Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Prophecy, page 12
Cymric had made the excuse to keep Warris from knocking on his door every half-hour, asking if the wizard needed anything. The excuse would have to be modified. “Leandra has a charm that makes it safe for her to enter my workshop even during my most delicate ritual. I assumed you would have noticed the charm, for you seem knowledgeable about magic. My mistake.”
The boy’s face radiated excitement as he seized upon the backhanded compliment, “I will tell Leandra the next time I see her. You can count on me, mister wizard, sir!” Cymric dismissed Warris with an elaborate wave of his hand. The boy nearly flew into the kitchen.
The caravaners were roaring together, starting another song. Cymric listened as the first elements of the beat were added, a two-beat and a five-beat. Just as they were beginning to warble out the chorus to the song, Leandra entered the tavern. But if not for her distinctive, firm stride, Cymric wouldn’t have recognized her. Her hair was braided into a complex knot, and she wore a high-collared red blouse and colorful skirt-pants instead of chainmail. She still carried her scabbard, however, which hung from a dark brown belt at her waist. She scanned the tavern, spotting Cymric just as he raised one arm to attract her attention. She deftly avoided a caravaner’s fondling grasp, her eyes never leaving Cymric as she passed among the tables. She kicked a chair into position and sat while Cymric looked her over once more.
“You look ... quite different.”
“You look just the same. Don’t you have more than one robe?”
“I keep this one clean.”
“Tattered, burned, but clean.”
“I have a tailor’s illusion to take care of those inconveniences.”
Leandra shifted her weight forward. “Don’t you ever get tired of wearing the same thing?”
Her eyes suggested that the question was important. Not knowing the right answer, Cymric only shrugged. Leandra poofed air with her lips, then ordered a cup of tea when Warris arrived with the pudding. The boy bowed low enough to graze his forehead on the table, and Cymric winced in sympathy.
“Tea? No ale for the conquering hero?” he said.
“I like tea.”
Warris hurried back with the tea and a basket of bread. Leandra unwrapped the napkin around the bread, inhaling with a “hmmm” of approval. She tore off a piece, then offered the basket to Cymric. He declined, taking a big spoonful of pudding instead.
“Have you finished Gel’s books? Made much headway on the calendar?”
Cymric swallowed hastily. “The books, yes, but I’m just starting on the calendar. It’s jammed with odd magical shorthand, and parts of it have been carved and recarved, perhaps more than a dozen times.”
“Think you can crack it?” Again Leandra watched him with those eyes; Cymric blinked under the intensity of her gaze.
“Give me time, and I’ll give you a translation.” Leandra sipped her tea. Then she tilted her head from side to side, and lowered her shoulders. Her gaze became less fierce, her expression wearier.
“Cymric, I have to leave Corthy soon. I want to know if you’ll be going with me.”
“So now you trust me to tell you the truth?”
“No. But I thought we might swap truths until we can each make a decision.”
Cymric’s eyebrows raised a little. He considered, then ate some pudding. Leandra took a sip of tea and waited for Cymric’s answer. He sighed.
“Telling the client the whole truth goes against the standard wizard contract.” He leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. “But if you promise not to tell any other wizards, I might be able to forget that clause, just this once.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
“Fine. You can start.” He began eating his pudding in earnest.
Leandra laughed. She pursed her lips, took another sip of tea. “I knew you were lying to me back in Twin Chin. That tale of your visit to Skypoint started wrong. Skypoint rests on four pillars, not three. And not a sight you’re likely to forget if you’ve ever seen it.”
Cymric grinned and nodded, saluting with his spoon. “So why did you bother with me?”
“Your description of the dark market was accurate, despite never having seen it. I hope your research into the calendar produces information as accurate.”
“What is it you’re hoping I’ll find in the calendar?” Cymric asked between mouthfuls of pudding. Leandra smiled, broke off some more bread, began chewing slowly. Seeing Cymric about to take another bite of pudding, she waved him off. She pointed at him, then moved her fingers and thumb together in the “talking” gesture. Diverting her with questions had been worth a try. Cymric tried to order a few truths in his mind.
