Longing Ring

9

Jangle listened as carefully as he could to his mother talking to the thing in the corner of the other room, but he could not make out the words. He heard only tones. Soft and somewhat menacing from the thing in the corner, fearful from his mother.

He climbed out of bed, carefully and quietly, making no sound, his feet light against the warm stone floor. A heavy curtain hung between his room and the central room and a bit of light from one of the floating, magical spheres in the other room made its way through it. The light was greenish, for that was the color his mother liked at the hour just before bedtime.

Taking small steps with his small feet, J'role moved toward the curtained doorway. One step after another, drawing in long, silent breaths after each successfully accomplished step.

After a long while he stood only two feet from the curtain. All he could hear now were whispers, but his mother still sounded frightened.

J'role wanted to move forward, wanted to do something. He imagined rushing forward, pushing the curtains aside, saving his mother from the thing in the corner of the other room. Yet something held him back. He realized that she was talking to it. She had not shouted for help. She had not raised her voice and demanded that it leave the way she had done when J'role's friend Weshthrall broke one of her glowpots.

Maybe she wanted to talk to the thing in the corner. He listened again.

The conversation continued

He would ask her in the morning.

He turned Silently aid crept back to bed. It was many hours before he could sleep, for the whispers in the other room lasted a long time.

When J'role answered Garlthik’s question with a nod, the ork smiled and squeezed the boy's wrists. It didn't hurt, and J'role realized the ork was simply happy that J'role wanted to be a thief. But the ork quickly became serious again, the fire between them illuminating his face.

"A thief lives in the shadows, J'role," he said. "Most people want the light of the sun to warm their bodies. A thief may want it, but he may not have it. A thief is silent. While others can speak their ideas and thoughts and feelings, a thief must keep all that to himself; he seeks solitude and secrecy while others seek companionship.

“Most important, a thief steals. You do not take from the world, you take from others.

You do not exchange goods or coin to support your life, you simply take. Yours is a life without remorse. That is key. The magic will leave you if you feel shame for what you have done. Others can afford shame. We cannot. Do you understand?"

J'role nodded. He didn't know if he could keep from feeling shame, but it seemed a lovely ambition. How nice never to feel bad again.

"Close your eyes."

J'role did. A wind seemed to crawl over him, cold and wet. Magic? Was this it?

"The darkness that you see is your own darkness. Cherish it. It is yours, neither to share nor to give. Within your darkness you are safe." Garlthik tightened his grip on J'role's wrist. "Open your eyes." Again J'role obeyed. "Remain still. Move nothing, do nothing, but listen for the sound of your own heart." J'role concentrated on listening to his heartbeat. Instead he heard many, many other sounds-his breathing, the wind lightly touching the window curtains, the hiss of the fire before him. Insects outside. But as the moments wore on, the sounds gradually faded away, one after another, each vanishing into the dull roar that became a great silence. Soon only the beating of his heart remained.

J'role nodded his head slightly.

“This is your silence,” Garlthik continued. "Where you live now, there is no other sound that matters but your own heartbeat. The cry of an infant, the sigh of a young woman, the pleadings of an old man, they are all overwhelmed in the silence that is yours, the silence of your life."

Garlthik paused, and in his face J'role saw a touch of concern-out of place with the serious tone the ork had been using. "Make no sound," he whispered. Then, without warning, he dragged J'role's left-hand forward, lowering the boy's forearm into the flame.

Pain tore through J'role's arm. He tried to jerk his arm away, but Garlthik held it tight. He wanted to cry out, but was afraid to. Afraid of what he might say, might do.

"This pain is yours and no one else may know of it. The pain you have felt all of your life; all of it now comes to this point. This moment is yours and in your heart it separates you from every other person in the world. In your isolation you may take what you want, do what you wish. Now you are adrift from all, and none may know you. You owe nothing to anyone, but everything is yours for the taking."

Garlthik released J'role's hand and the boy fell back, rolling to the floor. He clutched at the burned flesh with his right hand, but immediately pulled his hand back, for his touch only increased the pain. The smell of burned meat filled the room. Tears formed in J'role's eyes. It felt as if someone were removing the flesh of his forearm with a sharp blade, over and over again, taking only a little layer of flesh each time. The creature in his head turned this way and that, writhing with pleasure.

Why did Garlthik do this? As J'role rocked back and forth, cradling his maimed arms he saw Garlthik stand? The flame casting his shadow onto the ceiling.

