Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 5: Schoolmaster

'Example is the school of mankind, and they will learn at no other.''

– Edmund Burke Letters on a Regicide Peace

Al Larson and Kensei Gaelinar emerged from the twilit depths of the pine forest to stand before the forbidding walls which enclosed the Dragonrank school. The first stray sun rays illuminated circles of quartz set in the stonework, making it appear to shimmer with magics. Larson stared at the twenty feet of cold granite which barred his entry into a world of secrecy and sorcery where, he knew, Silme had spent eleven months of every year for a decade and a half until she abandoned her training to protect innocents from Bramin's wrath. "Want to make camp?"

Gaelinar said nothing. His yellow-brown eyes probed the dawn.

"Gaelinar?"

The Kensei made a sharp, cutting motion with his hand.

Taking Gaelinar's gesture as a plea for silence, Larson stopped speaking. He tried to discern the cause of Gaelinar's concern but found only the ceaseless trill of insects and a blank stretch of wall.

Gaelinar crept forward, his movements calculated and quiet. His fingers rested on the brocade of his katana.

Larson's breathing went soft and rapid with anticipation. Cautiously, he followed Gaelinar. As his mentor's stalk became more directed, Larson glimpsed a blurred movement. His eyes traced the outline of a figure, soundlessly descending the wall stones. It was small, dressed from hood to boots in black. A woman or child, Larson guessed. The stranger moved with graceful ease. Each shaded stone seemed to conform itself to his or her position. The fading fragment of moon was not bright enough to reveal the climber as more than a shifting shadow.

Gaelinar waited, nearly touching the wall. Before Larson could think to stop the Kensei, his katana leaped from its sheath and cut a silver arc through the gray ness. The unsharpened side of its blade impacted the climber's knuckles with a painful slap. The black-cloaked form plummeted, twisted like a cat in midair, and struck the ground with bent knees. Larson caught a brief glimpse of a pale face, etched with surprise and horror.

The point of Gaelinar's katana poised, dangerously near the stranger's throat. "Prepare to die, worm."

The climber crouched, tensed to dodge. His voice was a masculine tenor. "What did I do?" His harsh, German accent mangled the thick melody of the Norwegian tongue.

Gaelinar remained alert and unmoving. "Your people have plagued me since I can remember. You're not a man. You're a disease." He raised his sword for a killing stroke.

Alarmed, Larson caught the Kensei's shoulder. "What the hell?"

Menaced from behind, Gaelinar spun, redirecting his strike. For an instant, the sword hovered threateningly above Larson's head. Then, sputtering curses in Japanese, Gaelinar whirled back to the stranger.

But the man was gone.

Gaelinar slammed his sword into its sheath and rounded on Larson, his olive-skinned face flushed pink with rage. "You had no right to interfere."

"No right to interfere!" Larson's features turned as dark as his mentor's. "You don't even know that man. You were going to kill him for no reason."

Gaelinar scanned the wall, apparently seeking the black-suited stranger. "Just because you don't see a reason, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. You've been hunted by that wolf for a couple of days, and I'm certain you wish it dead. I've been hunted for ten years."

Larson still found no logic to Gaelinar's motives. "You've been hunted by a German midget less than a third your age and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet? That man can't be more than twenty years old. How could he have stalked you ten of them? And what were you going to do? Sentence him to death for climbing a wall?"

Gaelinar's hands balled to angry fists. "Quiet! I've had enough of your insolence. You won't earn the right to speak to me again until you've learned the proper respect for your superior and your teacher."

Larson clenched his teeth, scarcely able to contain his indignation. "How dare…"

Quick as a cobra, Gaelinar caught Larson's sword arm with his left hand. His right pinched Larson's throat closed. His voice was a menacing rasp. "Don't you dare." As suddenly, he released his grip.

Silently, Larson backed toward the forest, quivering with raw fury at Gaelinar's attack. Driven beyond sane reasoning, he drew his daggers, angling their tips between himself and Gaelinar. "Damn you. I have something to say, and I'm going to talk." He hesitated, watching the Kensei's hands for any sign of movement. "You're not the world's sole repository of wisdom. You almost killed a stranger out of hand. How can someone who's lived as long as you have so little respect for human life?"

To Larson's surprise, Gaelinar's lips formed a grim smile. "Put the knives away. You know they won't do you any good."

Larson remained crouched, not daring to allow the Kensei too close.

