The wealthy man stood with a self-assurance that did not fit his current circumstance. Perhaps he’d attained tranquility with age; his white cloud of hair glowed against the dark brown of his skin. Lavish fabric framed him expertly, his embroidered red cape hanging over, unbelievably, avioletshirt, making even his paunch look deliberate and masculine. Time had treated him kindly, carving few wrinkles but for those that bordered his eyes and mouth, giving him a look of permanent amusement.
In accordance with the Church of Order, all the bordering kingdoms had combined resources in their war against the sorcerer. Was I looking at the king of one such region?
A stack of strange books lay at the maybe-king’s feet. In what anemic light the fog allowed, the covers shone glassily, a peeling film overlaying what appeared to be exquisite paintings. Staring at the tomes, stacked directly onto soil and grass, the sorcerer’s face scrunched with pain. It almost brought a chuckle to my beak; he treated his own books as delicately as newborns.
“As you can see,” said the maybe-king, “the materials you requested.”
“Seven books,” the sorcerer snapped. I made a note to advise him later that it was best to conceal emotion at times like this. “I requested seven. If you are capable of basic addition, then please, tell me how many there are. Go on—or should I count for you?”
“We couldn’t find the final volume,” he said, without a hint of strain. The man must have practice dealing with Merulo’s temper.
“Let me remind you,” said the sorcerer, “what the terms of this exchange were.” He stalked forward, black cloak flowing like a spill of ink, until exceedingly little space separated him from the shorter man.
Knights clanked into motion behind, but the maybe-king raised a regal hand to halt them. Gold rings shone on his fingers. His sleeve fell open slightly, and I spotted a timepiece clasped about his wrist. This manmustbe royalty, to adorn himself so casually with a relic!
“Within these texts is ancient wisdom. I could occupy myself with the translation and analysis for months, if not years. They are my stepping stones. Without them, I have no means to progress. Meaning . . .” The sorcerer leaned right into the man’s noble face. To his credit, he did not so much as flinch. “Without further knowledge to consume, I am left to act. And my actions, ignorant as they are at this stage, will be raw and untempered. I will crack this world open, Felix, and pry your God out like a snail.” The sorcerer was spitting in rage. “Escargot, Felix. Do you understand?”
God bless the memorization they’d put us through as pages. This must be Chancellor Felix Noor, advisor to the King of New Albion. In my opinion—completely uncolouredby where I happened to have been born—this was one of the foremost kingdoms of Larnia.
“We will find your seventh text,” said the chancellor. “But such a task will take time, and resources.”
The sorcerer’s bony form bent comically in menace over the healthier-looking man. “Resources,” the sorcerer repeated, incredulous. “More payment?”
“They are forbidden relics, full of heresy. Near priceless, and dangerous to ask after. It’s a wonder we even found six.”
I thought Merulo would lose it then and there. Instead, the sorcerer spun, his cape a billowing shadow in the fog, leaving his back exposed to the knights with an insulting lack of caution. His stone eye flashed. From the fog, a humanoid construct emerged, carrying a rectangular metal object. At the sight of it, my feathers stood on end. Another relic. The device was of pre-Descent craftsmanship, sporting a glass front with a curved opaque handle beside a grid of neatly aligned squares. An odd rope dangled beneath the object, like a grotesque umbilical cord.
“Oh yes,” the chancellor breathed, his composure finally breaking. “Yes, this will do well. Does it work?”
Merulo scoffed. “Of course not. None of the ancient technology has ever worked.” His voice had pitched curiously high on the last words, and I narrowed my eyes, wondering if I’d caught the sorcerer in a lie.
Regardless, the exchange took place. After the construct passed the device to a nervous-looking knight, it moved to the books, piling them in its arms with careful precision. Both the chancellor and the sorcerer stepped back to allow this.
Jovial now, Chancellor Noor waved my way. “It’s rare tosee you with a creature not made of wood. Tamed yourself a pet, hm?”
“Oh no,” said the sorcerer, with all the satisfaction of someone biting into ripe fruit. “That would be Sir Cameron.”
The chancellor went rigid. With obvious effort, he smiled. “That wouldn’t happen to be—”
“The Sir Cameron of the prophecy? The Sir Cameron your forces were hoping to use as—how did he put it—the final ingredient in my defeat? Yes, that is him.” Merulo could not have looked prouder of himself if he tried.
“Hello, your excellence,” I squawked helpfully, before remembering that Merulo had commanded me to stay mute. Ah, well, I’d already broken the order. “So sorry that you nice folks don’t get to kill me.”
“Given your current position,” the chancellor said, recovering from his stunned silence. “I’m not sure that I would not prefer death.”
Double negatives confused me, so I did not respond. “You could have saved the world, Sir Cameron.” The chancellor regarded me with hooded eyes. “Enjoy being the plaything of this, this . . .” He let a gesture complete his words.
“Well thank you, your excellence, I sure will,” I shot back, then winced in anticipation. But no pain came from the embedded needle, and when I chanced a glance at the sorcerer, he seemed to be hiding a smirk behind one bone-white hand.
My father would have been incandescent with rage, hearing me talk so discourteously. It said something about Merulo’s power that I could taunt a chancellor and his knights without repercussions.
A familiar clattering sounded, and the equine constructemerged from the fog. It came to a halt before the sorcerer, glaring its witch-light eyes at the assembled knights. One of the constructs broke formation, stomping over, then lowered to all fours beside it, as if prostrating in grief or supplication. Merulo used it as a stepping stool.
The knights dissolved back into the fog as the sorcerer mounted, apparently eager to flee this cursed setting.
“Come along then, plaything,” Merulo called.
“And you get mad atmefor making things sexual,” I squawked, before remembering myself. “My lord.” I pushed off from the rocky ground to land once more on the construct’s rear end.
