He scooped up the pitcher of gravy and bathed his plate in the sweet-smelling brown liquid.
"Gravy?" he asked.
"Em… yes, please." Rist was still unsure. It could be a trick. He had not been mistreated while he was there, but nor had he been free to leave. Not one person had spoken to him.
Rist had been angry at first, when he woke up. It had done nothing. He was barely even given a second look. So, he decided to try a different tack.
A horse often responded better to a carrot than a stick. "Excuse me… Why am I here? Where are my friends?"
The man waved his hand, calling Rist over. "Come and sit. We will talk."
Rist's stomach rumbled. It was not like he had many options. He had been trying to get this man to talk for the last couple weeks. Now was his opportunity.
Rist got up from the bed and took the empty chair. The food smelled amazing. He had tried not to eat it the first few days, but they simply replaced the old full plate with a new full plate. Eventually, the hunger became too much. If they wanted him dead, they could have done so with ease. There was no need to poison him.
He looked up at the man, who chewed away on a piece of lamb. There was nothing about his face that would make him stand out. With an inward sigh, Rist took up the cutlery that the man had set out beside the plate and joined him in eating dinner. It tasted as good as it smelled.
"You are in Al'Nasla," the man said out of nowhere, as if they had been in a free-flowing conversation. "The embassy of the Circle of Magii in the palace, to be exact."
Rist's fork dropped to the ground, clinking off the silver tray below the table. "I'm… I'm in Loria?" His mind raced a hundred miles a minute. "I can't be… How is that even possible? I was in Midhaven, in Illyanara. How did I get to the North?"
Rist stopped. He needed to collect himself. He had no idea why this man had finally started talking, or if he would ever talk again. He needed to be smart and ask the right questions. "Who are you? why am I here?"
The man chewed his food meticulously, swallowing before he answered.
"You may call me Garramon. I am your… guide." The man pondered for a moment. "You are here because we found you on the side of the road just outside Al'Nasla. I do not know how you got there, nor did I care. You were filthy and half-starved to death. We took you in."
Rist raised one eyebrow. "Took me in? Took me captive, more like. I am locked in this room, unable to leave unless I am under guard, and even then,
only to bathe and relieve myself. That sounds like a captive to me."
How did I get to the North? Calm down. Focus. Breathe.
Rist struggled to think. He tried to remember what happened, but the only thing he could remember was fighting in the streets of Midhaven, and Dahlen carrying him. Then everything went black.
"Captive? You are fed, are you not? Clothed? Have you been harmed?"
Garramon did not wait for an answer. The begrudged look on Rist's face was enough. "Well, I have given you my name. It is only fair that you do the same in return."
Rist had not realised that the man would not know his name. "My name is Rist Havel."
"It is nice to meet you." Garramon swallowed another piece of meat, washed down with gravy. "Rist, there is a reason you are here and not in a tavern somewhere, and I think you might know what that reason is. It is the same reason that you have not been allowed to roam the grounds freely.
And for all I know, it is the same reason that you ended up on the side of the road."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Rist's back stiffened. Hecouldn't know.
Garramon sighed through his nose as he finished his mouthful. He wiped his knife and fork with a cloth that he produced from inside his cloak, then set them down on the desk beside the plate.
"You are among friends," he said after a long moment of silence.
Garramon turned his gaze to the candle on the desk and twisted his hand upward in the air, ending with a flick. The wick on the candle burst into life with a flame that flickered back and forth.
"You…"
A satisfied smile flitted across Garramon's face. "Yes, me. You are no longer alone, Rist. We had to keep you under lock and guard. A fledgling mage can be a danger to both himself and those around him when he is untrained. We needed to watch you. And we did not know you enough to trust you. Surely, you understand?"
Rist's pulse quickened. This was not how he had expected this day to go.
A fledgling mage.
"I… I think I do…"
"Good." Garramon clasped his hands together and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. "Rist, I want to teach you to use
your gifts. To not fear them, but to embrace them. To not let the fear in the hearts of others stop you from being who you were destined to be. We must never dim our light so that others may shine."
