Grinding Dirt

By the time the currently sightless mage Eric and his retinue of escorting guards finally come to a halt he feels inclined to conclude that they must have done several laps of Parnem. His conclusion is such due to his legs ache something fierce. To make matters worse the heat he can feel around his head he would best describe as revolting, with sections of the cloth even clinging to his face in a number of places. Thank goodness I haven’t eaten anything that might have lingered on my breath, he thinks to himself.

All of a sudden Eric hears the unmistakable sound of heavy doors grinding against polished stone floors. The noise illicits uncomfortable and uncontrollable shivers. They run across his back from one shoulder blade to the other. Then he is on the move again. This time his journey is much shorter. He counts forty seven steps in all. Before long the arms linked through his suddenly retract leaving him to stand on his own two feet. They groan, in his head, and he wishes he could sit to give them the rest they so rightly deserve. However, the mage is under no illusions regarding his lack of solitude in whatever this space may be. He doesn’t have to wait long to learn as the hood is ripped from over his head. Immediately his brown eyes slam shut. The brightness they have been exposed to is simply just too much for them after the presence of the hood. Yet, without his eyes other senses heighten to alert Eric to the breathing of four distinctive souls. Three he imagines are the guards who escorted him to wherever it is he now stands. The fourth, he can only assume, belongs to the Duke. Open your eyes, he tells himself. It takes longer than perhaps it should, but following a quick whisper quiet utterance of a spell meant to limit the amount of light into his eyes, he does exactly that.

The mage’s first reaction is that the space round him is extravagant, gaudy even. Not at all to his meagre tastes he would have to admit. But then it was never going to be if it is indeed a Duke he is meeting. From the plush red velvet curtains that don’t seem to cover just windows to the mirror polished chequer board marble floor to the vaulted wooden ceiling over crammed with gold gilded candelabras on long chains he would consider that this could be owned by no one other than a Duke.

“Master Mage, I hope the guards treated you well.” An older, for a non-magic wielder, man says with a stern tone of voice.

Eric changes his focus. Forgetting about the décor surrounding him he focuses instead on the tall thin grey haired man sat cross-legged on a single seat. The seat rests atop a three tier raised plinth. If the mage didn’t know better he’d consider this man a king. Still, he doesn’t recognise the older gentleman who is dressed in a fine set of dark finery. The attire looks very out of place when compared to the bright reds of the curtains interspersed with oil portraits of what Eric can only guess are ancestors of the man before him.

“They have, Duke…” Eric begins. His hope is that this will lead to a reveal as to whom it is the mage is stood before.

“…Andrew Wearingstall.” Is the reply and comes much easier than Eric had been expecting. That is why the mage offers a quick flash of a smile in addition to a respectful bowing of his head.

“But that is not why we are here, introductions. There is business to attend to and I am inclined to get down to it. Is that amenable to yourself mage?” Duke Andrew Wearingstall enquires bluntly.

“It is.” Eric isn’t surprised the Duke doesn’t want a reciprocal introduction. Men and women like he seldom ever do.

It seems you are no different to any other of your ilk that I’ve met; the mage notes unimpressed.

He quickly banishes the light filtering spell on the space immediately in front of his eyes. They sting no more, it is achieved its goal and so there is no reason to keep it in affect. He does however take the time to check that his shoulder slung satchel is still in place. To his relief it is.

“No need for caution mage. Nothing of yours has been taken. Though, I do wonder if you know where we are.” A smile creeps across Duke Andrew Wearingstall’s face as the words pass his lips.

“Duke, as per your orders his head was kept covered.” The guard without the helmet says butting into the conversation. Well, he isn’t butting in really. In truth he has only spoken as a result of the Duke having flicked his eyes in the direction of the helmetless guard. The glance, in fact, a silent order meant to give this guard the opportunity to assure the Duke of his dedication to the aristocrat’s orders.

“And yet this man before us is a mage. If he wants to see no simple hood would be capable of denying him that.” Andrew is dismissive and aloof. The way only aristocrats are capable of being. It’s why he glances around the room ignoring those before him. That’s more than likely because the Duke doesn’t believe the guards or Eric are worth blessing with eye contact.

“Isn’t that true, master mage?”

“It is but to do so felt disrespectful to you Duke and so I did not perform any such incantation.” Is the reply Eric delivers confidently and honestly. If he’d have lied it would have been obvious. Eric really isn’t a good liar. It’s written on his face, as clear as day, for anyone to see when he lies. It’s why he avoids doing so like the plague.

Andrew’s expression breaks into a smile, a wry one. “I expected nothing less from a man with your reputation.” Eric doesn’t think those words are meant in the complimentary way it might sound. He doesn’t know why. Though, he wastes no time dwelling on deeper consideration. The Duke clearly wants something, so they might as well get to the point of it. Maybe once whatever it is has been fulfilled he will be granted the ability to be on his way. By that Eric means out of Parnem. Not just out of whatever building he is stood within the confines, as lavish as they might be, of.

