Ch. 394 - Closer Scrutiny
They didn’t return to a hero’s welcome, but then, Simon hadn’t expected one. He heard the distant sound of a horn as they approached to within a few miles, but when they rode past the main gate, no one tried to stop them. It was hard for Simon to believe he’d been gone from here for nearly a year, but then spending the winter in the desert had helped to complete the illusion.
Once they’d left their mounts at the stables, he and his squire went to bathe and put away their weapons and armor. Weapons weren’t needed inside the walls, and unless you were practicing or sparring, they might give other knights the wrong impression.
The whole time they did that, Varten asked questions, which was only natural for a boy his age, but Simon silenced him with a look as often as he actually answered them. At this point, Varten’s fate was largely out of his hands.
After that, they sought out Sir Kulthen. The man wasn’t hard to find, but he wouldn’t treat with them. “I’m glad you’re back, but you’re no longer my charge,” the man explained, nodding at a table behind him where another young man now studied fervently. A year ago, that had been Simon’s spot, and that, more than anything, made him feel like he’d taken a step forward.
Still, even if Sir. Kulthen was no longer responsible for Simon, he still took the time to introduce his squire to him before they went to the chapel to await their summons. Varten quickly tired of that. Though he’d grown a bit and complained less than ever, sitting quietly for hours in the dark and meditating on purity was too much for the poor boy.
Fortunately for both of them, he was taken away by an acolyte well before Simon was. Simon was left there until evening before someone finally came for him. He hoped that would be to take him to dinner, because he could smell the scents of slow-roasted pork and freshly baked bread from the dining hall. Cooking was hard to do on the trail, but reasonably good here. Still, as they walked by, he knew he’d be given no such luxury on his first day back. The Unspoken were a military order, and small sufferings like this were entirely intentional.
He endured the petty slight without complaint as he was led past the hall and deeper into the complex. In most places, the more important someone was, the higher in the building they’d be, but in a ruined castle, the reverse was true, and to meet with one of the masters, he was led down to the third floor.
One more and we’d be in the black library, he noted silently.
The torchlit hall they entered contained a dozen nearly identical doors, none of which were labeled. Simon could easily see someone getting lost here, which was almost certainly the point of the layout. He appreciated the sense of mystery and awe, but he really hoped they were more straightforward with the more senior knights, because being treated like a child for decades would wear on him.
The acolyte left them as soon as introductions were made, leaving him alone with Master Harrin. He was a grim man with short gray hair and enough scars on his face and hands that there was no doubt he’d seen plenty of action. Before he’d even sat down, Simon took the two books he’d been carrying and laid them on the table between them.
“What’s this?” the master asked.
“A recovered grimoire and an account… My account of everything I did in the last year,” Simon answered, sitting down.
“Everything?” the older man asked skeptically.
“Every case I adjudicated, every monster I slew, and every mystery I investigated,” Simon agreed.
“Excellent, but we’re a bit old-fashioned here,” the master continued. “We like to talk things through and make sure everyone is being honest. There’s no easier way to lie than through words on a page.”
“Of course,” Simon agreed, ignoring the not-so-veiled insult as well as the way his stomach growled. “We can start wherever you want, sir.”
“Where did you get this other book?” he asked, flipping through it only briefly before pushing it away.
“I… When I was in Crowvar, there was a warlock. He tried to kill the boy I’d just saved so—” he began.
The man interrupted almost immediately, “Excellent, then let’s start with the boy. He’s exactly where I wanted to begin. Tell me where you found him and why he’s special.”
This was a tricky topic for Simon, because he knew enough about the Raithwaites and their domain to fill volumes. So, he stuck to the facts and told the man that his plan had been to return the child to his home, at least until the warlock interfered. That was partially true and easy to defend.
The master quizzed him about the battle and the spells that had been wielded against him. Simon described the effects but made no attempt to repeat the word of ruination for obvious reasons. Once that was done, they moved smoothly on to other topics. The master practically glossed over Simon’s resolution of various disputes, and snorted when Simon told him about the case of the shephardess and the slime.
He was very interested in the Tithe Pools, though. While his reaction that Simon had followed up on someone else’s completed task irritated the man, he found everything else to be quite captivating. Simon showed him the scar the encounter had earned him and described his lengthy convalescence. What they spent most of their time discussing, though, was the lair of the Jinn, and the illustrations Simon had made of the foul place.
That was the only time he seemed impressed with Simon, and after briefly glossing over everything else, he released him. All in all, it was more painless than he’d expected the ordeal to be. Sir Harrin had barely even written any notes.
