Destiny (Heroes by Necessity Book 3) Read online

  As a bonus, the autumn breeze did feel nice across the bare parts of his shoulders and chest.

  Ermolt felt the most important thing was to get information from the City Guards. The badges they found on the would-be assassins the previous night had been evidence enough that they were doing work for ‘the Prophet’, and the blockades showed him that Ibeyar had some sort of pull over them in official capacities as well.

  He couldn’t just walk up to a Guard and ask them the nature of their loyalties, though. That was a good way to get himself arrested.

  Instead, he asked them about getting drunk.

  He made halting conversation with every Guard he could find, playing the big, dumb barbarian as best he could. He eventually would ask for directions to the best bar in town.

  All three Guards he spoke with had mentioned the Dapper Horse, a tavern that he soon found was located near the Guard barracks on the southeast end of the city.

  He had to duck to get through the human-sized frame of the Dapper Horse’s door, and once inside he noted that every eye in the place was on him. Silence had fallen over the bar as they all stared.

  Ermolt observed some normal folk mixed in among the group, but most of the clientele were Guards, still in uniform. His first instinct was to count them and consider his prospect for winning a fight if one erupted, but he forced the urge down. So close to the barracks, any fight that started would not end well for him.

  The sooner he got out of the doorway and had a drink, the sooner they would calm down and return to their business.

  Ermolt lumbered over to the massive slab of a bar that ran down the left side of the room, trying his best to employ the swagger of someone fearlessly overconfident. There were no stools, so Ermolt leaned against the wood with a grunt.

  He could still feel their eyes on his back.

  The bartender came his way quick enough, and Ermolt ordered a mead. When the drink was poured he took a giant gulp. It was nowhere near as good as the one he had at the Lucky Turnip, which was highly surprising.

  Mug in hand, Ermolt turned to find a seat.

  Instead, he found a familiar-looking but obviously drunken Guard swaying his way. “Hey you. You’re that barbarian who came in the gate today, yeah?”

  “Hm,” Ermolt grunted, nodding. He fought the urge to make some more educated, sarcastic remark. “What of it?”

  “You know we’re looking for a barbarian?” The Guard drew himself up, trying to retain his balance as he made himself taller. His eyes barely reached Ermolt’s pectoral muscles. “And you know, I’ve been thinking about it, and you’re the only one we’ve seen come in.”

  “What, you think I might know him?” Ermolt asked, keeping his voice barely above a growl. It hurt his throat.

  “Yeah?” The Guard hesitated, struggling to keep his drunken train of thought moving in a single direction. Despite his manner, there were others in the bar watching carefully. They wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of their fellow’s drunken confidence if Ermolt got tripped up. “Yeah, that’s right. You might know him. Well then, do you?”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “A guy.” The Guard gestured vaguely. “Big man. Pale. Dark hair?” His voice trailed upwards like it was a question, as though he’d given an actual description. Ermolt fought against the laugh that bubbled up his throat.

  “We all look like that,” Ermolt said, lifting his mug and drinking deep to hide the grin that came with that unwanted laughter. Once he was sure it was gone, he lowered the mug again. “You got a name for him?”

  “Yeah,” the Guard said. “It’s Ur... Ur... Ur-something.”

  “Ermolt,” someone said from another table.

  “Yeah! That’s the one!”

  “He got another name?” Ermolt asked, arching one giant brow. “Ermolt’s a given name. I know five. Other name would be his clan.”

  “Um,” the Guard paused for a moment. “No?” He turned and looked at the other Guards in the bar, but no one had an answer for him. Good. “Just Ermolt then, I guess.”

  “Can’t help you,” Ermolt grunted. “Grew up with two Ermolts as a kid. Got an Ermolt for a nephew now, too.” He emptied the rest of his mug, turning to slam the empty clay vessel against the bar.

  He was happy to hear exactly how much they knew about him. Ermolt might attribute it to a general lack of knowledge about barbarian culture, but he suspected it might be that Ibeyar had been more afraid of Elise and Athala than he was of him. Research into their big, dumb brute might not have been a priority.