Rist felt a sense of warmth flowing through him. It was as if Garramon's words were the remedy to something that he didn't know was ailing him.
"Yes. I would like that very much. Truly, I would."
"Fantastic!" said Garramon. He clapped his hands together as he rose to his feet. "We will start tomorrow. I will send for you at first light."
Garramon turned towards the door. "And from now on, please, call me Brother Garramon."
"Yes, Brother Garramon," Rist said, a touch of hesitancy in his voice.
"Brother Garramon?"
"Yes, initiate. What is it?"
A lump formed in Rist's throat. He held his breath for a moment. "My friends… my family. They will be looking for me. I need to see them or contact them. Let them know I am okay."
The mage stood in the doorway for a moment, considering. "I will have someone drop a pen, ink, and some parchment to you this evening. If you write them, we can dispatch hawks."
"Thank you, Brother Garramon."
The morning after the feast, Ihvon brought Calen and Aeson to speak with the dwarven emissary in Belduar. With the Lorian blockade only a few days' march from the city, a meeting with the Dwarven Freehold was to be held as soon as possible. Arthur had asked Calen if he would be part of the embassy. It was the least Calen could do, considering Arthur had welcomed them into his home.
Calen was not sure what he was expecting, but he was most definitely surprised to find that Oleg Marylin was, in fact, a human, and not a dwarf at all. He was a heavy-set man, with a bit of a belly, a bald head, and a short beard.
"Not at all," Oleg said, laughing, when Calen apologised for the surprised look on his face. "Many people are surprised when they find that the emissary to the Dwarven Freehold is not a dwarf himself. The dwarves of the Lodhar Mountains have not been above ground in hundreds of years, so I take care of their interests up here."
Oleg stood up from behind his desk, patting down his wrinkled linen shirt. "May I just say, it is an honour to meet you, Calen Bryer. Word has been spreading around this city since your arrival yesterday morning. I have been eagerly awaiting the opportunity to meet you – a Draleid."
"Now, Oleg, don't be swelling the boy's head," Ihvon said, his friendly demeanour yielding to an authoritative tone.
"Yes. Please excuse me, Lord Arnell," Oleg said, raising his hands outward in apology.
"Not at all," Ihvon replied. "Now, have you sent word to the freehold to arrange the meeting and to inform them of the Draleid's arrival?"
"Not yet, m'lord. I was waiting to hear from the king, but I can send a messenger immediately, if it pleases you."
"It does," Ihvon replied, raising his eyebrow.
With a jolt, Oleg moved back around to his desk. He pulled a sheet of blank parchment from a stack behind him and an inkwell and pen from a drawer to his left. He began drafting a letter. When he finished, he folded the parchment and slid it into a small cream envelope. He dripped wax on the lip of the envelope using a deep purple candle that had been burning on the side of his desk.
"If you please."
"One moment." Ihvon dug around in his pockets, then produced a small brass stamp. He pressed it into the cooling wax, leaving the impression of a crossed axe and sword with a mountain in the background. It was the same emblem that adorned the banners in the courtyard and great hall.
"Thank you, m'lord," Oleg said. He picked up the envelope and slipped it into his coat pocket. "On second thought, I think I will deliver this myself.
That should impress the desire for a swift response. You know yourself the way the freehold operates. It will be at least a week or so before I return, but I will make haste as much as is possible."
"See that you do, Oleg. The king will be watching this closely."
The stout man nodded and grabbed a satchel from behind his chair. "I'll leave now, my lord. If you'll excuse me."
Calen, Ihvon, and Aeson followed Oleg out of the room. He swung his satchel in front of him, searching through it as he double-timed his way down the corridor. In his haste, Oleg kicked the extended foot of a short table, almost sending himself spiralling to the ground, only to catch himself at the last moment.
"Strange man," Aeson remarked.
"That he is," Ihvon said, "but he's a good man."