Even after the interview, a good meal, and a night of sleep, Simon felt like it wasn’t over, and that another shoe was waiting to drop. He didn't have to wait long. A day later, while he was telling a few other knights about the Jinn’s lair, another acolyte came for him. He’d been summoned.
This time was much the same as last time; he met Master Harrin in the room that was the fourth on the left, confirming Simon’s theory that the whole point of this floor was to be as labyrinthine as possible.
“There were some discrepancies between your story and the boy who would be your squire that I would have you explain,” he growled with annoyance as he gestured at the journal and amulet that were lying on his desk.
Simon flinched at that, but bowed low anyway, and said, “I am happy to clarify any stray remarks that might have been unclear in my travelogue."
“The book was excellent, exceptional even,” the older man answered. “I have no issue with it. It is exactly what you said. It tells the story of what you did and where you did it. Our archivists will enjoy it immensely, and I would encourage you to keep similar logs in the future. No, it is what your young charge shared with us that is concerning.”
Simon’s heart sank at that, but his expression didn’t change. He’d told the boy to be honest, but not to dwell too much on the details that weren’t important; apparently, he’d decided that the amulet was important enough to share, which could have led to any number of stories.
“I’m happy to answer all questions you might have, Master Harrin,” Simon answered, waiting until the man gestured toward one of the seats before he sat and they began.
Their second conversation was more adversarial. The master started at the Tithe Pools, asking again why Simon had second-guessed a senior brother before getting to the meat of his question, which was his injury and his recovery from it.
Simon repeated the same story he had the first time, making sure to include the point about how, when medicine failed him, he turned to prayer. He was aware that the man across from him was studying his aura for the most minute lie in that moment, so he forced himself to believe that what he was saying was the truth, even if it was only most of the truth. He even mentioned the amulet because he was sure that was why he was here.
“The same amulet?” Sir Harrin asked, boring intently into Simon’s skull with his gaze.
“It is,” Simon repeated, picking it up. “This is the silver amulet that I wore when I was fighting off whatever curse that creature placed on me.”
That part was even true. He’d reused the metal for his curing amulet when he made this for Varten, just in case this moment should arrive, and it paid off. That didn’t stop him from asking more difficult questions, of course. Did you carve anything else on it before you gave it to your squire? Did it look then as it does now? Did you use any words of power? Are you a warlock?
He said nothing, though. Instead, he merely studied Simon until Simon finally took the initiative and asked, “What is the problem here? Is it that I gave my squire a badge of honor he’d not yet earned?”
“He is not your squire until we say he is,” the man answered, finally looking away. “And while your first questing went better than average, I must say that I am still not entirely convinced you are a proper member of this order, Enis.”
But I did best a foe that a proper member of your order did not. The thought flickered through Simon’s mind before he set it aside. While true, such a statement would not be constructive. Instead, he said, “Then give me the chance to prove myself.”
“Aye,” the man agreed as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You’ll get that much from us at least.”
Ch. 395 - Alone Time
Simon only lingered at the broken tower for a few days before he was sent back out on another mission. He got the distinct impression that this was a minor errand to separate him from his charge while they evaluated the boy. This rubbed him the wrong way, but he couldn’t simply refuse to go.
His goal this time was to explore a haunting near a shrine and ascertain its threat, which was interesting at least. That was the good news; the bad news was that it was right on the edge of Charia, which put his teeth on edge, considering there might be witches involved.
As Simon traveled east, he reflected on how much the boy hadn’t wanted to be separated from him. That wasn’t a surprise considering everything he’d been through in the last years. He was, however, surprised to find that he missed the boy as well. After half a day of riding in silence, he found he almost missed the boy’s constant complaints and questions.
Still, it was probably for the best. Charia was one of the regions with the most dangers that he knew of, and while a witch was unlikely to sneak up on him now that he could see their dark auras, he stood out just as much to them, for better or worse. They couldn’t see his bright aura, but his white cloak was just as apparent, and they might take umbrage at his existence.
Or they might steer clear entirely, leaving me in peace. He couldn’t say for sure. Both possibilities seemed equally likely.
He took a couple of days before he left to read up on what the Unspoken knew of the mountainous kingdom, but it was nothing Simon didn’t already know. While the Whitecloaks were eager to expand their sphere of influence into the region because of its reputation for monsters and witchcraft, they’d met with very limited success over the years thanks to the clannish nature of the people.
Simon was not at all surprised by that. He still remembered how communities rejected him even when he came to help with the outbreak of White Fever.