“The monster in Twin Chin was a spiritcatcher. I didn’t kill it. My magic was only just enough to wriggle me off its hooks.”
“You do seem better with words than spells.”
“Perhaps you’re right; I should have asked that thing to let you go rather than hitting it with my light spell.” Cymric’s voice had more of an edge than he wanted.
Leandra poofed air into a long sigh. “Gel said she suspected your training was spotty.”
“She said a ward prevented you from reaching her shop. Warding against a friend makes no sense. I do not find your elf a very reliable source.” Cymric scraped the pudding bowl, showing his irritation in the noise he made.
Leandra finished her tea in one quick swallow, then looked directly at Cymric. “The ward was meant to prevent those touched by a Horror from reaching the shop. It’s possible I am Horror marked.”
Cymric’s scraping stopped dead. He tried to think of something to say, something that would prove he was a wizard of the world. Horror marked? Happens all the time, nothing that can’t be handled with the proper enchantments. “Have you ever been possessed?” The sadness in her eyes made him regret the question.
“Let’s go outside. I want air with fewer ears,” Leandra said. She stood up, brushing crumbs from her lap, then Cymric followed her through the crowd of caravaners. The door rasped as a heavy spring pulled it shut behind them.
The night air was cool, damp with the promise of rain. Cymric followed Leandra down the street, then into an alley. Sailcloth and sheets were stretched over brooms, lampposts, and charred pieces of wood to create makeshift tents, shelter for those who had lost their homes in the fire. Flickering lamps glowed through the sheets, the shadows expanding to fit the sheets. A forlorn woman in dirty gingham sat in the opening of one of the tents. Two young boys bounded around Cymric and Leandra, using them as obstacles for their game of tag. The boys pointedly ignored the seated woman’s tired efforts to scold them. During one loop, the taller boy tried to anchor a tight turn around Leandra by grabbing her sword. He had just touched the pommel when she broke his grip, then yanked him off his feet. Even in the poor light of the alley her anger was obvious. His playmate gawked as Leandra carried the boy back to the woman.
“Is this one yours?”
The woman smiled quickly, but not fast enough to cover her concern. “Yes, mistress. Thank you for returning him.”
“He should know better than to touch a soldier’s weapon without permission.”
“He does, and I am sure he will remember better in the future. Won’t you, Nalil?” The boy’s head bobbed emphatically. Leandra set him down, then knelt to speak to him. She pointed her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the wall behind her.
“If you had pulled the sword out, even just a little, the runes of the scabbard might have blown you through that wall. Understand?” The boy’s wide eyed indicated he did. His playmate eyed the scabbard, then the wall with an expression of wonder and perhaps a tinge of disappointment. Leandra rose, bidding the woman a curt good night.
Leandra and Cymric passed down the alley, emerging into a street lined with burned-out buildings. A few were empty husks, but many had been cleared in preparation for rebuilding. Work was proceeding on one that night. Scaffolds of brass and wood rose along the walls, permitting workers to replace mortar and brick all along each one. Illuminating their work was the greenish glow of flawed light crystals. One worker spotted Cymric, and alerted his fellows with a shrill whistle.
“That’s him, that’s the one who dumped the guilders’ statues on their heads!” The other worker added their whistles. As Cymric bowed low, and the workers increased the volume of their whistling. Leaving Leandra standing there impatiently, he wove and cast a levitation spell on a pallet of bricks, raising them to the height of the workers. Cymric then walked away, leaving applause at his back. Leandra threw him a disapproving glance, which Cymric answered with his what-is-your-problem expression.
“The town fathers are already angry with you over the statues. Gel had to call in a number of favors to calm them down.”
“What an amazing coincidence she calmed them down long enough for me to rescribe her books. Very charitable of her.”
Leandra stopped, her fingers doing a rain-patter on the pommel of her sword. “Did you decide to be a bastard because I said I need you to work on the calendar, or are you this way all the time?” Cymric started to shrug carelessly, but Leandra’s expression stopped him. Her eyes glittered, her pain just barely held in check.
