Ch. 15-18

(Part 2 begins . . .) A year after Armeras's death, Damascus and Thane have started anew. But now seems seem to be changing when signs of Armeras are found on a foreign continent, Terminas . . .

 

Chapter Sixteen: A Year Later . . .

            “Stay there fella,” the monstrous Thane fell from the trees above, tackling the escaped convict, “No use runnin’ from us.”

            Thane hit the target hard and fast, as if he had never seen the ex-murder coming. Damascus, in a fury quickly slowed down as he stumbled upon Thane’s achievement before him.

            “If I had known your skills were so set,” Damascus smiled, his red hair still covered his eyes, though it flared back in a curdled mess, “I would have picked bigger jobs.”

            Thane stood up, straightening the target erect as he did so. The murderer was dressed in brown farmer’s pants and leather boots. His black vest covered his masculine body, mostly, with a lot of his mythril coming through the low-cut chest and sleeveless sides. Thane’s hair was pulled back into a short pony-tale allowing his black eyes to clearly view the world.

            “That was your fault,” Thane replied.

            “Just hand him over,” Damascus smiled. The red-headed bounty hunter outstretched his ape-like hands towards Thane. His green-wraps still covered his forearms, matching the garbs he adorned his body with. The two bounty-hunters were evenly matched, something he was not used to with his old partner.

            “I don’t know if I feel like it.” Damascus smiled.

            The prisoner said nothing as the two companions dragged him back to the Falthra city. Thane, now marked dead, was able to walk around without accusation and as a freeman. In the last year, Thane was forced to change his appearance in order to avoid recognition from victims’ families. The cross he once carried, spat upon, and desecrated had been replaced with a golden one fashioned by a smith Al knew from his trades. Also he had managed to thin out, he appeared more human to the natural eye. But Damascus still knew about the beast within the ex-murderer.

            “Here you are,” Thane through the beaten criminal at the Falthra soldier’s feet, “Just like you paid for.”

            “Thank you,” the guard responded, but he hesitated to speak, “I’m sorry, what is your name?”

            “Ramaser,” Thane smiled, he had taken Armeras’s old pseudonym.

            “Thank you, Ramaser,” the guard picked up the criminal, bound by ropes, and led him off to castle.

            “The last one here?” Damascus walked towards Thane, who had made no notion to talk about further jobs, “Seems like you’re getting pretty board here.”

            “I might be,” Thane looked to the south, towards Notilus, “yet there isn’t many places for us to visit since Notilus’s recent vigor.”

            “Who would have thought that we could have done so much damage,” Damascus’s tone went from up-beat joker to saddened citizen, “Let’s go get some food.” Thane patted Damascus’s back and they turned the opposite direction and headed for a bar. Watching them from a far off was a messenger with news regarding their late Friend.

 

            Roger carved the bamboo stick with meticulous skill and crafty speed. Sepher, the Elementilist, was close by watching over an old farming village of Terminas, learning of each individual through the elements.

            “You know, they don’t like to be carved.” Sepher’s eyes didn’t move due to the fact they couldn’t see anyways. The old mage was dressed in a green kimono similar to his robes he wore over in Notilus. Still the old Councilman of the Elementalists, he felt obliged to wear his customary colors.

            “It’s a stick,” Roger looked up at the old man, “And to me, a stick is a stick no matter what size or how old!”

            “Honestly,” Sepher smiled, “I agree.”

            “Conversations pretty boring without the militia,” Roger remembered the midnight talks with the renegades and rogues of Notilus, he let out a sigh of remembrance, “Hmm.”

            “Women?” Sepher asked disgusted.

            “Women.” Roger nodded his head.

            Roger wore a red kimono similar to the red robes he wore in Notilus as well, but he wore his for a different reason. Though Sepher still saw himself as the Councilman of the Elementalists, Roger wore his colors to spite Daven, the tyrannical Mage Lord of Notilus and current Imperialist ruler of Terminas.

            Over the last year, Armeras’s death and the several betrayals have left Daven in an angered fury. With the last surviving members of his party, Vaughn, Midas and Saphira, Daven set out on a conquest to take over any land where his enemies might hide. He did not dare engage Falthra, yet, or the mercenary center of the world Haz, so he started with rival nation Terminas.

            “Terminas has its flaws,” Sepher smiled laughing, “in Daven’s eyes, and those flaws will help us.”

            “How?” Roger stood up, his staff finished.

            “They are renegades as we are,” Sephere stood and started down the hill he was on. “And they know the art of Ninjitus.”