With a snort of amusement, Gaelinar continued. "You're not the brightest student I've ever taught. You're neither the fastest nor the most capable. But you've got more nerve than any three of them together. It's precisely because I have lived so long that I've lost respect for human life. People are content to toil their lives away for mere survival. They give no consideration to honor or glory. If they place no value on their lives, why should I?"

Larson's anger faded slightly, and he sheathed his daggers. "You've got the audacity to judge the value of other people's lives?"

Gaelinar shrugged. "The value of a life is the same as the value of anything else. If a man's not strong enough to keep it, he doesn't deserve to have it."

"How can you say that!" Larson had grown sick of a mentality he had come to consider adolescent. "Life isn't property. Life is sacred."

"Flaws like that are why you're the hero." Gaelinar's expression went as solemn as his words. "The belief that human life is special is dangerous and expensive. Remember what it did to Silme."

Larson considered, finding a disturbing truth in Gaelinar's explanation. He knew his own unshakable faith in the sanctity of human life was the cause of his deep-set feelings of guilt and, ultimately, of the flashbacks, hallucinations, and nightmares which had plagued him since leaving the war in Vietnam. But it was a morality instilled since childhood, by caring parents, a free society, and The United Church of Christ. He doubted he could escape it, nor did he want to. "Gaelinar," he said. "This is one of those times when our cultures and upbringings clash. If I see you trying to kill someone without a good reason, I will try to stop you."

Gaelinar's eyes went hard as diamonds. "Very well. But if you come between me and our enemies, you will hamper our chances for survival. And if I feel I must slay someone, neither you nor any man on Midgard could keep me from it."

Larson hesitated. Nearly all his anger had dispersed, leaving him feeling uncertain and somewhat repentant for having challenged his teacher. "I understand," he said at length. "But I hope it never comes to that." He turned and headed deeper into the woods. "Come on, Gaelinar. I'm sick to death of arguing. Let's make camp and get some rest."

Al Larson and Kensei Gaelinar slept through the remainder of the morning and well into the day. After a sword practice far more satisfying than the one of the previous night, and a breakfast scavenged from the forest, Larson felt ready to face the Dragonrank school and its master. "So what's it like inside?" He imagined stony-faced youths in neat rows transforming one another into newts and toads. The vision made him smile.

Gaelinar paced to the tree line and studied the granite wall which confined the sorcerer's school. "I don't know."

"What do you mean? Didn't Silme give you the grand tour?"

Gaelinar followed the eastern wall southward. A breeze fanned his robes into a golden flower. "I only know the outside. Silme had business here once, but I waited for her in the woods." He flicked his fingers to indicate the forest of birch and evergreen in which they had made camp. "The Dragonrank don't welcome outsiders, and they allow their trainees no visitors."

Larson trailed Gaelinar around a sharp corner, continuing westward. Ahead, halfway along the southern wall, he saw the black silhouette of a gate; the angle of their approach hid the school grounds beyond it. Larson noticed no activity outside the walls. But as he and Gaelinar came up to the gate, he found two soldiers guarding the entrance just inside the iron framework. Both wore shirts of riveted links which fell to their knees and were belted at the waist. Iron helmets with decorative bubbles and swirls and long, curled horns perched on their heads. They stood, rigid and motionless, with their spears crossed. Each carried a sheathed broadsword with a jutting, crudely bulbous hilt within easy reach. Larson wondered whether the guards had seen him and Gaelinar approaching or simply spent their entire watch at complete attention.

Larson took advantage of the sentries' silence to study the gate. Some artisan had crafted it from strips of blackened iron, carefully shaped into straight, even bars. In its center, the double doors of the gateway came together to form a dragon, an exact likeness of the one which had attacked them in Hel, its head cocked back in preparation for a blast of fiery breath. Beyond the sharp featured guardsmen, Larson saw rows of squat, one- and two-story buildings. Between them, gardens of late blooming flowers and crops added color to an otherwise grave looking schoolyard.

Gaelinar lowered and raised his head respectfully. "I am Kensei Gaelinar, and my companion is Lord Allerum. We need to see the schoolmaster."

The sentries uncrossed their spears. As one, they jabbed the wooden butts to the ground at their feet. The leftmost one replied. "Karrold isn't seeing anyone/'

Larson met the sentry's gaze. The man stood as tall as himself, about six feet. But the guard's linebacker frame gave him nearly a hundred pounds on Larson's fragile elf form. The second guardsman, slightly smaller than his companion, remained still.