“Sorry.” Cymric rubbed his eyes. “You and Gelthrain get along, she and I do not. I seem to remember we left Keb’s to talk about you, not the elf.”
Leandra sat down, leaning back against as ash-smudged wall. Moonlight washed the life from her face as she turned her dark eyes up toward Cymric. He plopped down cross-legged a few feet in front of her. Elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped under his chin, he was ready to listen.
Leandra closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and locked her gaze to his. “The Horror who may have marked me is known as Ristul. A few years ago, I tried to hunt him down and destroy him. Not just me; Gelthrain was there, too. So was Ragnar, the stubbomest dwarf I’ve ever met. Husak the ork, he had a taste for very expensive wine. A few others, but they’re all dead, except for Gel.”
“They died facing the Horror?”
“They died trying to get to Ristul. We never even saw him.”
Cymric shifted a little. Confronting a Horror was the subject of many legends, not too many of which turned out well for the hero of the story. Cymric had never had any personal desire to fight a Horror one-on-one, a lack of desire that he considered full proof that he still had some common sense.
“What made you decide to take on a Horror?”
Leandra blew a strand of stray hair one way, then blew the same strand in the other direction. “There is a prophecy. It says I was bom to kill this Horror.”
“Prophecies are notoriously fuzzy on the finer points. Any hints about how you’re supposed to kill it?” Leandra’s smile was narrow and tight. “No. The story is scant on details.”
Cymric shifted again. He was feeling uncomfortably warm despite the cool night. “Probably prophesied by a wizard. We specialize in the vaguest prophecies in the business.”
Leandra laughed, a short, sharp sound filled with tension. After that, her smile relaxed. “I’d pretty much given up until I heard a rumor about the calendar.”
“It’s a ritual calendar. What else can you tell me?” Leandra leaned forward, expression intense. “Rumor says the calendar originated with the Ristular, followers of Ristul. It’s supposed to fill in the gaps in the prophecy.” “Including how you’re supposed to kill him?”
Leandra nodded. “The calendar is the key to the prophecy. You are the key to the calendar. Together we can kill the Honor.”
14
Cymric sat on his bed, the stone calendar before him on the mattress. The rim of the calendar had three hundred and sixty-six notches. The outer edge had thirteen enameled pictographs representing the months used in the calendar. Each month had four weeks of seven days; the end of the year was a festival of either one or two days, chosen by a procedure Cymric had not yet translated. The picto-graph depicting blue vinca and white camellias translated as “days when the flowers first bloom.” The calendar started the year during this month. Cymric’s reckoning placed today as fireday, third week, second month. Or perhaps it was waterday near the end of the first week. Flowers started to bloom at different times in different places. Cymric wished he knew where the calendar system had been created and that he had paid more attention to the plant lore his master had tried to teach him.
The center of the calendar was filled with oddly twisted writings. The writings seemed to be arranged in a flower shape, as if the viewer were looking head-on at a flower starting to bloom. Cymric had spent hours of futile effort trying to translate the writing. He had played with it, distorting the letters, looking for words within shapes. All he got for his efforts were tantalizing fragments of almost dwarven or slightly ork, or possibly Theran. He had done everything he could think of—everything, that is, that was possible in the external world. Looking at the calendar with his inner sight was the next logical step.
Cymric remembered the five-headed shadow hydra, which had appeared at Leandra’s mere touch. Why wouldn’t the calendar also have additional protection against magical investigation? Even though that was certainly a danger, Cymric knew that he’d run into a dead end. If he were going to make any more progress, he would have to use his wizardry.
He rose from the bed and shuffled along the polished hardwood in his bare feet. He opened the door to see Warris sitting there, hugging his legs to his chest. The youth shot to his feet with an eager expression. The boy wanted to learn magic, that was no secret, but Cymric’s use for him was more mundane.