            “Ah yes,” Roger smirked, “The non-magic of magic.”

            “Correct,” Sepher stopped suddenly and without cause, the wind soon blew between the two Rogues as if bearing a message of warning for the wanderers.

            “What is it Sepher?”

            “I don’t want to believe it,” Sepher’s eyes seemed to come alive for a moment as they seemed to focus on the Combat Rogue, “We must find the leader of the resistance here immediately!”

            “What do you mean?” Roger couldn’t even imagine what Sepher was getting at.

 

            Croce doubled over as the soldiers took turns beating the crotchety old pirate. He had been found in Notilus attempting to steal from a local mage merchant. In his arrogance, he was caught and convicted; now he was in Daven’s torture chamber.

            “Stop it will yer?” Croce’s yellow teeth appeared through his lips, “I’ve had enough!”

            Croce’s attempts to reunite the land pirates had failed miserably. After their startling defeat at the hands of a seventeen year old boy, the crew deserted him and became “hard workers” as pirates of different sea-ships. Angered at his abandonment, he turned to common thievery to live until he was captured. Armeras plagued his thoughts and drove him to insanity some evenings as he sat in his cage, so it was needless to say he felt no sorrow when news reached him Armeras was dead.

            “Are you sure?” Daven’s voice echoed from the door way. During the random beatings, neither the guards nor Croce had heard the king come in. Instantly all the soldiers saluted him and Croce took the time to quickly reduce the pain he was feeling in his body, “For I don’t think you’ve had severe enough punishments.”

            “Yeah well you can castrate me for all I cares,” Croce’s immature notion didn’t seem to phase the king.

            “If that’s how you feel,” Daven drew his sword and dismissed his guards. As soon as they were all gone, Daven stood and began to pace around the defenseless Croce, who now realized he may have just signed his death-sentence.

            “I understand you do not like established government,” Daven rubbed the edge of his blade, Croce made no movement; “Anarchy isn’t a crime, just a thought. It is the actions derived from your thoughts that are criminal.”

            “What is your point?” Croce responded to Daven’s notion.

            “I would like to change your thoughts on my kingdom,” Daven knelt down in front of Croce, using his blade as a crutch to hold him up, “I hear we’ve had similar discontents in the last two years.”

            “What are you talkin’ about?” Croce looked at the Mage Lord, “I surely aint no mage, so why are you comparing us to each other?”

            “It is quite simple really,” Daven looked at Croce, “We’ve had men turn on us, traitors give us up, and had our lives threatened. And-” he paused to let Croce ponder his words, “Armeras has been the harbinger of these events.”

            Croce’s pupils dilated in an instant. He threw himself at the Mage Lord in a provoked fury, “I’m going to kill you!”

            “Not if you want to live,” Daven’s blade now bordered Croce’s throat, which now backed down, “I’m going to give you a proposition.”

            “What is that?” Croce frowned, “Quick or painless right?”

            “No,” Daven turned away from the Land Pirate, “There have been rumors of a resistance in Terminas and with these rumors bare heavy burdens upon me.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Terminas is now an imperial state under the decree of Notilus. Resistance needs to be subtly quelled at all costs. They supposedly have reinforcements coming in from sea. Now, my soldiers can take care of the ground troops, but if they come in from the seas were doomed.” Daven looked at Croce with a devilish look, “I would like you to lead a crew of mages across the borders of the Terminas Ocean in order to prevent this from occurring.”

            “Why would you trust me?” Croce snarled, “And how do I know this isn’t some kind of trick?”

            “My sources reveal that one of the reinforcements is the famed Adamant who traveled with Armeras – and I believe he was part of your embarrassment.” Daven looked at Croce, hoping his lure had stuck.

            “No strings attached? I can go free once this whole quarrel is over?”

            “Only if you succeed,” Daven smiled, he extended his hand, “Deal?”

            Croce shook the Mage Lord’s hand as the ropes around his wrists slipped seamlessly off.

           

            “Honestly Rik,” Al laughed from his seat in the tavern, “most of us have changed our costumes since we parted ways, you would think that the headdress would have been dropped along time ago.”

            “I don’t necessarily carry that luxury,” Rik sat down across from the pirate rouge.

            Rik and Al had been doing very different things as the last year past, but each was essential to their progressions made thus far. Al needed to lay low, out of Daven’s view for a time. He picked up his old shipping business and continued to work out of the master ship, the Eyesore. With his travels, he learned of Notilus’s growing powers outside of the nation. Terminus had been overrun with Notilus soldiers.