The only thing he did find that really interested him was a translation of the vampire legend that Freya had mentioned. It had led her to Castle Gravenstone in the first place. The tale was tragic, and much as she said. While it offered Simon nothing new, it did make him want to visit the place again, and he made a mental note to do that when he returned to level 33, regardless of what the point of the level actually was.
“If I wrote a book on my experiences in that life, I’d probably increase the amount that the Whitecloaks knew of the area tenfold,” he said to himself as he rode.
He’d be tempted to, of course, if not for the witchmarks. There was a very small jump between the Unspoken figuring out that technique and branding everyone with words of nullification. He could practically see it; a whole kingdom where magic didn’t exist in any meaningful sense. In his mind, there would be no better way to let the Murani conquer everyone.
Simon tried to think of a similar situation with gunpowder on Earth, but his memories were too hazy for that. He did recall that wherever the technologically advanced met the primitive, those who hadn’t yet mastered steel and fire were crushed. The same would be true here; it was just words of life stealing instead of steel.
Of course, there were other nonmagical technologies too. He could try to nurture those as well. He already was doing that a decade or two from now in Charia, which meant if he didn’t do something similar in Brin and Ionia, he might inadvertently cause new friction.
“Maybe I can discover the compass, or some other navigational aid to help the Ionian people,” he said aloud, knowing full well he knew very little about the sea or navigating it. “And Brin… I don’t know? Crop rotation?”
He knew the words, of course. In principle, he could draw what a more modern ship should look like, but in reality, none of his vague recollections mattered much. His lifetimes as an artist and artisan told him that much. Details mattered, which was why he’d had to invent the printing press from first principles. That much was easy; carve a bunch of identical letters, move them around, ink them, press paper against the ink, and then do it all again.
In the short time he’d been running his print shop, he and his workers had figured out half a hundred improvements to make the thing work better. He’d just have to figure out everything else in a similar way.
“Or just make a lot of money and hire smart people to figure some of it out for me,” he mused aloud. He spent a few miles then, imagining what that would look like. It came out in his mind like a cross between a monastery and a university, though to be fair, that was probably what early universities looked like.
That idea wouldn’t leave him, and that night, even as he made camp, he wondered how many decades or centuries it would take for a couple of hundred smart people to reinvent a computer or an automobile.
Even if he knew how to draw a car in great detail, he had no idea how one worked, so the best anyone could do was make a statue of the thing. He had no idea what was in gasoline, or gunpowder for that matter.
“One thing at a time,” he told himself before he started making a simple dinner.
The following day wasn’t much different. He stopped at a crossroads to ask directions and speak with a merchant who was obviously morally flexible, but Simon saw nothing that warranted any severe action on his part.
Even that wasn’t entirely enough to distract him from his previous thought. He spent hours just wondering if he could take the computer ideas as he understood them, and carry out the effective logic with runes. After all, he had no idea what a semiconductor was, except that it might involve silicone or copper, but he had conditional runes. Wasn’t that all computers were? Fancy conditional logic?
The dreaming sphere was probably something in that vein. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if it were a very basic magical computer. That was probably why he had so much trouble unraveling its workings.
If the Magi have magical computers, though, why haven’t they conquered the world already? He wondered.
He was still thinking about the Murani’s technological edge half a day later when he found a couple of armed men who didn’t read as bandits. They didn’t even draw their weapon when Simon approached, though they did try to charge him a toll of two shillings to cross.
“One for you, and another for your horse,” the man explained.
“For a bridge, I could easily go around?” Simon responded, pointing to the stream it crossed. A wagon would need this bridge, but men on horse or foot could just as easily go around.
“It would be an affront to the Count if—” the first man started to say, but the second one interrupted.
“Oh, leave that one alone, Matt, are you blind?” the other man said. “A man like that is not to be trifled with.”
The first man didn’t quite seem to get the hint, but when he noticed the color of Simon’s cloak, his eyes widened, and he apologized, but Simon ignored that. “By what right do you charge travelers a toll of this bridge?”
They might not be as murderous as highwaymen, but it would only take a dozen similar bridges to make most simple trade routes unprofitable in the neglected parts of Brin; this was the opposite of what people needed.
“Trust me, I’d be happier doing anything else too,” the second man said. “But if the count says we need to raise revenues well, who am I to say no? It’s not like anyone uses this damn bridge anyway.”
While they were off the beaten path, Simon was sure the road still got some use. It was in too good a shape to be entirely neglected. Instead of taking his wrath out on the man, Simon inquired where their lord resided and then headed that way. It was a day south of where he was supposed to be going, but it wasn’t as if the Unspoken micromanaged him, as long as he could explain his reasons; and visiting nobility in the neighborhood of his destination certainly qualified.
