A short time later, the old man lifted his head and looked toward the northeast, nodding a couple times before he said, “I’m sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid I can’t stay.”
“Why-”
“Sssh, now,” he said, patting her right shoulder with his right hand, “you’ve no need to fear. I know these two very well, and one is an old friend. You will be safe.”
The old man extricated himself and climbed to his feet. He took his staff and began making his way out of the cul-de-sac. Kiri watched him go, and a nagging feeling crept into the back of her mind that something was just not right. She never realized that, though he had been sitting in the muck and grime of the alley with her, the old man’s tattered robe looked as clean as if it had been freshly laundered.
The old man had just turned the corner when an archway of sapphire energy rose out of the cobblestones.
Ovir stepped through the gateway and rushed to the bodies on the cobblestones. He found only the young woman and man still lived, and then, he was aware of Marcus arriving behind him and the gateway closing.
“He said I’d be safe with you,” the woman said.
Ovir looked up from the unconscious young man and asked, “Who said that, dear?”
“The old man that just left.”
At hearing this, Marcus pivoted on his left heel, striding to the end of the cul-de-sac. He started to look left first, but the undeniable presence he felt made him turn right. Standing not fifteen feet away, Marcus saw whom he’d expected: the old man with wild hair in a tattered, gray robe.
“It’s been a long time, old friend,” Marcus said as he stepped beyond the cul-de-sac’s opening.
The old man chuckled. “Yes…well, we all have our work to do, and yours is lying back there unconscious. Give him a chance, and I think even you will be surprised by what you find. Oh, by the way, his name is Gavin Cross.” He winked impishly at Marcus and faded away like mist on the wind.
“Meddling again, are we?” Marcus said as he scanned the space the old man occupied just moments before, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. “The last time you did that, it kicked off the Godswar.”
While Marcus left in search of the old man, Ovir knelt beside the young man who still lived. Blood tried to ooze from the wound around the crossbow bolt, but to Ovir’s experienced eye, the wound looked like it had been cauterized around the projectile somehow.
“Is he going to be okay?” the young woman asked.
Ovir nodded. “Oh, yes. He’ll be fine. I don’t see any injuries beyond the bolt through his shoulder. In a way, it’s a small blessing he’s unconscious; otherwise, this might hurt a bit.”
Ovir grasped the crossbow bolt protruding from the back of Gavin’s shoulder and, with a sharp motion, snapped off the barbed tip. He then removed the bolt with a jerk; Gavin didn’t even stir. Normally, Ovir wouldn’t even give the broken bolt a second glance, but the wound channel it left in its wake was sufficiently cauterized that blood and tissue did not start filling the passage; Ovir could see sunlight through the hole in Gavin’s shoulder. Faced with that unprecedented sight, he couldn’t keep from looking down at the bolt he still held in his hand.
“By the gods!”
Marcus arrived at Ovir’s side, saying, “What is it, Ovir?”
“Marcus, look at this!” Ovir said, holding up the bolt for Marcus to see. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
Across a span that matched the depth of Gavin’s shoulder, the shaft of the bolt was blackened and charred, as if it had been on fire.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed at seeing the bolt, and he said, “Yes, Ovir, I have seen something like it before.”
With no further explanation, the old wizard began searching the surroundings with his eyes, and he soon found the blackened and twisted remains of the slavers’ brand. He crouched down and picked it up, turning it over in his hands a couple times before he returned it to the ground and started searching once more. It was then Marcus looked at the slaver corpse lying flat on its back, eyes and mouth wide and a strange mark or symbol burned into its forehead.
“Ovir, did you see this corpse right behind you?”
“Well, no. I saw the boy still lived, so I-”
“Turn around, and have a look at the forehead.”
Ovir pushed himself to his feet and turned around, eyes widening. “Marcus, that’s…what does all this mean? Where have you seen this before?”
Marcus turned to face his long-time friend. “Ovir, the consequence of a slaver trying to brand a wizard directly relates to the inherent power of the wizard the slaver attempts to brand. If someone tried to brand…oh, say…Torval Mivar’s son, the most that slaver would have to fear would be a small scar on the palm of his hand, and it certainly wouldn’t kill him.”
Now, Marcus turned to the young woman, asking, “That’s what killed him, yes? He tried to brand the unconscious young man there?”
The young woman nodded, saying, “It was ghastly. Right before the slaver died, he was screaming, and weird-colored flames were shooting out his eyes and mouth.”
Marcus nodded and said, “That’s what would happen if someone tried to brand a wizard of my power. Mark and all.”
“Marcus, that’s not just some random mark,” Ovir said. “That’s your House’s glyph!”
The old wizard nodded as he said, “Yes. That way, the Houses would know which family the slaver was dumb enough to attack. But we have more pressing matters.”
“Yes,” Ovir said, turning back to the people behind them. “I am getting on in years, but I’m pretty sure I should not be able to see daylight through his shoulder. Give me your hand also, young lady; I think you’re rather ill.”
The young woman reached out and took Ovir’s right hand in hers, while he placed his left hand on Gavin’s injured shoulder. He bowed his head and recited the prayer for healing he had learned so many years before.
Ovir felt the warm glow of his god’s power build within him and pass down his arms, through his hands, and into the two people he touched. If the cleric were strong enough and in sufficient favor with his or her deity, there would usually be some sort of glow or nimbus around the cleric and person(s) being healed. The bright, white glow that filled the cul-de-sac was so bright anyone nearby would turn away, lest s/he be blinded for a time.
Within moments, the glow faded, and Ovir looked down to see a snow-white, perfect circle where the young man’s wound had been.
The young woman frowned as she rubbed her stomach, saying, “I don’t feel the poison anymore. Thank you! How did you know?”
“I’ve seen it used before. It produces a slight discoloration around the eyes,” Ovir said as he pushed himself to his feet. “But don’t thank me, my dear. Valthon did all the work; I simply asked for a few moments of His time.”
Now, she looked at Gavin’s unconscious form. “What about him?”
“He’s breathing strong enough,” Ovir said. “At this point, I’d say his unconsciousness is related to his first use of the Art, instead of some specific injury.”
“He put himself between me and the slavers,” she said, her voice soft and almost vulnerable. “It’s been a long time since anyone has cared that much about me.”
Chapter 5
He heard it just as his feet touched the main floor of the Tower. “Marcus, I need a word.”
The old wizard looked to his left and saw Valera, the Magister of Divination and the Collegiate Justice, standing a short distance away. Valera was Vushaari, and while her skin was weathered and wrinkled with her age, she shared the olive complexion for which her people were known. The curly hair that had once been a lustrous anthracite was now mostly gray, but she bore it well. She wore the white robe that announced her philosophy toward the Art as protection or defending others, and the amethyst runes on her sleeves proclaimed her status as Magister, the amethyst color signifying her specialization in Divination.