Gaelinar nodded again, this time curtly. "Karrold will see us."

The larger guard repeated his warning. "Karrold isn't seeing anyone."

Gaelinar's fist curled around the sheath of his katana. The thumb he looped over his crossguard blanched. "You can take us to the schoolmaster now, or I can climb this gate and take your heads to him."

As one, the sentries back-stepped and lowered their spears. "Try it, old man," the larger one said. "We'll run you through before you reach the ground."

Gaelinar tensed.

Larson held his breath. For an instant, he feared the Kensei might accept the guardsman's challenge. Then an idea came to him suddenly, and he strode around his mentor. "What my… um… irritable friend forgot to mention…" He heard the rustle of Gaelinar's robes behind him but resisted the urge to turn. "A Dragonrank mage sent us." He plucked Silme's rankstone from his pocket and displayed it for the guards.

The spear tips sagged. The sentries came together for a whispered exchange. The smaller one turned and trotted toward an elegant building at the center of the compound. The remaining guardsman watched Gaelinar, his eyes squinting with suspicion.

Larson rocked back and forth, annoyed by the formality. Silme's mind and body were withering each moment he spent arguing with insolent guardsmen. As if we haven't already wasted enough time chasing cat burglars and swinging an imaginary sword.

Several minutes passed in uncomfortable silence before the sentry returned. "Karrold asked me to bring him the sapphire."

Larson cradled the gem in both hands. "Tell Karrold we're a package. The sapphire does not leave my possession." His own bold words reawakened his guilt over having hurled Silme's ranks tone at the dragon in Hel. He winced.

The larger guard glanced at his companion. "Who's our supervisor today?''

"Ketel."

"Ketei?"

"Ruby-rank."

"Call him."

Again the smaller guard trotted off into the school grounds.

Gaelinar muttered something incomprehensible about "delays" and "incompetence." He exchanged glares with the remaining sentry through the wrought iron gate.

Larson began to pace.

Soon the guardsman returned with a shorter, slighter man in tow. The newcomer wore royal blue silk trimmed with golden thread. Silver streaked his yellow hair at the temples. He carried a wooden staff, darkly-stained, which tapered to a four-toed, black-nailed claw clutching a faceted ruby. His lined face appeared friendly. He confronted Larson and Gaelinar with raised brows, and his narrow features framed a tight-lipped smile. "The guard tells me you've brought a rankstone."

Larson uncovered the sapphire.

Ketel spoke a heavy, unrecognizable syllable. In response, Silme's rankstone darkened to black. Ketel raised his palm, his eyes fixed on the gemstone in Larson's hand. Gradually, it took on a weak, purplish glow. Larson looped his fingers about the stone, uncertain whether he should allow the sorcerer to manipulate Silme's life aura. Before he could whisk it back into his pocket, Ketel dropped his hand, and the light winked out as if choked.

"It's a rankstone," Ketel confirmed. "Sapphire-rank." He seemed impressed. "Who sent you?"

Larson returned the gemstone to his pocket. "Lady Silme." He did not bother to clarify the term "sent."

"We've come to speak with Karrold," Gaelinar added impatiently.

Ignoring the sentries on either side, Ketel nodded agreement. "And indeed you shall." He ended the sentence with a low-pitched sound, and the wrought iron gates swung outward, as if of their own accord. The guards stepped aside, grips rigid on their spears. The smaller one shifted nervously from one booted foot to the other.

Gaelinar and Larson walked through the entry way, and the gates inched closed behind them.

Ketel leaned on his staff, eyeing Larson's knives and the swords, shurikens, and less familiar weapons which girded Gaelinar's waist. "Before we go on, as a show of good will, I must ask you to leave your weapons here."

Larson hesitated, the memory of Gaelinar's threat in the pine clearing still strong within him. If he would kill a friend for merely touching his sword… He did not dare to finish the thought. Even as it came to his mind, he saw the larger guard reaching for Gaelinar's katana with reckless boldness.

Larson cringed away from the inevitable combat.

Gaelinar's features remained placid. He waited, motionless, until the sentry's hand nearly touched his sash. Then, fast as a ferret, he slapped the guard's wrist away and dodged aside. He glared at the younger man, his voice deadly calm. "In my country, the value of a katana is judged on its ability to cleanly decapitate a man in one stroke. Touch it, and you'll receive a demonstration."