  “So what’s your name, then?” someone else asked. The woman who had spoken up was short and muscular. She looked very much like Elise, if the Conscript had lighter skin and a crooked nose.

  “Tab,” Ermolt said. “Denmar Tab.” The bartender appeared and handed him a new mug, and Ermolt drained it all in one go. It had to be impressive to watch, as when he slammed the mug onto the bar again, many were whispering.

  “And what are you doing in Jirda?”

  “Looking for work.” Ermolt shrugged and motioned to his mug. “Barely got enough coin to get drunk on this southern piss.”

  The woman was quiet for a moment. “The Prophet is always looking for people. Plenty of work to be done in his name.”

  “Prophet, huh?” Ermolt caught the bartender’s eye and shook his head before the man could bring by a fresh mug. His stomach was starting to quail at the idea of chugging more of this odd mead. “I think I heard that name earlier.”

  “He’s a big deal around here,” the woman said as she waved Ermolt to her table. He did as she told and took a seat across from her. The drunken Guard retreated back into the bowels of the tavern, likely to find another drink himself. “With the High Priest all but shutting the Temple’s doors to us, I don’t know what we’d do without him.”

  “Hm,” Ermolt grunted, thoughtfully. “What happened?”

  The woman shrugged. “God troubles. What else?” She sighed and rubbed at a small pendant on a chain around her neck. Ermolt recognized the arched moon of Numara. “It started in Gloder. Their God, Hether, was abusing the trust of her people and their prayers. The Prophet warned the people, exposed Hether’s treachery, and liberated them from Her grasp.”

  “Liberated?”

  “Yes, amazing, isn’t it? Oh, sure, she still tries to shake the earth a little to try to scare them into falling back in line, but the quakes grow weaker with each passing day.”

  “But how?” Ermolt asked. If Hether was still causing quakes, then whatever happened in Jalova to cut off Teis's power hadn’t happened to Her.

  “He revealed the treachery of the Temple. Showed that she stopped answering prayers to make the people more desperate, and the Temple panicked. They closed up and the Priests don’t talk to anyone anymore. Then the Prophet came here and has been helping us see Numara’s faults here as well. He’s leading us, protecting us from threats Numara is letting menace us as revenge for our independence.” The woman frowned. “Like these criminals he has us hunting. Numara would have never warned us about them, let alone stopped them.”

  Ermolt grunted because he had no other response to this woman’s fanatical disdain for a God she still wore a pendant of worship for. What did Ibeyar do to these people? What promises had he made and what lies had he told? Finally, he said: “Good. And he’s hiring, right? Where can I find him?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Waiting half a bell after Ermolt left was quite difficult for Athala. She and Elise decided to stay at the Lucky Turnip since it was both out of the way and, because they hadn’t yet been turned over to Ibeyar, it was likely the staff weren’t working for him.

  The time spent between when Ermolt left and when Athala could safely leave was an excruciating stretch that seemed to go on for bells. Elise tried to make small talk, but Athala couldn’t focus on their conversation and so the Conscript eventually stopped.

  Athala was too focused on her excitement.

  The path of l
earning was one that always got her blood flowing. Her most pleasant childhood memories involved her father teaching her the family business. He hadn’t just focused on business acumen and mathematics, but had also taught her history, logical thinking and philosophy, manners and politics, and alchemy.

  Her brother had mostly focus on alchemy and martial skills, even though he never once picked up a sword or mace in any context outside of classes.

  Athala couldn’t imagine spending the time to learn a skill and then never using it. It just seemed wasteful.

  It had been those early days that told Athala she enjoyed education, but her time at the Wizard’s Tower had just secured it. There was something special about her time with her father, and his influence on her life would stay with her always. But the first day Athala had stood in the master library, with thousands upon thousands of tomes ranging from theorems on magical essences, to studies on mythology and the Gods, to the history of Neuges... it had changed her.

