58. [Infinzel] Solstice, Part Six (Patreon)

Carina Goldstone and Cortland Finiron, Champions of Infinzel

Those they have met so far…

…and those they will meet soon

***

30 Frett, 61 AW

The pyramidal city of Infinzel, North Continent

150 days until the next Granting

Black smoke billowed up from the outer districts. A new fire. This one wasn't in Soldier's Rest but in a neighboring district wedged between the Troldep and the Continental Highway, an area mostly used for warehouses and cheap traveler housing. Cortland would not have known those details weeks ago. In the days since the strike began, he had made it a point to become better acquainted with the outer districts. To know the place would let him better anticipate where the next fire would start.

Not that he had been able to prevent this one. Or the last.

He hoped this was just someone careless with their wood stove—they had a few of those every winter—but Cortland doubted that was the case. Guydemion's people had prepared well for the strike, knowing their work stoppage would leave them exiled from Infinzel's food disbursements. They had amassed stockpiles of their own, grown from the farms that had sprung up outside the walls over the last few years. In turn, the Garrison had begun more aggressive enforcement of long overlooked property laws, leading to clashes between the gray-coats and the out-of-work masons and stone tenders of Soldier's Rest. Hardy men whose strength and solidarity made up for their lack of formal training.

The king had told the captains of the Garrison to keep a lid on things, but Cizco was ultimately more concerned with what happened within the walls than the violence without. There were other interests at play. Salvado sons and daughters trying to make names for themselves. Nobles who took Guydemion's demands as personal insult and demanded answer. Frustrated merchants who had seen their businesses grind to a halt taking matters into their own hands—or, at least, into the hands of their hired goons.

Sometimes, these goons failed to remove their gray and purple uniforms.

Cortland found himself tasked with trying to stop these fools from making things worse. If he'd stopped Vitt Secondson-Salvado from attacking Watts Stonework at that damn banquet, perhaps some of this could've been avoided.

In the future, he would take a firmer hand.

He stood atop the grand staircase, watching the fire curl into the dimming sky. Was this the role of a champion, then? Ben Tuarez had always made it seem like the champions should be of service to Infinzel, but also above petty politics. But then, wouldn’t that be the philosophy of someone born to the top tiers?

Cortland grimaced and rubbed the back of his head. He did not enjoy these thoughts. He should have been on his way to the Nortmost by now to gather new Ink for Carina. That was his duty. Yet, Carina dragged her feet on leaving and he couldn't blame her. Was this the danger she had foreseen? He drummed his fingers on the head of his hammer.

“Uncle Cortland,” Issa Firstdot-Tuarez said from behind him. As she came to stand beside him and saw the hardening look on his chapped features, she cleared her throat. “Champion, I mean.”

“Yes?”

“You asked to be informed of any Garrison soldiers leaving the pyramid without orders.”

“And?”

Cortland turned to face the young woman. She looked tired—dark bags under her eyes, hair popping loose from her braids. Long days for her. First she worked in the Garrison and then picked up the slack in the mineral garden with her brother. She’d made no complaint.

“A half dozen in uniform took leave right before…” Issa waved toward the fire.

Cortland nodded. “Who led them?”

“Orryn es-Salvado.”

The rat master. Of course. Always up for a bit of dirty work, and confident under Vitt's protection.

The whole of the pyramidal city felt swollen with rage. Cortland was no different. In fact, aside from all these nagging thoughts, fire and fists felt more like his natural state. His anger needed to go somewhere.

“Thank you, Issa,” Cortland said. “I'll go welcome our brave brothers home.”

***

 They made a chain of bodies from the warehouse to the river, passing buckets of freezing water toward the blaze. Henry Blacksalve thrust himself into the midst of this, his fingers numb from cold so that he couldn't feel the splinters enter his hands.

“Healer! Leave that to the others! You're needed at the fire!”

Henry vaguely recognized the man shouting at him. An Ironstone, wasn't he? Bearded and red-cheeked and with eyes sharpened by determination, like all the people of the outer districts.

Thus commanded, Henry staggered from his place in the chain and followed the Ironstone up the street. He felt the Ink on his chest growing thin, but there was some left to give. These last weeks had all been like this—a blur of cracked skulls and broken fists, all smoothed away by his touch. Henry healed anyone who needed it, no questions asked. He'd embarrassed himself at the Open Gate, passed out drunk in a corner while Guydemion's man had his eye ruined by Vitt. Some other, lesser healer had salvaged the man's vision, at least. Henry had learned that when he looked in on the bouncer to make his apologies.

Not your fault, healer, the man had said.

How often had he heard that over this last year? Henry grew tired of everyone letting him off the hook.

He hadn’t done anything so dramatic as get sober as a result. Such an undertaking might have killed him. But he tempered his pulls from his flask, just enough to float him instead of sink him. The men and women of Soldier's Rest seemed always ready to top him off.

Henry staggered to the side as two men pushing wheelbarrows filled with grain sacks came rushing away from the fire. The heat of the blaze warmed Henry's cheeks, the smoke dried his throat. The building had been engulfed. There wouldn't be any further trips inside for salvage. Now, everyone's attention turned to keeping the fire from spreading. The buildings were crowded down here. They would need favorable winds.

