Gaelinar whirled and followed Ketel back into the hallway.
Karrold called after them. "Ketel?"
The ruby-rank sorcerer turned.
"Don't let me regret my decision."
Ketel mumbled. "Yes, master." He shuffled down the gaudy corridor.
Larson felt obligated to say something. "Good day." He used a friendly tone; but after the tension which had nearly turned to violence, his words sounded like a mockery. He trotted behind Ketel and Gaelinar, relaxing only after they stepped out the main door and into the afternoon sunlight.
As they threaded through the gardens outside Karrold's holding, Larson caught Ketel's arm. "Thank you."
Ketel shook free of Larson's grip. "Please. I didn't do it for you. I did it for Silme." He cocked his head toward Larson as he walked. "After years of competition, most of our higher rank mages become reclusive or actively hostile. Some dedicate their lives to destroying other Dragonrank." He added as an afterthought, "Outside the school, of course."
Ketel led Larson and Gaelinar around a bed of multi-hued flowers. "Silme wasn't like that. She was unexcelled as a teacher, always willing to give lower rank mages the benefits of her labors and mistakes. It comes as no surprise she died for Midgard's innocents. She left the school expecting such a fate."
Larson changed the subject, avoiding his aching memories of Silme's death. "Where are you taking us?"
Ketel marched around a line of fountains. "There is a sapphire-rank sorceress who owes Silme more than any other."
Hope spiraled through Larson. "Who is she?"
"Her name is Bengta. Her dragonmark appeared when she was in her mid twenties. When ten-year-old Silme arrived a decade later, Bengta had made garnet-rank." Ketel waved to a pair of men on a stone bench as they passed. "Shy and timid, Bengta caused a stir among the higher ranking mages. Here, promotion is achieved by boldness; a sorcerer reckless enough to practice spells until his life aura is nearly drained either dies or advances quickly. Only one sorcerer can advance to garnet each year, and there was concern that Bengta had been chosen over jade-ranks more committed and deserving."
Ketel paused to unlatch a gate. He, Larson, and Gaelinar filed through it, onto a dirt and gravel street between the dwellings. "As gossip and contempt ran rampant, Bengta became despondent. She spent less time working spells and more time mumbling about leaving. Then came her apprentice, Silme." A strange smile curled Ketel's lips. "Silme and her brother advanced through the ranks as if magic had been created for them. At first, we blamed youthful exuberance. We thought they were too ignorant of death to fear it; surely they would both die as children. But as they climbed the mountain of success, leaving most of us behind, there was no doubt they had an unusually fine grasp of their own limits."
Ketel stopped to lean against a blocked archway into another garden. "Silme's enthusiasm inspired Bengta.
They became as close as mother and daughter. Though, sometimes, it was difficult to tell who was which. Bengta had age and maturity, Silme knowledge and ability. They shared freely with each other. Bengta owes her rank to Silme. And I have yet to meet a mother unwilling to sacrifice her life for her only child."
Excitement thrilled through Larson, but a vague queas-iness accompanied it. Something felt wrong.
Gaelinar worked a cramp from his hand. "Where can we find her?"
Ketel waggled his finger toward the arched entryway then stepped through it. Suddenly, a loud crack echoed between the walls. Light flared, bathing the garden an eerie blue. Instinctively, Larson backpedaled behind the wall and dropped to his stomach.
Several seconds passed in silence.
"Lord Allerum?" Ketel sounded more curious than concerned.
Larson rose to a crouch, hugged the wall stones, and peeked through the archway. Around Gaelinar and Ketel's legs, he saw symmetrical beds of flowers, each giant petal a deep, natural indigo. At the farthest end, seated on a wooden bench, an elderly woman regarded them quizzically. She clasped a sapphire dragonstaff between her knees.
Feeling foolish, Larson sidled up to his companions. "What was that?" He tried to sound casual.
"Warding spell." Ketel raised a hand in welcome to the woman. "Bengta's way of announcing company."
Bengta returned Ketel's greeting.
Larson grumbled. "Sort of a magical doorbell."
Ketel's brow furrowed. "Magical what?" He looked askance at Gaelinar.
More accustomed to Larson's unrecognizable English phrases, Gaelinar shrugged it off. "I don't understand half of what he says." He added scornfully, "In return, he doesn't listen to half of what I say."
Larson rattled off a vulgar American phrase accompanied by a gesture he was glad Gaelinar could not recognize. "Let's get this over with."
Ketel motioned to Larson and Gaelinar to remain, then trotted off to converse with Bengta.
Larson paced like an expectant father. He pictured Silme as she had appeared at their first meeting: her smile mischievous in a face pale as new-fallen snow, her slender curves accentuated by her gray cloak, and gold-white hair glowing in a halo of magics. All the desire he had felt reemerged, strengthened by the love he had come to know over time. But Silme is dead. Somehow, Larson's mind which had come to accept a Scandinavia centuries prior to his birth, magic, swords, and gods could not concede rebirth from death. The concept had reawakened the once conquered madness which had nearly overtaken him in Karrold's palace. Larson harbored no desire to surrender to the conscience-searing flashbacks again.
Ketel returned, his expression somber. "Come with me." He led Larson and Gaelinar to Bengta.
The woman rose as they approached. Despite a rotund figure, she moved with regal grace. Her neatly-coiffed hair was an odd mixture of brown, gold, and gray which shaded sorrowful blue eyes and a grimly-lined visage. She leaned her dragonstaff against the bench and spoke in a resigned soprano. "Ketel has explained your need. I'll do it."
Gaelinar regarded Ketel with arched brows, as if to confirm Bengta's willingness.
Ketel gave a slow nod. "When you leave, make certain you follow the same path. I'll be waiting to escort you from the school grounds." Without explaining further, he turned and shuffled from the garden.
Larson pinched his lips between his fingers. He knew he should feel ecstatic. Silme will live again. But the realization brought only a racking wave of nausea. He tried to read emotion in Bengta's eyes. "Do you understand what you agreed to do?"
The sapphire-rank sorceress avoided Larson's gaze. "I've traded an elderly life for one younger. I've traced Silme's passage since she left the Dragonrank school. She and the Kensei rescued the world, though the world may never realize it. And you helped, too, lord elf. I would give my life and more for her.''
The woman's words seemed heartfelt, yet Larson felt plagued by restlessness. "You're certain?"
"My life is yours, Kensei. Just let me…"
Her pause seemed unnatural to Larson.
"… go…in my world." Bengta made a sweeping gesture to indicate the garden.
Bengta's use of a euphemism fueled Larson's discomfort. People who have accepted death, as she claims she has, speak freely of it.
Gaelinar's katana skimmed silently from its sheath.
For an instant, Bengta's glance met Larson's. Her eyes went wide with a sheer terror which crashed against Larson's conscience, hurling him violently into the past. He stood in a night gone strangely dark and silent. Wind ruffled the trees, their swish forming a muffled chorus with the creak of concertina wire from the Fire Support Base at his back. His orders echoed like song through his mind. "Anything enters the perimeter, shoot it." Larson let the M-16 in his right hand sag to his side. He dug through a pocket with his left, searching for a cigarette.
A crackling of brush froze him in position. As the sound grew louder and more persistent, Larson eased to a crouch. Quietly, he freed his hand, raised the gun, and switched it to automatic. A lone figure emerged from the brush. Carefully, Larson aimed. Even as his finger tightened on the trigger, a distant flare slashed the darkness. Larson caught a glimpse of a heavily-wrinkled female face.