            Al made the assumption that Armeras’s slip into the confines of the castle as nothing more than a harmless fly had made Daven self-conscious on his authority. He had invaded Terminus under the pretenses that they were training their ninjas as assassins against him. He turned the nation into an imperial state of Notilus and scared several nations from making any war threats.

            Meanwhile, Rik had gone to Falthra in order to persuade the king to aid the renegades and rogues’ cause in the fight against Daven. Rik had thought with soldiers already in Notilus, the king would have easily bitten, but he had a nagging feeling that it was almost an impossible idea for him to grasp. He was right. The king turned down the notion and asked Rik to leave the courts quickly. From there he went to Haz, where he hid from Notilus troops until this day where they met in the capitol, Zurich.

            “I hear some lost relatives of Armeras lived here,” Al laughed taking a sip of his beer, “Thought I’d find some warriors, but I was wrong.”

            “I could have told you that,” Rik warded off a waitress trying to hand him a pint, he was not thirst, “Armeras’s family is not what it appears to be is it.”

            “Less heroic for sure,” Al frowned. “I didn’t know the kid had any alive.”

            “Well,” Rik looked at him, “Did you inform him of his son’s unfortunate death.”

            “To say the least, he wasn’t all that shocked from what I took,” Al looked into his pint remembering the young warrior, “And I hope I haven’t caused any grief.”

            “Not to him,” Rik looked at Al, “But if you didn’t realize that Armeras wasn’t a released member of this society, you might just realize that you could have caused two others a significant sorrow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seventeen: A Summon from Exile

            He watched them carefully as they returned the escapee to the guard at the gate. He had no name which he discerned himself with; being a Haz messenger, names weren’t always in the best interest of either the employer or the employee. He watched as Damascus and Thane met quickly before departing to the tavern – after which he followed suite.

 

            Damascus and Thane had walked a good distance before arriving at the bar where the two would be taking dinner. Damascus rubbed his stomach with anticipation as the waitress brought by a mug of beer for the both of them. Thane took a small sip while Damascus downed his in one gulp. The waitress quickly refilled before heading off again to another customer who was now drunk out of his mind.

            “So where should we go from here?” Thane looked at Damascus, “Notilus and Terminus are not options.”

            “Notilus soldiers aren’t quite my friends,” Damascus sipped his second mug slowly, “And Haz citizens won’t be too pleased to see me either.” He took his fingers across his neck in a beheading motion.

            “Who’s first, the citizens or the government?” Thane smirked.

            “A citizen most likely,” Damascus retorted, Thane knew of the strict rulings of Haz government, citizens had the executioners’ rights equivalent to the courts.

            The hooded man entered the bar, leaving his face covered, he made his way over to the table where the two men sat. The waitress, who had stopped by for a third time, had brought some bread for them to eat while the cook prepared them some meat. Now was his time to strike.

            “Damascus,” his voice was deep and drawing, yet the bounty hunters made no notion to look at him. He repeated.

            “Damascus!” It was much louder this time and seemed to bring the attention of Thane to him.

            “If he was interested,” Thane looked into his mug, “He would have said something first.” Thane ripped off a piece of bread and stuck it in his mouth.

            “I’ve got a letter from you from Councilman Ramaser.”

            It lit the fuse.

            Damascus flinched at the mentioning of the man’s name. When Thane used it, it was a mutual agreement it was to keep his identity secret and to keep Thane out of Falthra prison. Most people either hadn’t remembered or didn’t know that Ramaser was a person. But what shocked Damascus the most was that he was a Councilman. But of what?

            “Did you not hear me?” the man repeated, “Councilman Ramaser has a letter for you!”

            He was too fast for the messenger to react. Within seconds, Damascus had drawn, whipped and pressed the blades of his shuriken against the man’s neck.

“Go to hell.”

            The message was sent. Damascus pressed the blade against the man’s throat even more. He began to cough and tears welled up in his eyes, giving up, Damascus let up off him.

            “I’m merely meant to give you this,” the man had his hands raised as he placed the card onto the table. Thane had not moved from his position though Damascus’s fury had brought the attention of the entire bar.

            “Good bye,” he said turning around and leaving.

            Damascus sat down and returned to drinking his beverage, quickly. Thane, in curiosity, opened the card to take a look. And what he saw surprised him. Damascus showed no interest, but Thane quickly made it a point of interest. Reading it, Damascus himself nearly fell out of his seat. The note was quickly scribbled, but it was signed and sealed with the Haz insignia!