“Would you fetch me some ale, boy? And some braided bread if there’s any left from lunch.” Disappointment flickered and died on the boy’s face. He bowed, then scrambled downstairs to the kitchen. Cymric walked to Leandra’s door, which was next to his, and knocked. Only on a second knock did he get a muffled, irritated response. When Leandra finally opened the door, her hair was disheveled and her expression sour. She wore a green tabard with big shoulders and long sleeves; from her reluctance to open the door, Cymric guessed that she wasn’t wearing much else.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Social convention states that you should say ‘oh no, I was awake’, even if we both know differently.”
Leandra blinked open her eyes, forcing sleep away. From inside the room, the creak of a bed let Cymric know she wasn’t alone. Surprise widened his eyes. Leandra hooded hers in response. He hesitated. Leandra slid her lower lip over the top one, stared at him, waiting.
“I need to use some magic on the calendar. I was hoping you might armor up and watch over me, just in case.” Leandra leaned her cheek into the door. “You have to do this now?”
“I’d like to do it while it’s still light.”
“You really need me for this.” Her statement held a hint of question.
“I’m not sure. If I do, I probably wouldn’t even have time to yell for help.”
Leandra tapped her fingers about waist-high on the door, but Cymric guessed that she was probably not wearing her sword.
“Give me a few minutes,” she said. “Don’t start without me.” She shut the door quietly. Cymric stood long enough to hear snatches of quiet conversation. He walked back to his room, but halted at the threshold and turned back into the hallway. He put his back to the wall and slid down into a sitting position.
As Warris came pounding up the stairs with a tray holding two tankards sloshing ale onto a mound of bread, Cymric pointed to the floor beside him. He had meant Warris to set the tray down, but the boy took the gesture as an invitation to sit. Cymric took a long drink, then smiled at Warris.
“Tell Keb this barrel is the best so far. But why two tankards?”
“I wasn’t sure how thirsty you were. Or how hungry. Keb said it was all right.”
Cymric raised a tankard in salute. “Thanks for thinking of a wizard’s thirst.” Warris’ smile engaged his face from eyes to chin. Cymric took a piece of bread and began to chew slowly and thoughtfully.
“What are you going to do next?”
Cymric waved his free hand nonchalantly. “Attempt to penetrate the mysteries of an arcane object through my force of will and knowledge of magical weaving.”
“Is it dangerous?” Warris suddenly had that look Cymric had seen dozens of times before, a hunger for vicarious adventure. In other circumstances Cymric would have seized that look as an invitation to a tidy profit. But he was beginning to like Warris. He also doubted that kitchen help was any better paid now than in his days of tending ovens.
“It might be. I hope not. If you hear any suspicious noise from my room, warn the kitchen. Then leave the building.”
“I want to help.”
“Then stay alert for trouble, and warn downstairs when it happens.”
Warns looked unsatisfied. Cymric shrugged. “Really. That would be the best thing you could do.”
The door to Leandra’s room swung open. Out stepped a man slightly taller and a full chest broader than Cymric, wearing the leather jerkin, hose, and half-cape of a Landis courtier. His head was covered with dark curls, and a neatly trimmed moustache adorned a nearly perfect face. The flaws were a slightly cocked left eye and a dent in the bridge of his nose. As he was closing the door, the man saw Cymric and Warris, who threw the wizard a questioning glance. Cymric spread his hands out before him in a gesture that said he had no idea. The man saw the gesture and laughed. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out a handful of silver, which he flicked to Warris, a coin at a time.
“Boy, set me a table with some lunch and a mug of your best brew. Keep the change.” Warris snatched the coins, then leaped up and caromed off the banister in his haste to get downstairs. The man stood looking down at Cymric, who took a sip of ale.
“Wizard, we talked quite a bit about you.”
“I hope the conversation was pleasant.”
“Not really.” The man squatted down, which gave Cymric an even better idea of just how big he was. Maybe he has some troll blood. Or bulls on his father’s side. “Leandra says you can use the calendar to unravel her damned prophecy.”
