not gallop on the stones. He would wait until he was out of the city before urging his mare on over the soft earth.
As soon as he recovered, Marius went to Sir Amik, and now the squire stood in the knight’s study high up in the tower.
Sir Amik listened to his report.
“Theodore was right to pursue her, Marius” the knight said when he had finished. “They have a connection between them that neither understands, but they are both aware of it.”
Marius shifted uncomfortably. He had not been able to stop entirely the blood that flowed from his nose. He had even wasted a few precious minutes attempting to hide his injury before reporting to his superior.
“Who broke your nose, Marius?” Sir Amik asked. Marius’s eyes darted briefly out of the window, and then quickly back.
“Nobody, Sir Amik,” he said earnestly. “I ran into a door in my haste to inform you of the news.”
Even as he spoke, however, he knew the knight could tell that he was lying. He felt his face flush under Sir Amik’s unflinching gaze.
“It has nothing to do with Theodore, does it?” Sir Amik pressed. “I know you two are scheduled to fight each other. If he struck you before the challenge, then he would forfeit the match. You would be declared right and just in the eyes of Saradomin.”
Marius’s face fell. He knew now with absolute certainty that Theodore was no coward, and that the grievance between them had been of his own making.
“Sir Amik,” he said slowly, his head pounding and his eyes feeling a huge pressure swell up behind them, “Sir Amik, I must confess to a lie. The grievance between us was instigated by me. I accused him of cowardice, and I know he is no coward.”
He breathed deeply, and the swelling behind his eyes relieved itself as tears on his face. Then he continued.
“I hadn’t expected him to challenge me, but he did so, and now I admit my lie. I offer myself for the harshest penalty appropriate to my actions. I admit now what I think I have always known-I admit that Theodore is a better man than I.” His words were broken by muffled sobs, and his hands shook at his sides.
Sir Amik’s face softened slightly.
“A lie is a very serious offence, Marius. Deception is not a part of our order and is against what we stand for. You realise I could expel you for this?”
Marius nodded in miserable understanding.
“I have no wish to do that, however,” the knight continued. “You are a good squire, perhaps as good as Theodore, but you shall have to do penance for your transgression.”
“I will do it gladly, Sir Amik!” he declared.
“You will be confined to the castle; the city is off limits to you until I say otherwise. And you are to take over the management of Theodore’s peons. You will train them alongside your own. I would advise you to adopt more of Theodore’s methods, as well.”
The squire bowed his head, and left without another word.
THIRTY-SEVEN
When he was young, Castimir had read with wide-eyed interest of the barbarian tribes that lived east of Falador.
Now he had spent the day with Ebenezer and Gar’rth, exploring the village’s wooden huts and marvelling at the fine beauty of the pottery and metalwork. The barbarians offered the travellers food and ale in their great hall, an immense building with a thatched roof that stood so high that the beams were in perpetual shadow. Their belongings, left on Ebenezer’s wagon, were protected by the barbarian code of hospitality to the extent that they did not even need a guard. Truly their word was their bond.
“You are quiet tonight, Castimir,” Ebenezer remarked, readying his pipe.
The young wizard sighed and raised his eyes to look discreetly at the two barbarian women who stood several yards away. They dressed themselves in short fur skirts and leather brassieres that allowed the eager Castimir a good view of their midriffs. They adorned themselves with finely crafted jewellery, so subtly and intricately fashioned that Castimir could not recall seeing any finer. He examined the necklace of one of the women, the blue stone shining at its centre, and wondered how many years of practice it would take to craft something of such beauty.
He laughed quietly to himself when he recalled his first attempt to make even a simple ring while under the tutelage of his uncle. He had dropped the mould and the boiling metal had scalded him, ending his career as a craftsman that same day. Truly, he thought, the reputation of the barbarian women’s skill in the art of crafting, from fine pottery to cunningly-fashioned bracelets and necklaces, was well deserved.
One of the women returned his gaze, direct and unembarrassed. Castimir choked on his drink and looked away.
“You might have insulted her, averting your gaze like that,” Ebenezer chuckled.
“How did you know I was looking at her?” Castimir asked, for the alchemist was facing him across the table, his back to the two women.
“I may be old now, Castimir, but I was young once. Though I cannot remember when.”
Castimir didn’t respond. The journey from Taverley to the barbarian settlement had taken nearly three days. The entire way their minds were fraught with fear of the monster.
The young wizard glanced to his side and observed Gar’rth. The youth was trying hard at his lessons in the common tongue. He had mastered several dozen words that gave him a limited ability to communicate.
But his illness was getting worse. Castimir did not know what it was. It seemed as if Gar’rth sometimes became a different person. He would sweat profusely, his eyes staring at a fixed point whenever his ailment threatened to overwhelm him. Sometimes he would cry out for a minute or so, his hands clenched before him as he fought the dreadful influence of whatever it was that held him in its grip.
Years ago, when Castimir was a boy, a madman had wandered through their village. He’d had a wild look and would break into stretches of nonsensical dialogue with imaginary onlookers that only he could see, muttering about a fantastical realm called Zanaris which was ruled by a fairy queen. Castimir wondered if Gar’rth’s illness was something similar-a disease of the mind.
Gar’rth was in full control of himself now, however. He also sat opposite Ebenezer, drinking water. The alchemist never allowed him to drink any ale or wine, and he had instructed Castimir that Gar’rth should never be given such, for fear that it would contribute to his ailment.
Castimir risked another discreet look at the girl whose blonde hair fell loosely down her back. His spirits fired by the ale he had been drinking, he stood up resolutely, left his empty mug on the table, and marched toward the women.
“Oh dear,” Ebenezer whispered, smiling mischievously at Gar’rth.
The wizard was back in less than a minute, his face downcast and burning bright red.
“They don’t like mages, these barbarians” he muttered. “They don’t trust magic. I only introduced myself and asked them if they wished me to melt an iron dagger.” He looked furtively at the table, avoiding the stares of his friends. “But they weren’t interested.”
The two women glanced over at Castimir several times in the next few moments, their faces reflecting their distrust of the blue-robed sorcerer. Castimir found himself another drink and sat down with a resigned sigh. He had taken his first sip when he saw one of the women gesture to him.
“What now?” he mused as he stood up.
“Him!” She pointed at Gar’rth who sat quietly, unaware that he was the subject of their conversation. “Is he a mage?”
Castimir shook his head.
“No,” he said firmly.
“Good!” the woman said, before turning away and muttering in a hushed tone to her younger friend.