He could do nothing about that, but he could help the bleeding man he saw slumped by the side of the road. He had a bear trap caught around his leg, the metal teeth digging deep enough into his ankle that a firm shake might be enough to liberate him from the trap--and his foot. The man had the good sense to tie a bit of purple fabric around his leg to slow the blood loss, but he’d gone pale in the time since, head tilted back, moaning softly. In the chaos of the blaze, no one paid him any mind except for Henry.

The healer knelt before the injured man and saw recognition and relief in his face. Gently, Henry teased his fingers beneath the trap, feeling for the release catch.

“Thank you,” the injured man said over and over again. “Thank you, thank you.”

Henry felt the lever that would retract the trap’s springs. “Try to stay still,” Henry said. “It will hurt at first.”

The man gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and nodded. Henry marshaled [Healing Touch], letting the energy coalesce in his hands so it would be ready for when he opened the trap. He took a deep breath—and two hands grabbed him from behind, pulling Henry backward.

“Not him, healer, not him.” It was the same man as before, the one who had come to fetch him. “He started this.”

Only then did Henry notice the injured man's soot-stained grey uniform. His tourniquet was his purple sash. A man of the Garrison. Or someone with access to a uniform, at least. There were rumors of pretenders.

By reflex, Henry used [Diagnosis] on the injured man. Clear knowledge of the man’s condition—sharper than Henry’s own thoughts—entered his mind.

“He’ll lose that foot if he isn’t treated soon,” Henry said.

“Then he loses his fucking foot for stepping where he shouldn’t have,” the Ironstone man replied. “We got kids up here who sucked down too much smoke. In the warehouse trying to fetch food for their families when this bastard…”

“Am I going to die?” the Garrison man called to Henry, his eyes going in and out of focus.

“Hours yet until that,” Henry said. He took a swig from his flask. “If I were you, I would prevail on these people for mercy.”

With that, Henry turned his back and trudged toward the fire. Another body, not his fault.

***

Sara Free had left Infinzel before the fires started, and even then been glad to put the city of stone at her back.

She had made her point. Delivered her news. Shared her shame with those who deserved an equal piece.

And for all that, she would surely face reprimand. The way she had conducted herself since arriving on the North Continent was far from the mission of healing the Quill of Sulk had sent her on. High Minister Denavon Brunner would not be pleased when word reached him, if it hadn’t already. But, then again, Brunner himself had raised Sara to champion. He knew what she was like. The Crucifalian never shied away from a fight.

A fact the man following her might soon learn.

Late afternoon on the longest night and the road south was quiet. Gusts of wind shrieked across the brown grass of the plains, patches of snow present in the shadowed gullies between hills. Sara wore a fur cloak made lumpy by the armor beneath, her hood raised. She clucked and her tired horse turned obediently so that they stood astride the road.

Lone travelers were unusual this time of the year. Harvests were done and planting months far away. There would be no work for a journeyman. Stranger, still, was how the man behind Sara kept a steady distance, slowing when she did and picking up speed at the same times. Two days of that. He’d not joined her at her campfire the night before. She’d not been able to find his in the moonlit night.

Sara Free had little patience for games.

She cupped a hand to the side of her mouth. “Come on, then!” she yelled. “I’m waiting!”

The man stopped his own horse and reached for something in his saddlebags. A weapon? Sara snorted lightly at the thought; he looked rather slight. Instead, the man wrapped a piece of fabric around his head. Stranger and stranger. Finally, he nudged his horse forward.

As he neared, Sara appraised the other traveler. He looked long on the road—face stubble-covered, hair tousled, brown jacket stained and worn. He was not dressed warmly enough and Sara immediately suspected magic, this theory proven out quickly as she glimpsed the symbol of a candle and the very edge of a champion’s tattoo. Sara recognized him.

“Inquisitor,” she said. “What are you lurking about for? And why…?”

The blindfold. Samus Bind had tied one around his eyes before his approach. He reined his horse in a few yards from Sara.

“Forgive me, umbo,” Bind said. “I wasn’t sure my presence would be welcome. And, I must admit, I’m a man of certain sensitivities. Your appearance makes it difficult to think.”

Sara smiled. A man who didn’t want to stare at her. That was a first.

“Where are you going, then?” Sara asked.

“Same as you,” he replied. “Ambergran.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Should we ride together? I could lead your horse if you have to go it blind.”

“No need for that,” Bind said, nudging his horse into motion. The mare—as drowsy-looking as her master—moved forward easily. “But I would appreciate the company.”

They rode on together. Sara kept her hood pulled low, although Bind didn’t remove his blindfold. She knew the questions were coming—the man had a reputation, after all—and so she waited in silence.

“I heard your story from the archmage Sevda Tau,” Bind began at last. “The boy from Ambergran. The maniac Orvesian.”

“And?” Sara glanced over at him. Bind’s breath did not mist when he breathed. She wondered, if she reached a hand out, how warm the air would feel around him.