 

Damascus,

            We of the Haz Council have reexamined your case and have found new evidence that may have proven to be a change in course for your trial. We would like to extend our deepest apologies for this unfortunate mess and would like to have you back inside the Haz-Neon clan. We will not be billing you for any mission you have down while out in exile. We only wish the great Adamant to be back with us.

Sincerely,

Ramaser, Councilman of Haz-Neon

 

            “What in all of the world could have driven them to . . . apologize?” Damascus thought aloud leaning back in his chair. Thane, in bewilderment, downed his beer pondering the thought.

            The Haz people, especially the bounty hunters and politicians, were a very proud people. The deadly sin of pride varied among the different classes of Haz, and it seemed to be in a sequential order in a sense. Most citizens would apologize for being rude, but never say they were wrong. Bounty Hunters never apologized, but would consent to being rude or wrong. The worse seemed to be the politicians. Even when they knew and it was publicly known, they still didn’t admit to it, much less appeal a case.

            “How serious do you think this is?” Thane pounded the mug against the table.

            “It could be a joke,” Damascus ripped it in half and threw it in the corner, “Or it could be a serious plea to strengthen their numbers.”

            “How so?” Thane looked at Damascus.

            “We both know of Terminus’s recent invasion do we not?” Damascus put his mug out of his way, “They might feel the cold grip of Daven closing in on them, they might want back up. But I don’t see why I would help them.”

            “Then let’s just not show,” Thane smiled standing up, he left a few gold coins on the table, “That should be rejection enough.”

            “No,” Damascus shook his head, “I have other business to take care of.”

            “You mean meeting Ramaser face to face,” Thane frowned, “that could be a bad idea!”

            “It could be,” Damascus sniffed, “But here’s the thing, I want to reject this guy directly. He got me burned from the business I enjoyed, and now I will personally reject him.”

            “This is going to end badly . . .” Thane said as Damascus walked past towards the exit.

 

Chapter Eighteen: Looking Back

            Daven and Vaughn sat patiently inside the Mage Lord’s new chambers. Smoke drifted about the fields as the king enjoyed his new hobby: Smoking. Farmers of Terminus grew a plant that, when smoked, seemed to relieve the body from all aches, pains, and worries. Vaughn, who was not to happy with the king’s decision had forbidden him to smoke in public, yet he didn’t know the Mage Lord would then retire to his room more often for “relaxation”.

            “Sir,” Vaughn frowned, “Are you sure that smoking is such a good idea?”

            “No,” Daven threw the clumsily wrapped tobacco to the ground, “But I find it relaxing.”

            “Can’t the white mages cure your ailments?” Vaughn had asked this once before, but he was desperately searching for Daven to admit he needed to quit.

            “Not anymore,” Daven spoke with authority, “Nothing can quench this pain that runs through my veins. Knowing those who have risen against me are still alive just burns me up and recent rumors of war have gotten me angered beyond comprehension.”

            “But you cannot let that break you!” Vaughn pleaded, “Remember, we still have two countries to run!”

            “I know.” Daven snarled, “Hopefully putting Croce out will help me.”

            “Trusting a pirate sire?” Vaughn never was fond of Daven’s choices recently, “He might turn on you! Commandeer your ships and run?”

            “I will be sending two men with him,” Daven smiled, “Two men I trust well enough to keep him in line – and aide him if need be.”

            “What are you talking about?” Vaughn asked, “Who else could you trust other than me at this time!”

            “Only four of us survived the attack on the castle,” Daven sat down, he threw the plant in the stone corner, “You, myself, Saphira and Midas. The later two agreed to head out with Croce in order to strengthen our fleets and get revenge on the two bounty hunters.”

            “Revenge is dirty business,” Vaughn looked at his old friend, “it can only hurt you, drag you down and control you! You must be like your father and avoid such controlling feelings!”

            “My father?” Daven laughed looking towards the ground, “My Father? Ha!” the black aura began to form around Daven’s hands, “Where did my father’s attitude get him?” Vaughn stared as the black aura grew larger, then quickly died down. Daven’s temper had grown since the attack. Vaughn was forever stuck treading water in dangerous territory, angering Daven only brought about his uncontrollable rage.

            “I must be going,” Vaughn stood, he wished to remove himself from the awkward situation, “I feel I must go and contemplate my army’s next move in Terminus.”

            ‘What has happened now?” Daven looked at Vaughn unsteadily. He knew something was wrong.