The sentries raised their spears, the sharp, steel points leveled at Gaelinar. The three men stood in a silent triangle of threat. No one seemed willing to make the first strike.

"We've come in peace. No need for violence." Larson sidled beyond spear range and glanced at the sorcerer for aid.

Ketel did not disappoint him. "At ease. These men carry a sapphire rankstone. That means either a powerful Dragonmage holds them in her complete trust or they killed her. In either case, I don't think the two of you can stand against them."

Obediently, the sentries backed away and lowered their weapons.

Ketel faced Gaelinar and spoke soothingly, as if to a frightened child. "We'll return your weapons after your audience with Karrold, I promise. It's just a show of good will."

Gaelinar remained crouched, his gaze still fixed on the bigger guard. "And how will you show your good will? I suppose Karrold's guards and sorcerers will leave their spears and staves outside the school grounds? I've tired of nonsense. Either we see Karrold as we are, or we take the rankstone elsewhere and our business into our own hands."

Larson chewed his lip, aware he, alone, understood the consequences of Gaelinar's words. In order to find and slay a sapphire-rank Dragonmage to replace Silme, we would need free run of the school grounds. That would require us to kill every guard or sorcerer who tried to stop us. The thought reawakened the doubts he had quelled in Hel. It makes no sense. How can killing another magician restore Silme's life? Larson addressed his own question with another. Why do I find that any stranger than Ketel's opening and closing a gate with a thought, a talking wolf who can haunt my dreams, or a god trapped within a sword?

Ketel turned his gaze upon Larson, then the spearmen, and back to Gaelinar. "Very well. You may carry whatever you have to Karrold." He added, as if in apology, "But we cannot grant a private audience as long as you insist on bringing swords."

Larson spoke before Gaelinar could open his mouth. "That's fine. The more Dragonrank who know Silme's dilemma, the more likely one will come forward to help her."

Gaelinar relaxed.

Ketel gave a slow, sad nod. "So Silme is in trouble?"

Larson found the question a gross understatement. "As bad as it comes."

"We must see the schoolmaster," Gaelinar said for what seemed like his hundredth repetition.

This time, Ketel responded to Gaelinar's insistence. "Follow me carefully, and, for your sake, don't stray from my path. I, for one, want to hear what you have to say to Karrold." He trotted toward one of the gardens and the palatial structure at the center of the compound. "Silme is a talented sorceress and an avid teacher. I credit her with my promotion from semi-precious. There aren't many things I wouldn't do for her."

Would you die for her? Larson wondered as he and Gaelinar followed Ketel, the spearmen in single file at their backs. As they passed through a garden artistically decorated with fountains and beds of soil in animal shapes, Larson felt smothered beneath a sudden avalanche of uncertainty. Could Ketel substitute his life for Silme, or must we find another sapphire-rank? Does it matter that one is male, the other female? Exactly what does this exchange require? Larson scarcely noticed the withering vegetation of the Dragonrank garden. He recalled Hel's words, indelibly burned into his memory. ' 'To bring her back to Midgard, you would need to open a place for her… I have told you all you need to know. "

They passed a patch of dirt sculpted into the form of a bear. Emaciated, brown stalks stood in a line, each bowed to the ground by a single, plump, orange fruit. But the significance of the magical harvest was lost on Larson. Open a place for her. What does that mean? Gaelinar believes we have to find a person of "Silme's means and bent willing to take her place in Hel. " But just how like Silme must her alternate be?

Oblivious to Larson's concerns, Ketel led his visitors through a stone archway. The view beyond jolted Larson from his thoughts. A two-story building lay before them, stately as an ancient castle. Cut blocks of white granite formed each wall. A portico set off the arched doorway.

A single, crenelated tower rose from the center of the ceiling. A sculpted dragon, lifelike in its clarity, curled about the base of the tower. Fangs jutted from its open mouth. Its tail hung over the building to merge with the stonework of the colonnade.

Larson stared in slack-mouthed awe. Since his arrival in Old Scandinavia, he had seen no architecture more complicated than an ivy-covered, decaying temple and the granite wall around the Dragonrank grounds. Yet this structure appeared flawless. Though smaller, it stood as grand as any palace in his own school textbooks. A pair of sentries, dressed like the spearmen at Larson's back, stood motionless as carvings before the wooden door.