“You came under attack from some gargoyles,” Bind said. “One of them stole the boy.”

“Yes.”

“What were they made out of?”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Mud. Timber.”

“Hm,” Bind said. “The Orvesian way was stone and ice.”

“It was summer.”

“So it was.” With a flick of his fingers, Bind produced and lit a smokeroll. “Did you feel the gods’ protection during the fight?”

“I didn’t need it,” Sara said flatly.

“No, of course not,” Bind said. “And the rest of your party, besides the kidnapped boy? How did they fare?”

“A local died. Bad injuries to the others,” Sara admitted. “Especially two of your candles and a mage who nearly had his skull split. I healed the ones I could.”

“Then, we’re in your debt,” Bind said. He paused for a moment to blow a stream of smoke. “The gods don’t protect us from beasts. Not unless they’ve been imbued with purpose by a man.”

“I know the laws.”

“Thus, if an Orvesian sent those gargoyles, they should not have been able to kill anyone but other Orvesians.”

Sara’s hands tightened on the reins. “You’re saying what, inquisitor? That this was a chance encounter with wild monsters? A stroke of bad luck? That my friend Uicha was carried away to be eaten?”

 Bind tilted his head and Sara found herself glaring at the flat expanse of his blindfold. “The gargoyle that took the boy—did you fight it?”

“I didn’t have a chance,” she said. “It… it avoided me. It avoided all of us.”

“Aha.” Bind smiled. “One with purpose, then, the rest made to follow.”

“Your horse mage got in the way, though,” Sara said, remembering the aftermath of the battle, the blood staining the tavern floor. The young mage’s sleeping face had been so pale. “A nasty gash. Down to the bone.”

The inquisitor paused to consider that. “Would he have died without your intervention?”

“I can’t say.”

Bind shrugged, but without nonchalance—more to shift the weight on his shoulders, Sara thought. “The gods play loosely with their own rules, at times.”

“Is that really true in your experience, inquisitor?”

“No.” He turned to face her again, dipping his arm and head in a sloppy approximation of a bow. “This has been quite informative, umbo. My thanks. When I bring my questions to Battar Crodd, I will be sure to inquire after the missing boy.”

“You plan to ques--?”

Before Sara could finish her incredulous response, Bind put his heels into his horse’s sides and the animal took off with a speed that Sara knew she couldn’t match. Only when they glowed did Sara notice the runes painted across the horse’s flanks. The blindfold came loose, the fabric drifting back to Sara on the wind.

***

Lines of magic crisscrossing every room. The phrase stuck with Carina, long after Samus Bind had used it at the Open Gate.  

Lines of magic. Runes hidden under stones. Wards to befuddle arcane senses. Alarms in stairwells to alert the king.

An equation that didn’t add up.

Fine, Carina decided. The king did not want her assistance with Guydemion. Whatever transpired in Soldier’s Rest would be beyond her influence. She would have to live with that.

But the king’s absence could be an opportunity.

Carina long suspected the king had defenses in place to guard against the arcane uncovering of Infinzel’s engineering. Warnings, at least, to alert him if someone meddled with his creations or probed them too closely. The ageless king gripped his creations tight. Gods, she’d been living in Penchenne when they’d wished for the secret of the mineral garden—and gotten all their champions killed as a result.

King Cizco never left the pyramidal city. Only once a year, for the Grantings. And now, today, to meet with Bel Guydemion on the old man’s own territory.

An opportunity, then. He might be too far to hear his alarms, or too preoccupied to do anything about it. She could explain her probing as an attempt to help streamline the system during the strike.

Carina retrieved a vial of chanic from her stash. She made sure that her brushes were clean and adjusted her mirrors. She arranged her easel with her copy of An Encyclopedia of Runes, 7th Edition open to the page for [Detect Magic]. She would see the pyramidal city as Samus Bind had. Perhaps, she would learn nothing. Perhaps, she was just acting on her need to do something.

She activated [Future Sight] and felt herself briefly overwhelmed by the magnitude of possibilities. Fire, smoke, shouting. Too many overlapping futures to make sense of—branches that began here, in her room, but also in Soldier’s Rest, in the Garrison, on the very walls of the city. Carina was left with only a general sense of her path.

The more it hurt, the more she would learn.

Carina steadied her hands. She removed her shirt and began to paint.

Of course, she had prepared for this. She had practiced the rune. It was a tricky thing, though, because of her true Ink. The symbol for [Detect Magic] needed to connect to her existing symbol for [Alert]. Those subtle lines between the two symbols—where black met red—they were the trickiest part.

She was almost done when she heard the whistle. It came from behind her—from a window she’d sworn she had locked that was now opened.

“Felt ungentlemanly to just sit and watch,” Traveon Twiceblack said, smirking, sitting on the windowsill with one leg dangling down. “So, I…”

The anger in Carina’s eyes cut him off. Unlikely that Traveon had ever seen that before—her unguarded fury. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t matter.

She had jumped, hadn’t she? Or had she kept her hand steady?

Frantically, Carina looked down at herself, checking the lines of chanic, looking for any stray marks that might be out of place.

She would not find the flaws in time.