Liberator 1 by Nate Grafton

Author:Nate Grafton [Grafton, Nate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2024-08-12T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

The many corridors of High Tree fit together like a maze. I followed Olidek around more turns than I could count. A little golden ball of magic hovered a pace ahead of him, sprawling its light along the stone walls. As one dank, narrow passage gave way to the next, the thought occurred to me that this circuitous route was for my benefit — or detriment, as the case likely was. So that if I attempted to flee, I would lose myself among the complex network of hallways. The only direction I had any sense of was down. As the old magister led us toward his workshop, my legs registered a subtle decline. Into the untrafficked bowels of High Tree we went, where the secrets were kept, I presumed.

At last, we arrived at an old, wooden door with rusted hinges. Quite unwelcoming, as likely to stand before a dungeon as a magister’s chamber. Olidek reached for its knob, but rather than twist, he merely tapped its bronze protuberance with the tip of his finger and the door gave on its own. It creaked ominously. I preferred Wesling Artemore’s amiable entrance.

Olidek splayed his fingers and suddenly his ball of light split into several sparks. They carved elegant swirls through the dark until each abruptly froze, as if catching an invisible wick risen from an invisible candle. Their collective glow cast the room in yellow.

Four cobblestone walls enclosed the space, decorated with masterful artworks depicting epic battles and what I presumed to be his predecessors, old men hidden in the folds of oversize robes, beady eyes staring out with a guileful sharpness. Between the walls, a variety of alchemical instruments, exotic plants blooming in clay pots, tables riddled with books and folios, journals and ledgers. In the air, motes of dust and magic intermingled.

I shuffled into the room, gaze touring its points of interest, until the door creaked back into its frame. Twisting around, I leveled a wary stare on Olidek. “So as not to be interrupted,” he explained in a voice like a busted speaker.

“Yeah, lotta foot traffic in that hallway,” I replied.

He flashed a genial smile, belying the contempt I sensed lurking behind it. Olidek hobbled to the nearest table where slender digits lighted on the page of an open tome. Fingertips swept the text like the snouts of bloodhounds scenting a fugitive. When they paused, a now familiar word tumbled from the old magister’s lips. “Maladagathryian.” His eyes jumped from the book to my own. “You fancy yourself this prophesied figure, hm?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Hm. When the saddle agrees.” I took this for the idiomatic translation. “I suppose we ought to seat you upon your mount and see whether blade and scratches align.” A deep crease formed in my brow. His analogy extended beyond my comprehension. “Speaking of that old tale, you seem to gather lovely, dangerous women around you.”

Whatever tale he referenced was unknown to me, but the allusion to Yrina and Alyn roused my anger. With them out of sight, detained by the elders, a creeping anxiety colonized my thoughts.

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