“Alas, that is not why we are here. And I claimed to wish to get to the point and yet have dallied, so take my apologies.” Eric bows his head in acceptance. He knows there are times not to speak and this is one of those times. The Duke doesn’t actually care that he is wasting the mages time. It’s civility, forced and faked that has been instilled in the duke during his early days.

“I’m sure a man of your position has heard of the tragedy which has befallen our city.” Andrew pauses. Not long enough for a reply to be given. More likely this is part of some show. It could only be for himself. There is no one else present who a Duke would give a show for. It certainly wouldn’t be for Eric or the city guards. Neither, would rate on this aristocrats radar of importance. To Andrew Wearingstall everyone else present is but a servant capable only of being in his presence if he decides it. The arrogance, Eric thinks without reacting. This is why he doesn’t wish to ever get involved, in more than passing, with aristocrats and their ilk.

“I’m speaking of the murders of course.” And there is the condescension. Eric had been waiting for it. It’s never very far away when it comes to people like the Duke Wearingstall. That is double so when he’s forced to speak to what he would consider a lesser.

“I have Duke and they are… quite troubling I must admit.” Eric chooses his words carefully.

“A more accurate truth could not be spoken, master mage. But what is more troubling is that it seems as though a user of magic is behind each of these tragedies. Very concerning, very damaging, and they come when our great King is aboard handling matters of most import. And that leads me to why I have summoned you here master of magical renown. I need to know as to how these murders may have taken place. This has to be settled before the King returns, you understand?” And there it is; the want, the demand, the request, which isn’t one at all.

“I do Duke. However, I would need to know the manner in which these…souls…were taken. Perhaps even a trip to one of the scenes might be in need. If that is to the Duke’s liking, of course.” Eric hates speaking like this. It’s so pointless and why he has to desperately resist the urge to roll his eyes. Dukes, Ladies, Lords, Kings, Queens don’t like such gestures, which is why it is commonplace for the punishment that is issued for them is that of public torture. Not only, in these peoples eyes, does it teach those who do not adhere to etiquette of the faux pas they have committed, but it also reminds the commoners of their place and lack of importance. There are far better less barbaric ways to educate, Eric thinks while he waits for a reply from the Duke.

Andrew considers the mages words for a while. Or at least he makes it look as though he is considering them. He isn’t really. He had no intention of doing so from the moment the mage started speaking. He hates magic wielders. They are dangerous and regularly, in his experience, hold ideas above their stations. More than once he’s seen a mage look down on him as though he is some dirt that has been ground into the soles of their shoe. It’s disgusting. He is a Duke who was born and is from the great city of Parnem whose walls have stood strong for hundreds of years. That means he is of import. A mage is not. They are a commoner with a gift. But no gift will ever stop them being anything more than a commoner. Much like no merchant however rich he might become will ever be on par with him and his ilk. A merchant is still a commoner. You are born an aristocrat in Parnem. They are not made. All have long ties to the throne. But with the king abroad and someone stupid enough, likely this mage before him, to partake and indulge in murder it gives Duke Andrew Wearingstall the opportune reason to cut the rot of magic from the city. The King, as great as he is, would not agree. He is young, naïve of the dangers and the disdain, Andrew is not. He sees it in mages eyes, this one included. It’s enough to make his blood boil, but he will not give this Eric Farnmouth the privilege.

“Alas, such things are not… appropriate…what with the timing you must understand, master mage. However, I could explain the deaths to you.” Andrew chooses his words carefully. It takes him little effort to do so. After all, he has spent his entire life in the presence of aristocrats and royalty. This is his language. The only one that truly matters for it stretches across all the fifteen kingdoms.

“If you could Duke, that would be… ample.” It won’t be. Eric doubts the Duke will even manage to explain the deaths properly as he twiddles the ends of his grey moustache and then absentmindedly strokes his beard over and over, flicking the wide vaguely pointed end at the completion of every downward stroke.

“They all died the same way, a slit throat while in a locked room. Found face down after the doors had to be broken down.” Andrews’ eyes narrow as he speaks. He feels compelled to carefully analyse the mages response while stood there in his stupid robe and ridiculous hat. The fact it took the city guards so long to locate and deliver Eric Farnmouth here tells the Duke more about the calibre of those meant to protect and police the city then he feels it should. Parnem will need better servants to the city than these. Perhaps he’ll broach the subject once their adolescent king is back from cavorting with some neighbouring whore child. It pains the Duke to think of how much like his father the new king is. Except that at least his father had the dignity to keep his promiscuity to daughters of other kingdoms monarchs. Sadly, his son has a tendency to pursue, quite aggressively so, commoners in service to the other monarchs. More than a few have ended up… Andrew doesn’t wish to recall how they end up. He feels no sorrow for what his king does to them, but it isn’t something he wishes to stain his mind with more often than is absolutely necessary. And right now it most definitely is not.