Ketel brought Larson and Gaelinar directly to the portal. Without a word, one of the guardsmen opened the panel, and the three passed through into a hallway more splendid than the outside of the building. Shelves lined every wall, garishly covered with figurines of glass or pewter interrupted by stretches of leather-covered books. Between the shelves stood mute sentries, each with a spear and sword and a matched twin against the opposite wall. Lush, crimson carpet lined the parquet floor, and gold filigree wound like veins through the polished walls.

Gaelinar snorted and tossed a whispered comment to Larson. "Karrold's gaudy toys would make those spears unusable. Every guard's strike or dodge would cost fortunes of gold in trinkets."

Larson made no reply, too struck with the splendor to concern himself with a violence which would surely never occur. Only a fool would challenge a Dragonrank master on his own territory.

Ketel wandered through a maze of gilded hallways then stopped before a double set of doors emblazoned with the claw symbol of the Dragonrank mages. He tapped the rightmost panel with the bronze-rimmed base of his staff.

The door opened silently on oiled hinges. The room beyond contained so many books, Larson felt uncertain whether there were walls behind the shelves. The lower spine of each volume sported a tiny, white square of paper. For an instant, Larson thought he read an Arabic numerical figure on every tag. Then, distance blurred them to obscurity, and larger concerns drew his attention. A half dozen guardsmen stood, evenly spaced, around the room. They wore black tabards over their mail, emblazoned with the claw symbol stitched in crimson. Six pairs of blue eyes settled on Gaelinar and Larson, each man appearing grimly capable.

Beyond the soldiers, another man studied a tome opened on a table of pine and ivory. He appeared gaunt with age. The paper-thin skin of his hands revealed a network of veins. Folds of wrinkled flesh peeked from beneath a collar of scarlet brocade. White hair spilled to his neck, and long sideburns joined a stiff, silver beard. A dragonstaff leaned against one bookshelf; a diamond glimmered between its claws.

The sentry closest to the doorway rattled titles in a practiced monotone. "Introduce yourselves before Lord High Karrold, archmaster of the Dragonrank school, summoner of dragons, commander of the winds, controller of fire, sovereign over all magics of the earth, highest of all Dragonmages and most feared of the nine worlds' two diamond-rank sorcerers."

Tough act to follow. Larson watched Gaelinar for clues to the proper etiquette.

Without so much as a respectful nod, Gaelinar strode toward the schoolmaster. The guards' hands swept to their sword hilts. They closed on the Kensei, but he seemed oblivious. "Lord Karrold, I think you might wish to amend your title."

The elder glanced up from his book, his angular features lost beneath a mass of aged creases. His countenance echoed none of his guards' concern. "And why is that?"

"Was the other diamond-rank mage an evil-tempered, half-human creature called Bramin?''

Karrold's wrinkles deepened. "Some might describe him that way."

"He's dead now. I suppose that makes you the most feared of the nine worlds' only diamond-rank sorcerers."

Larson winced, afraid Gaelinar might add some comment like "hardly a distinctive title anymore." He swiveled his attention from the eager guardsmen to the book shelves. Though still unreadable, the ink strokes on the spine tags seemed unsettlingly akin to Library of Congress call numbers.

"Ah." Karrold considered. "I suspected as much. That would explain why my tracking spells failed. I couldn't be sure. A Master can find ways around any magic, and Bramin often eluded me when engaged in his crudest deeds." Briskly, he returned to the matter at hand. "Who are you, soldier?"

"I am Kensei Gaelinar, and Lord Allerum is my student."

Karrold's gaze swept casually across the strangers. He squinted his watery, pale eyes and regarded Larson more carefully. "You're an elf."

And Gaelinar berates me for speaking the self-evident. Larson saw no reason to reply. But the schoolmaster seemed to expect a response, and Larson did not wish to antagonize him. "Yes," he said simply.

The schoolmaster fingered his beard, studying Larson for several seconds. Reluctantly, he returned his attention to Gaelinar. "And how do you know of Bramin's death?"

"We killed him."

Karrold's eyes shot wide open. He recovered his composure instantly, but a quaver in his ancient voice betrayed the discomfort he otherwise hid. "How did you accomplish such a thing?''

"Purer spirit and a more focused intent," Gaelinar explained blandly.

Larson wondered how much of the Kensei's reply had been spoken for his benefit.