            “Well,” Vaughn inconspicuously made his way to the door, “The Old Regime of Terminus is not just letting us take over peacefully, and they are rebelling. Two different forces are attacking us. We believe that the Emperor Hiro and one of his decedents is leading them against us.”

            “Then find them and kill them,” Daven put his hands on his knees as he readied to rise.

            “I will,” Vaughn looked down.

            “What?” Daven rose and began towards his friend.

            “In the morning I will be leaving for Terminus to hunt down them personally.”

            “You will leave me alone?” Daven asked confused, he was trying to suppress his anger, “Why can’t you send someone else?” The words seemed to just fumble themselves out of his moth.

            “Last time that happened we almost were killed,” Vaughn’s voice was higher pitched from the tense situation, but it stayed firm, “I cannot let that happen again.”

            “Thank you, my friend,” Daven’s voice was shaky as he spoke, yet he was able to produce those words, “Maybe I’ll use this time by my self to contemplate what I should do with the other issues.”

            “That would be wise Daven,” Vaughn bowed in respect, “If I here anything, I’ll have message sent to you. I have found a new elementalist who has begun to learn the art of speaking through the elements.”

            “Thank you,” Daven said, trying to be supportive, “Farewell my friend.”

            Vaughn left and Daven returned to his bed. He kneeled down next to it and folded his arms, almost as if he was going to say a prayer. Thoughts began to flow through his head. They ranged from his childhood to the present day. Though he hated to admit it, Vaughn was right, he had lost control of his temper. What had made him so angry? Could it have been Armeras? No, in his mind Daven remembered having these problems long before. So why couldn’t he remember?

            He sighed as he raised his head to the sky. The frustration of trying to remember infuriated him. He roared in anger and slammed his fists into his bed. It bounced off the floor as he stood up himself and reached for his cloak. He was going to remember no matter what.

 

            He exited the castle and headed into the market where only a year ago, enemy soldiers had marched about as Armeras fought him. Recently, a summoner had opened a shop in town labeled the Hindsight. The owner claimed she could see the pasts of individuals in an unbiased light. This had made her quite popular in town; she had ended disputes between petty cases in the national court allowing the system to move much smoother for larger cases. Vaughn had once visited her and thanked her personally and Daven had once sent his thanks to him as well. Now he was making a personal visit.

            The shop wasn’t highly decorated, and that was expected, but it was out of place for something of its type. It lay between two bars unlike the other psychic centers which lay closer to the castle. When he walked through the town, people had given him weird looks, they were wondering why he was wandering through the town by himself. Whenever he ventured into the town he was accompanied by at least two soldiers or Vaughn.

            He parted the strings of beads as he entered into the strange building. Incense burned in pots by the door, they smelled like vanilla in Daven’s nose and seemed to calm him down a little bit. The first room was completely empty next to the incense that burned, sweetening the air. He observed the room and he didn’t wait to progress into the next room where he heard footsteps move across the wooden floor.

            Lines were etched into her skin drawing mysterious patterns across her face. In the light her skin appeared faintly blue and ghostly. Daven didn’t know what to think of her, but she obviously knew what to think of him. She turned and bowed to the mage lord who signaled for her to rise, but she didn’t move. Instead, she spoke with her head to the ground.

            “My liege, I have waited for an opportunity to meet you in person,” she gave herself a few moments before looking up at her King. Her yellow eyes glowed in the dimly lit room.

            “You must be the Madame who runs this shop,” Daven signaled for her to rise, which she followed, “I have come to speak with you on important matters.”

            “More cases?” she asked in respect though Daven understood she knew his reasons.

            “Why don’t you cut the act and speak truthfully with me,” Daven turned and looked at some of the trinkets adorning her wall. Voodoo dolls and pins lined the shelves in front of him, “What do you know of my father?”

            “Personally I know nothing,” she nodded, “But because you have come I shall be able to learn more!”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I am Selena of the Shadows,” she giggled, “But that is my preferred title. My powers are truly unreal as I don’t see the past or the future with out prompting . . .” her voice trailed off as she slid a jar closer to the mage lord, who reluctantly threw a few gold coins in her jar. He didn’t mind “misplacing” a few coins to her – as long as she wasn’t lying.

            “Let me see . . .” she said leading him over to a cushioned chair near where he stood.

            Daven walked towards the chair and carefully sat down in the chair. It was strangely comfortable. The wood had rotted threw and the grey pad on which he sat was clearly falling apart, yet somehow it was as if he sat on his plush throne back at the castle.

