He focused on the pain and felt how miserable he was. He no longer wanted to get away from Garlthik but to get away from everything. He didn't want to exist in the world anymore. He felt his desire to vanish wrap-around him. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to be safe. The pain he felt now would haunt him forever, as his mother's death haunted him, as his loneliness haunted him, as his father's death and his father's-weakness haunted him. As his betrayal of his father haunted him.
There was nowhere to escape but into himself, into the pain, into the magic.
A lightness curved around him, then threaded through his body.
Magic?
"I am only pain."
"Yes," said the creature.
"No," J'role thought fiercely. "This is mine. You can't take this from me."
"I won't. And the pain has always been yours? But I can enjoy it. I will. You've picked a perfect discipline.”
J'role forced his mind closed against the thing. It spoke no more. He stepped forward. He did not want to be noticed by anyone, and when he stepped forward he felt the pain in him arc around under his feet. The magic wrapped around in a way he could not see, only feel, tingling his flesh, connecting it somehow to the wood-the very grain of the wood- and somehow, he stepped just the right way, or the wood responded to his step in just the right way, he could not be certain because it all-everything-blended together at that moment, and he did not make a sound. He continued to walk forward, amazed at the silence of his steps, the sound of his heartbeat the only sound he knew.
The pain in his arm still burned, but it fed him now, a terrible anger at everything. He turned to Garlthik. The ork stood with his arms crossed, smiling.
"Welcome, thief. And now J'role, your first test as an adept. You must steal the rich man's ring."
J'role knew it was true. Stealing the ring was what he had to do. It would be good to steal the ring. His arm hurt, but knowing the rich man owned that lovely ring hurt even more.
It should be his. He felt the magical ring against his chest, the longing strong. Stealing the ring would not stop the longing, but it would hold it off for a bit. Yes. Steal the rich man's ring.
J'role stood on the windowsill and reached his right hand out along the exterior wall of the tavern, looking for a finger hold. His left arm hung limply at his side, the pain harsh and hot, but also a wellspring of determination.
His fingers explored the wood of the wall, searching for loose joints and-there-he found a small hole. Before this night J'role might never have thought it possible to use the small gap between two boards as a finger hold; in fact, it would never have occurred to him to climb across the exterior of a building two stories up. But that was the way Garlthik had insisted he reach the rich man's room.
"The door will be guarded," he said, "perhaps with a trap, perhaps even with magic.
Better to take the window. They won't be paying as much attention to it."
Now J'role stretched out his toes, again looking for a support hold. Under his bare toes, each grain of the rough wood seemed to reach up and grab his flesh Finally he found a toehold, and although he could barely press his big toe into it, he knew it would support him. His body, it seemed, was lighter. He felt as if he could let go of the wall and float into the sky. But even as the idea occurred to him, he knew that, no, he could not do that.
It was the act of climbing the wall, sneaking about to steal the ring, that the magic rewarded. Flying would be too … direct. Climbing, finding the small crevices and hanging on by the edge of the body- that was a thief's work.
Putting his weight on his single toe and placing his finger between the boards, he stepped off-the windowsill and onto the wall of the tavern. There, suspended above the ground by no more than a few bones and muscle, tenuously connected to the wood of the wall in a fashion he could barely begin to understand, J'role hung for a moment. His heart beat faster in excitement. He wished the people of his village could see him now!
Then he remembered his task, and reached his free arm, his burned arm, out in search of another gap in the boards. In this way he made his way slowly across the wall toward a window at the other side of the building.
The pain tore so viciously through his arm by the time he reached the window that he almost wished he could chop the limb from his body if only to be free of the pain. Yet, he also accepted the pain. Anything he wanted was his by the right of pain. The more pain, the more he deserved to take what he wanted.
And now he wanted the fat man's precious ring.
The window curtain hung loose, moving back and forth in the cool night breeze. Perched on the ledge, J'role touched the edge of the curtain-not a sound! — and peered into the dark room.
The rich man and the lizard-folk slept on their cots.
On the wall J'role saw his shadow-dim, but definitely present in the fuzzy frame of light formed by the window. The sigh startled him, as though somehow he should have been safe from such concerns. His shadow should meld with the other shadows of the room, he thought. That would make sense.
Could Garlthik do that? Perhaps. And perhaps J'role would also be able to with practice.
Quietly ever so quietly, he lowered his left foot into the room. When it touched the floor he deftly brought the rest of his body in. Soundlessly. Perfect.
He looked across the room and saw the fat rich man asleep. The man looked so peaceful.
No pain at all. On his finger, the ring.
J'role could just go get it, creep up silently, take it and be gone. But the lizard-folk might turn and see him, catch him from behind. The risk was too great. Could he sneak up to the guard, slit his throat quietly? Maybe. It seemed a good idea. Garlthik had given him a dagger, tucked now into the top of his pants. He drew the blade out. The handle seemed warm and comforting in his palm.
Pain, pain, pain. And now he would give some.
J'role began to move across the floor. Eight feet, then six. Four.
A scream cut through the tavern. "Mother!" a boy wailed.
J'role froze in place, uncertain what to do. The guard stirred, but did not wake. Footsteps raced up the stairs, came closer down the hall.
His grip on the knife tightened. He had to kill him now, get the ring, get out …
The door crashed in.
In the door frame, a flash of a face entering from darkness. Slinsk. "Mordom, he's here!"
the dark-haired man shouted. "The boy’s here!"
J'role turned and ran for the window, had just reached it when a hand grabbed at the back of his shirt and pushed him down. He fell, slamming his chin into the window frame as he went.
Noises filled the air. From down the hall he heard Garlthik shout and then the sound of metal upon metal. Behind him came a cry of alarm from the tall lizard-folk, followed by two more screams.
J'role turned himself around, and the pain in his arm blossomed. The magic's strength had left him. Where was Garlthik? What should he do?
He looked around the room. On one cot rested the corpse of the rich man and on the other the guard, their throats slit into jagged crimson gullies. Slinsk kept his back to the wall, his eyes on J'role. In one hand he held a blood-drenched short sword. How had he killed them so quickly?
"I've got the boy!" Slinsk shouted. From the next room the sounds of combat continued.
"New friends, lad? They didn't last you very long, did they? Didn't Garlthik tell you?
Everyone he associates with dies an early death."
J'role began to get up.
"NO!" screamed Slinsk.
J'role froze in place. Slinsk seemed horribly on edge, but less sure of himself than back in the kaer.
From next door Garlthik screamed again. Slinsk smiled, seemed to relax. "Mordom, he made up something special for our ork friend. Something left over from the Scourge."