"Get up," he said, bending down to brush his heavy hand against J'role's cheek.

J'role remembered the potion Garlthik had used to heal his broken arm after the fight at the kaer. Was he going to cure him now? The boy looked up at the ork with pleading eyes, but Garlthik only said, "Get up now, or I'll leave you here and go after the city myself."

J'role stood. Every bit of motion ripped pain through his arm.

"This is your first talent. My teacher taught it to me as my first talent, and you'll need it to steal the trader's ring." He gestured to the area immediately in front of J'role. "Now walk, but don't make a sound."

Yes, thought J'role, as he clumsily staggered forward, the pain darkening his vision, making even the bright flame vanish in and out of his sight. He just wanted to do what Garlthik said to do, to please him, so he'd cure the burned arm.

Garlthik's rough hand grabbed him from the back. "That wasn't silent, you little fool."

The ork pulled J'role back to where he'd been. "Do it again. Haven't you listened to a word I've said? What did I say on the road?"

J'role tried to think back to what Garlthik had said on the road, but the pain lanced his thoughts, turning any idea he had into a hot red flash. He raised his arm toward the ork, tears streaming down his face, his mouth firmly shut.

"What? Is that an excuse? I had my arm broken, boy, and I made my way out of a series of good knots. Do you think pain is an excuse? Pain is what feeds you. Without pain, there is no thief magic." He relaxed his grip on J'role's neck. "Now, think of the pain, think of what I said on the road. The magic will support you."

J'role started to focus on the pain, desperate to please the ork-desperate so he could finish the ritual and run away and never see Garlthik One-Eye again.

"No, you're just panicking now. Feel it? You're tightening up against it. You're thinking about the future, thinking about when the pain will be gone and you'll be safe. That time may never come. What's that doing for you right now? Forget anything but now. What do you want to be right now?"

Gone, J'role thought fiercely. I want to be gone and invisible and safe. He hated Garlthik for tormenting him. Then an idea came to him, floating just above the pain, skimming across the surface of his thoughts from a place J'role could not fathom. He realized that was it. The desire to be safe, to hide from the pain.

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."

A chill passed along J'role's spine.

"Please," J'role heard Garlthik gasp. "Please stop … Mordom … I'll give you.. Please stop."

The sound of Mordom's muffled voice came through the wall.

"Wait! The boy!" Garlthik gasped. "He's got it."

The ring felt like ice against J'role's chest. How could Garlthik betray him and their quest so easily?

"If that's all you've got to offer, then you'll die," Mordom's dry, precise voice declared.

“I'll need more if you want to live. Bargain with me, Garlthik. Like the time we first met.

You know more than you ever let on."

"So. . do. . you," Garlthik said, his defiant spirit returning. For a moment J'role thought that the ork had found a means of escape. Maybe he'd only told them about the ring to stall for time. But then Garlthik screamed again. Outside, J'role could hear the sounds of villagers shouting to one another.

"Don't waste my time. I'll find it with or without your help.” Mordom said with great impatience.

More shouts from outside. Slinsk carefully maneuvered himself toward the window, keeping his blade toward J'role. Reaching the window, he pulled the curtain back slightly and looked out. He sighed.

Once more Garlthik screamed. "He can speak of the city. Ha! You knew, didn't you?

When he puts on the ring, he talks. . please, ahhhh. . He talks of it. The city. He's connected to it somehow. . Mordom, my good friend, I only tricked the boy. Gained his trust. An elaborate lie. I would never-" Outside, the cries of the villagers had become louder. Garlthik gasped for air, an infant too tired to sleep, but Mordom said nothing.

An image came to J'role's mind-Mordom cracking his skull open, searching for the creature in his thoughts, searching for his connection with the city. He would be no more than a small spider for Mordom's inspection, an object of curiosity-the way the boys in his village used to pull the legs off insects just to see what they would do.

Footsteps approached from the hall. "I think we're surrounded," said Slinsk even before Mordom appeared in the doorway.

"No matter. I can handle them," said Mordom as he came through the door. J'role had forgotten how disturbing was Mordom's face-narrow and strong, with the pure, white eyes. The wizard raised his hand and the eye Garlthik’s eye-stared at J'role. "I have something to show you," he said slyly.

Then Mordom turned slightly, tugging at someone standing behind him. Over the magician's shoulder J'role saw a long, pale face. Almost disembodied, it was like the face of a ghost as it came floating out of the darkness.