Gaelinar continued. "We didn't come to speak of Bramin. He's not worthy of our time or effort. But Silme linked her soul to Bramin's and lost her life with his."

Sudden grief formed a knot in Larson's throat. He fought off remembrance of the battle before Hvergelmir's falls, but Silme's dying scream pierced his memory like a knife. His hands trembled. He lowered his head and clenched a clammy fist to his forehead. Dizziness enfolded his consciousness, driving him with the mystical force of the flashbacks he had thought conquered. Fearing for his sanity, he fixed his gaze on one of the guards with fanatical intensity. Reality sharpened into focus, and the roar of the waterfall became the fragile voice of the Dragonrank schoolmaster.

"… miracles even I cannot perform. I have no enchantments to raise the dead."

Gaelinar addressed Karrold, but his golden eyes probed Larson's questioningly. "We don't need your magic. We need only a mage who serves law. One of similar rank to Silme and willing to give his life for hers."

Karrold's face went as grim as his soldiers'. "You're asking my permission to kill one of my students? Are you mad?"

Gaelinar's rejoinder was an open challenge. "If we wished to slay one by force, we would have done so already."

Larson broke in, still feeling ill. "Can't you ask? Silme gave her life to rescue Midgard from utter destruction. Perhaps someone might be willing to sacrifice their life for her. I know I would if it was within my power." Now, standing before the Dragonrank schoolmaster, the suggestion seemed ludicrous. But we have to try.

Karrold knotted his gnarled fingers on the desktop. "Last I heard, there was only one diamond-rank, two sapphire, three emerald, and five jacinth. Of those, less than half still attend the school. Some serve gods or kings, some law, some chaos. But most serve only their own interests. I'm sorry. I cannot help you." He turned his attention back to his book, apparently considering the conversation finished.

Gaelinar did not change position, yet his attitude suddenly became deadly alert. "So be it, schoolmaster. We came peacefully, seeking a willing replacement for Silme. You have denied us the simple courtesy of asking, but we will not be stayed. You leave us no choice but to slay every high ranking sorcerer we can find until we discover Silme's equal.''

The guardsmen's spears dropped to a rigid circle. Karrold's fist crashed against the table. "Fool! You'll never leave this room alive!"

Larson's nerves drew tight as bowstrings. He coiled up, prepared to dive beneath the readied spears.

Aside from a finger which tapped the katana's sheath, Gaelinar seemed unimpressed with the sentries' display. He met the sorcerer's query with sullen silence.

From the doorway, Ketel's voice broke the ensuing hush. "Master Karrold, may I speak now?"

The schoolmaster sat with hands tensely bridged. His gaze remained on Gaelinar, and he nodded his head curtly.

Ketel coughed nervously and continued. "I owe my life and my ruby to Silme. If I thought my rank high enough, I might give my life for her. Others may be equally grateful. If you would grant the Kensei and his student time within the grounds to speak with my peers, I will take full responsibility for their actions."

Larson held his breath.

Anxious murmurs broke out among the sentries, swiftly silenced by Karrold's glare. "Very well." The schoolmaster addressed Ketel, but his words were obviously intended for Gaelinar. "But if they take a single, unwilling life, they will have to deal with me and the entire school. And I want them gone by nightfall."

As one, the spear butts slapped to the tiled floor.

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.

She had seen him, too. The panic in her eyes was permanently inscribed into Larson's memory. A thousand years of guilt tore through him before his own bullets ripped through her chest and left her, dead and bleeding, on the dirt.

Larson had waited in the sudden, jarring silence, then crept toward the corpse cautiously. Yellow-white, bloodless skin felt thin as ash beneath his fingers. Desperately, he sought a weapon tucked in some fold of flesh or clothing. But he found nothing to justify the woman's death. She was a peasant searching for something: an herb to cure an ill relative, a wandering grandchild. Larson cursed her with every vile word he knew, not realizing in his rage that he was really damning himself.

The scene rushed through Larson's mind in the fraction of a second it took Gaelinar to strike. "No!" Larson sprang. His shoulder smashed into Bengta's gut, tumbling her. Larson landed heavily on top of her. The point of Gaelinar's katana shaved a line of skin from Larson's back before the Kensei could pull his cut.

Larson whirled to face his mentor, still shielding Bengta with his body. "Don't do it."