  Athala always knew, from the moment she ran away from home, that her goal was to become strong enough to depose her brother, Malger. It was the reason she chased more knowledge and more power. But, surrounded by the glory of those books and confronted by the overwhelming need to learn every secret they ever held, Athala turned to years of study before she ever even crossed the path of Meodryt’s hidden spell.

  Funny how that worked out.

  But the idea of potential education being held at bay by time alone was excruciating. Instead of focusing on the time, Athala focused on what she could say to Sieghard to get him to agree with her. Everything sounded like mush to her own brain, but everything always did.

  If she played her cards right, she could trade her knowledge for his experience, and maybe get a footnote in one of his books out of the deal. Age of Mortals or not, Athala still had a promising career ahead of her and a co-author credit with Sieghard would get her more legitimacy than any of her peers could hope for.

  Athala was mid-conversation between herself and a very grumpy version of one of her old instructors, whom she had assumed Sieghard would look like, when Elise interrupted and Athala was free to go.

  So she went.

  At one point in her studies, Athala had memorized the author’s page of one of her textbooks to win a bet with a classmate. Athala had memorized Sieghard’s information from his text “The Syllabus of Wizardry, Part Eighty-Six.” The actual bet itself had awarded something silly—a small bronze dragon statue that Athala ended up gifting to one of her instructors to garner assistance with increasing the range of her location ritual—but Athala had prided herself on being able to clearly recite the sixteen paragraphs of information from memory alone. Her classmate had muddled through the words in a barely coherent way and had missed Athala’s time by nearly five grains of sand.

  She still remembered his address.

  And the other fifteen paragraphs. Those were less important at the moment. But would be important sometime else.

  No amount of memorized information could ever be a waste.

  Athala walked the streets of Jirda alone—and worried about that—but with her head up. She tried to pay little attention to the buildings she passed for fear of seeming like an outsider. Her hands were hidden in the long sleeves of her dress, and she picked at the cuticles of her thumb to keep from biting at them.

  The architecture in Jirda was much different from Khule and even Jalova. The northern-most cities were mostly white stone, cut at sharp angles and they were typically sanded smooth and sealed with a varnish that made them gleam in the sunlight. But homes in the southern cities—especially Jirda, Balsiya, and Gloder—had to withstand more direct sunlight during most of the year, so white stone was undesirable. But they also needed to deal with the constant quakes that plagued Gloder from the mountains to the west.

  Thus the ideal building material in the south was a flexible muddy clay and stone mixture that was baked into bricks and held together with a gritty white paste. It was pretty, but in the same way that Athala was sure Klav or even Feldhok would be pretty. It was different.

  The address in Athala’s head led her to a street of multi-story houses that were quite well maintained. The exact home she was looking for was a near twin of the ones next to it, except for a few planter boxes on the second floor balcony. Athala could tell from where she stood on the street that they contained herbs, and they looked much more alchemical—versus culinary—in nature.

  She strode up to the door confidently and knocked.

  The sound echoed through the property, but no response came.

  Athala looked around the street for a moment, and then knocked again.

  Almost immediately the door was opened a tiny crack. The face of a very grumpy man—grumpy enough to be a retired instructor of wizardry, but not nearly old enough—was barely visible through the space. “What?” the man asked when Athala only stared at him.

  “I’m sorry,” Athala said, her confidence leaking away. “Is, um, is this s-still Sieghard Ziegler’s r-residence?”

  The man watched her cautiously, opening the door another rhen or two. “I’m Sieghard. What do you want?”

  “Um, I’m s-sorry,” Athala said again. As she understood it, Sieghard had been an instructor at the Wizard’s Tower for more than thirty winters before he left, and that was nearly another twenty winters ago now. Unless this man had begun his career at the ripe old age of two, he was not old enough to be who she sought.