“Was there a window?” Eric asks feeling uneasy as a result of the looks the Duke is giving him.

“Locked on all counts but one, where there was no window but a balcony with a hundred foot drop.” The guard without the helmet recounts following a wave of the Duke’s left hand. It seems he has already lost interest in being the one to answer any queries the mage might have. That’s because Andrew knows Eric is behind it. He has to be. He’s the only real wielder of magic in the city. And not just because he is of considerable renown is that the Duke’s belief either. He can prove it. Or he could if there was anyone to prove it to. There isn’t. And even once he returns his King will not question the Duke’s action. Power is absolute, the aging man thinks in the moments prior to a smile splitting across his face. If he were anyone else he might consider how it looks to be grinning like a Cheshire cat, but he doesn’t care. The guards know better than to comment and whether Eric Farnmouth does or not is irrelevant as he’ll be dead soon.

“It could be a cloaking spell. The killer hiding in the room until the victim enters and locks the door because they believe they are alone.” Eric offers incredibly unsure without being permitted examination of a body or murder scene.

“And how would they escape, master mage?” Andrew hopes the mage is as dumb as he looks and sets himself up. If he does then this will have been so easy. The duke forced to stifle a cruel chuckle so as not to alert the mage and make him suspicious.

“Wait until the door is broken down and then in the panic that ensues slip away unnoticed.” Eric admits walking right into the Duke’s trap.

“Seize him.” Is the quick order that slips from between Eric’s lips.

Eric looks around in panic but it’s too late, he is already seized.

“What is this?” The mage demands angrily while squirming.

“You are the killer, master mage. I knew it. Your arrival in Parnem was too perfect and you believed us too stupid to consider you. But I am a Duke. My place is above you and you have been rumbled. You shall kill no more of the great aristocracy of Parnem.” Andrew smiles widely. The expression is not just a result of the victory but also the short-sightedness of the mage. If he didn’t know any better he’d think the mage is innocent. He cackles knowing that isn’t true at all.

“You’re mad! I did no such thing. Why would I kill…?” Eric is being honest, truthful, but it doesn’t matter. His words fall on deaf ears. Duke Wearingstall does not care as to why or how, he just wants a patsy that will suit his agenda of providing him an excuse to rid Parnem of magic users. It’s a first yet essential step that will culminate in the removal, by any and all means, of every magic user in the kingdom of Carsenthian.

“Silence worm!” Duke Andrew Wearingstall bellows loudly. A smile is still torn across his thin pale face. “I…hereby…” The Duke’s eyes go suddenly wide. Eric’s brow furrows. At first he considers the aging man to be suffering cardiac complications of some kind. Fitting, the mage think, but quickly he realises the Duke is afflicted by no such thing. Rather, the guards on either side of Eric topple away from him. Eric cannot understand why and then a spectral figure with a hooded face that ripples like the surface of a lake appears in a flash behind Duke Wearingstall. The Duke realises too late and suffers a deep slicing swipe across his throat. Blood immediately belches from the wound.

Eric manages to turn to the helmetless guard and see he too is staring in disbelief at what he is bearing witness too. The mage is content to know he isn’t the only one aghast and a witness to what is happening. Yet, when he looks back to the Duke, who is flailing desperately on the floor attempting to stem the fatally deep incision across his neck, Eric is greeted with a sweet smile from the hooded ever moving face of the killer. In that moment Eric Farnmouth, mage of considerable renown, recognises the face of the murderer. “Kara!” He hears himself stammer. The figure raises its hand; index finger extended, and presses it to its soft dull lips. Right after the figure makes a shushing sound as if to urge Eric, playfully, to be silent. The mage ignores the request and utters an incantation meant to reveal her true self. Sadly, it does no such thing. Rather, it makes the spectral form fizzle and distort in the moments before there is a sudden flash and a rush of illusionary smoke, which is mainly meant to confuse the single guard, after which the killer is gone entirely.

“What was that?” The guard mutters sometime later. He feels no need to check on the Duke, he is clearly dead. His eyes staring blankly off into the ether are enough proof of that. 

“I don’t know but I intend to find out.” Eric says turning on his heels.

“But you said Kara!” The guard declares. “Do you know her?”

“No. I met her in the tavern tonight.” The mage partially explains without pause.

“I must inform…” The guard begins.

“You do that. Just leave me out of it.” Eric says cutting the guard off.

“You have my word, master…” The guard turns only to find that Eric Farnmouth has disappeared. He didn’t leave the room. At least he didn’t via the heavy doors which are the only way in and out of this space. If he had the guard would have heard them.

Walter, the guard, hopes he has done the right thing in letting the mage go. The Duke would not have agreed but he’s dead, so it doesn’t matter now what he would or would not agree with.

“What…What happened?”

“My head hurts.”

The two guards begin to stir. Walter is shocked. He thought for sure they had been slain like the Duke. It doesn’t change the fact that there he is going to have a lot of explaining to do. First, he must find out what Benjamin and Harold remember.