Gaelinar swore. "Allerum, you idiot! Out of my way. I vow to any god listening, I'll run you both through if I must."

"No." Larson shook his head, still disoriented and uncertain what force or thought had driven him to defy Gaelinar and deny Silme the life he wanted so much to return to her. He attempted a reply. "It's wrong, Gaelinar." The explanation sounded lame, even to Larson.

The muscles in Gaelinar's cheeks twitched. He glared down at Larson, his expression dark with a bitter anger which bordered on hatred. "At least you won't have far to fall when I behead you."

Frozen by the realization he had slain Silme for the second time, Larson felt little concern for his own welfare. "You wouldn't kill me. We're friends…"

Gaelinar crouched, sword still poised to strike. "Hero, you really don't understand. I pledged myself to Silme and her cause. Lives, even of friends, are nothing compared with honor. If I have to kill twenty thousand people to fulfill my pledge to Silme, I will." He tensed. "I would regret killing you. But if I'm willing to spend my life on a cause, why wouldn't I spend yours?"

Larson met Gaelinar's stare with an insolent scowl. He knew his defiance had lost him everything: his sanity, Silme's life, Gaelinar's companionship. The threat of his own death lost all meaning in comparison. He wrapped an arm more tightly about the woman beneath him. "You're a liar!" he screamed. "You may have served Silme once. Now you work against her."

Gaelinar's reply was a sudden snap of his foot to Larson's face.

Pain jarred a whimper from Larson and drove his world into a deeper haze. "You bastard." His voice was hoarse. "I loved Silme more than anyone. I know her mind, Gae-linar. Deep down, I think you do, too. Were she here, Silme would never let us sacrifice an innocent life for hers. If we brought her back by killing Bengta, Silme would never forgive either of us and neither could I." Tears stung Larson's eyes. "If you want to kill us both, Gaelinar, go ahead. But, don't delude yourself into thinking you did it for Silme. Don't mistake your own cause for hers."

Larson felt Bengta shudder beneath him. Then her body shook rhythmically as she wept.

Crouched behind a trellis swarming with fleshy, purple wine grapes, Taziar Medakan observed the scene in Bengta's garden, moved by Larson's sensitivity. At first, sneaking into the Dragonrank school grounds in broad daylight had seemed like folly. But Gaelinar's ravings had held the attention of guards and sorcerers while Taziar slipped boldly through the front gate. Not quite foolish enough to brave the archmaster's palace, Taziar had waited outside while Gaelinar and Larson conversed with Karrold. Then, catching sight of his quarries as they emerged from between the columns of the portico, Taziar trailed them to Bengta's garden where he easily dodged her wards.

It surprised and impressed Taziar that Gaelinar and Larson had discovered a cause so unthinkable even he had never considered attempting it. If Ketel's assessment was correct, the Kensei and his partner were working to restore life to a corpse. Furthermore, the sorcerers seemed to believe it possible. I want a hand in this. From habit, Taziar ignored the cramp of muscles held too long in one position. And Silme could hardly refuse to accept Astryd as an apprentice after I assisted in her resurrection.

Taziar studied Larson, recalling Fenrir had called Gae-linar's companion an "elf." In the dawn light, Larson had appeared the same as any man. But now Taziar could discern subtle differences. Unnaturally lean for his height, Larson sported sharply-defined, angular features. His ears tapered to delicate points. Larson's gestures and some of his speech were unlike any Taziar had ever encountered, and the elf's accent was unfamiliar. Larson's morality pleased Taziar. It had saved not only Bengta's life but, earlier, his own as well.

Reluctantly, Taziar turned his attention to Gaelinar. The Kensei watched Larson and Bengta with grim impassivity. There was no doubt in Taziar's mind. If we meet again, he'll kill me without giving me a chance to speak. But I have no choice. I freed Fenrir; the wolf is my responsibility. And I'll have to gain Gaelinar's trust if I want a role in rescuing Silme. Taziar had always prided himself on accurately reading intentions. Yet Gaelinar's mentality confused him. He had met men inclined to sacrifice friends, usually to further their own power. He had known patriots who gave their lives for their friends or countries. But never before had Taziar seen someone willing to forfeit the lives of his friends and himself for a cause. Somehow I have to make Gaelinar listen. I have to prove myself his equal. As Taziar considered his withdrawal from Bengta's garden, he realized persuading Gaelinar would require every bit of cunning he could muster. And it pleased him.