  “You’re sorry? For what? That I’m Sieghard?” He sighed dramatically with a roll of his eyes. “Yes, it is quite a burden, what with all the promising young wizards banging on my door to ask to apprentice under me, and then stammering apologies before they even finish.” He stepped back from the door frame and began to close the door. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I would love to return to my studies. Do feel free to come back when you are less vapid and apologetic.”

  “No! Wait!” Athala stepped forward and put her foot between the door and the frame at the last moment. She braced herself for the pain. Sieghard made a tired sound and abandoned his attempt to shut her out before the door came in contact with her foot. “Oh, gosh, thank you. Um, I don’t need to apprentice under him, er, you. I just need help with a research project.” He scowled at her, and Athala rapidly pressed on. “It won’t be more than a few days’ worth of work! I promise it will be worth your time.”

  “And what,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm, “pray tell, could be so important? What makes you think your work is any value to me?”

  Athala swallowed hard. “Well, see, I need to analyze these dragon spells before—”

  Sieghard held up a hand and Athala silenced herself immediately. “Did you say dragon spells?” Athala nodded. “The word ‘dragon,’ followed by the word ‘spells’? As is spells cast directly by divine magic, straight from the source? Spells powerful enough to affect a dragon? Those types of dragon spells?”

  “Y-yes?” Athala nodded, even though her confidence was shattered. “You see, I need—”

  “Child, please stop standing on my porch and trying to justify your worth.” He stepped away from the door and opened it wide, his scowl mysteriously replaced by a look of eager surprise.

  Athala didn’t move. She just stood there blinking at him.

  “Child! You are letting the warm air out!” He stepped forward and grabbed her by her sleeve, drawing her inside. “Come. Let’s have a talk over tea.”

  Before he could rip the sleeve from her favorite dress, Athala followed him into the house, stumbling over her own feet. They seemed convinced, like the rest of her, that she should be returning to the Lucky Turnip empty-handed. And she was still positive this wasn’t the man she sought.

  Athala, politely, closed the door behind her.

  As soon as the door closed, Sieghard arched his shoulders and motes of magic peeled away from his form, dropping to the floor and winking out of existence. The scattering flashes eventually revealed a much older man.<
br />
  He did look quite a bit like the instructor she had in mind.

  This man was the same height and overall build as when he had answered the door, and his beard and hair still had a similar darkness to them, but they were now mostly gray and white instead of the straight black they had been. His round face was scattered with the wrinkles and marks of age more fitting for a man of eighty winters, instead of one just past fifty.

  He still walked like a younger man, however.

  “Apologies for the appearance,” he said with a wave of his hand as he led her out of the foyer and into a small kitchen. Athala was amazed and how simply the house was furnished, yet every surface was covered in piles of books, candles, herbs, or other wizarding supplies, making everything look cluttered and cramped. She was so distracted, she realized she missed part of Sieghard’s explanation. “—They have left me alone considerably since my ‘son’ came to live with me, since ‘he’ will take over my estate when I’m gone.” He snorted. “Brutes. If the city thinks it can claim my home and books after my death, they can at least wait until I’m properly dead before they try to get their grubby little hands on them.”

  “Who?”

  “The Guards.”

  “Right, sorry.”

  “Are you reverting to your earlier state already? I had high hopes that your claim of having information on dragon spells was more than a momentary flash of lucidness.”

  Athala glared at the back of his head and stuck her tongue out in a childish display. It felt really good. “Of course it wasn’t. I am quite a clear-headed and even articulate person. Usually.” She coughed back a laugh and shook her head. “I was planning to lead with mentioning the dragon spells, but I was surprised to see you looking... well...”

  “Yes, I know. You weren’t expecting me to look quite so good for my age.”

  “Except you weren’t your age.”

  He turned to her and winked. “Is anyone?” Laughing as if he had told the funniest joke known to Neuges, Sieghard turned back to his counter. With a muttered spell a kettle flew off a nearby shelf and to his hand. He filled it with water from a pitcher and with another muttered word it wobbled through the air to the fireplace where it hung itself over the low flame.