            He fidgeted as she walked towards a jar filled with black powder. He was familiar with the substance inside; over in Terminas the military camps grew what they called the Seeing Plant. Combined with the outlawed art of Ninjitsu, the crushed form of the plant, now within the jar, allowed the users complete control of their victims.

            “What are you doing with that?” Daven cried looking at the jar violently, she had plucked it off the counter and had placed her index finger and middle finger inside, “That is illegal here!”

            “The Seeing Plant?” she smiled at him, “Is not illegal, but the arts in which it is most commonly associated with are.” He was taken back, she knew the law well, “I have found a new art that has helped me here at my work . . .” Her voice trailed off as she rubbed the black powder on his face.

            She went back to the counter and placed the old container down. This time she walked behind Daven and reached for a bowl filled with a creamy, green substance.

            “This however,” she admitted, “is quite illegal. I believe you guys call it demoralizing to your nurses and medics. Here you call it Numah Sap, where I am from it is known as the Curall.”

            “How did you smuggle Numah Sap into my country?” Daven said letting her put the mix over the Seeing Plant powder.

            “Oh that is my secret,” she laughed putting the bowl down, “And now I will reveal what issue has been bothering you . . .”

            Her hands fell upon his temple and she began to rub soothingly. As her fingers moved in the circular motion on Daven’s temple, the powder fell into his pores and the cream followed behind it. Daven felt what ever process she had created working on his body. As the powder clogged the pores, the Numah Sap followed closely behind.

            Numah Sap had a strange effect on people. In its original planting ground of Falthra, the sap was drawn forth from their trees and combined with other healing herbs in order to make the ultimate cure-all. As if calling for the name, Curall would be placed on deep gashes and cuts to first numb the pain and then clean it out. Following the first two steps, the sap would then act as a glue to hold the wound closed. Daven’s father outlawed it for two reasons. The first was that it was dangerous if used often. Curall could eventually cause paralysis on limbs if used to often. The second reason was that it made a lot of the work nurses and medics did unneeded and Daven’s father did not want to be little any of the mages.

            “Now let’s see,” Selena whispered as she placed her hands on Daven’s forehead, “You surely aren’t like your father . . .”

            Daven wanted to speak, but he couldn’t. He wanted to shout the obvious that he wasn’t like his father, nor did he intend to be like his father.

The Curall had taken the numbing effect to his head. He could still see, but his vision was blurred. The only thing that was appeared to be functioning was his ears, for he heard everything Selena said.

“You’re father was level headed, calm . . .” she moved her hands down to his cheeks, “He didn’t hold a grudge either. It would appear as if you and your father were from very different spheres. Your father kept many, many secrets from you, yet was very open with you. If you asked a question he would answer it truthfully. You on the other hand avoid questions in which you do not want to answer truthfully.”

            Once more Daven wanted to yell at her. Scream at Selena for her obvious truths. Everyone knew Daven’s father was an open and kind hearted man.

            “I feel you are restless,” she interceded, “I shall cut to the point if you would prefer.”

            Daven attempted to nod, but failed miserably.

            “Your father died nearly six years ago,” Selena spoke softly, “You believed for so long that it was natural causes, and then you believed Armeras murdered him, when in reality you are right and . . . wrong?”

            The words came out awkwardly. It was as if a surprise like this even made the witch confused.

            “Your father died and Armeras was part of the cause, but . . . he didn’t murder him,” Daven felt the Curall wearing off as Selena moved her hands back to his temple, “Your father was . . .”

            “What is it?” Daven yelled, Selena’s hands leapt off his face as the Mage Lord rose from the chair.

            “The connection has broken,” Selena whispered, “But I was able to get something else before the connection broke.”

            “May I ask what it was?” Daven gasped.

            “There is something in the mountains of Terminas,” Selena grabbed her chest, she seemed to be out of breath, “It might reveal the secrets about your father and Armeras.”

            Terminas? Daven couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was it coincidence that the secrets of his father could be in the nation that he had just conquered? No, it can’t have. Devin was a man with diplomatic status and friendship. If he had anything to hide, it would have been in a foreign country.

            “Thank you, Selena,” Daven composed himself; “I’ll be leaving now.”

            “One more thing my lord,” Selena gasped, “Your father was more involved with today’s events that you, or anyone could have believed.”

            “What?” Daven’s eyes widened, losing all of the composition he had put together, “What do you mean?”

            “The only one who knows that is the elementalist known as Sepher,” Selena gasped. With that Daven scowled and exited the building.

Author's Note

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