Simon wasn’t visiting Count Herschel because of hauntings. He was doing it because the man’s greed offended him enough to go a full two days out of his way to see what kind of asshole he was dealing with. He imagined another noble in the mold of Baron Raithwaite or Earl Greyden. Someone willing to betray his own mother if there was some silver in it. For once, though, Simon was wrong.
He knew that as soon as he shook the man’s hand. The count was past forty, with a sprinkling of gray in his short beard, but he had a bright smile and a brighter aura. Better still, he sought Simon out as soon as he heard there was a Whitecloak in town, which was a good indication that he had nothing to hide.
After a brief tour, they returned to the count’s manor, where he found a spartan dwelling that was more fort for the town of Warburg. The town had an ugly name for no obvious reason, given that the surroundings were about as idyllic as one would hope for, but the people were pleasant and in good order; Simon had trouble finding a bad egg among them, and their leader was no exception.
In fact, when he had dinner at the count’s table that night, Lord Herschel explained that he was raising money specifically to improve roads throughout his region, and he was doing so by charging those moving through its periphery. It was exactly the sort of thinking that Brin needed, and Simon almost donated silver to him on the spot.
“My county has no strong rivers or great ports,” the count explained. “Only an unfriendly neighbor, a forest or two, and endless rolling hills.”
He didn’t bemoan his fate, though. If anything, he seemed upbeat, despite making several jokes about how the real wealth of his people was measured in wool. Simon found he liked him, and when the time came, and the conversation turned to his business, he held nothing back, not that he had much to hold back. He had a place and the possibility of a ghost, but nothing more, which made the count laugh.
“A ghost, you say? Near the shrine? Well, that could be Elderlin or Banifsten, or three or four villages. The taxes from Talrinth are down, but I haven’t heard anything untoward,” he commented, stroking his beard. “I’ve other stories. Have you heard of the Bellghast? Or the tunnels that run beneath the old keep and Dunderlane? Now those are some real hauntings.”
Simon shook his head. “I haven’t, but I’d love to. Why not discuss them over a drink and a warm fire?”
The lord smiled at that, and the two of them stayed up until late in the night discussing ghost stories of his region and beyond. Simon still hadn’t found any evidence of the fey, but he was eager to learn more about undeath in all its forms, and took notes on a mirror as soon as he went to bed for the night.
Well, maybe not all its forms just yet, he thought, rubbing his neck and noting he had no self-destruct charm. That would be something he’d need to make before he investigated anything really serious. Still, if the count of the region hadn’t heard anything about where he was going, how bad could it be?
“It’s probably just a wild goose chase because I made someone look bad at the Tithe Pools,” Simon said to himself as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Ch. 396 - Going Through the Motions
The weather cooled as he made his way north, though that was more because of the changing of the seasons than any slight gain in elevation. The number of trees slowly increased, too, and by the time he was a day away from Warburg, Simon would have been hard pressed to say that he was in the same country, let alone the same county. Still, he had what might be the best map on the entire continent, and with the help of a stagnant pool of water and a few whispered words, it was easy to make sure he was going exactly where he thought he was.
Despite all of that hard work, there were blank spots. Simon had to take an extra day to go around a bog he hadn’t marked, and when he saw what looked suspiciously like lizardman tracks, he gave it even wider berth.
“Not this life,” he told himself. “I’ll take care of you next time.”
They probably weren’t the same tribe of lizardman, of course, but that didn't matter. With the dropping temperatures, he had no desire to spend the next few days caked in mud; even if the weather slowed them down a bit, it still wouldn’t be a decent trade-off.
Despite the detours, though, he made progress, and finally, one afternoon, he spotted the Gwenmollen Shrine. At this point, it was little more than a single pillar entwined with flower-strewn ivy, but those bright colors were enough to make the place stand out against the yellow grass and trees that were starting to lose their leaves.
Until he got close, Simon had wondered what his orders for a haunting near the shrine meant. As he rode up to the nearest village, Talrinth, and finally saw the thing, though, it snapped into focus. The shrine was little more than a half-erased ruin of an older temple. From a distance, it was nothing special. While he still planned on investigating it in greater detail, something much closer caught his eye.
The sky was overcast, and the wind blew lightly on his face, making the slender smoke trails from the chimneys drift slightly. Well, all but one of them.
That detail nibbled at him until it clicked. That thread of smoke that seemed to move against the wind wasn’t smoke at all, it was a stain on the fabric of the place, and as his eyes traced it back to the two-story home, he was certain something bad had happened there.
Simon didn’t proceed there immediately. Instead, unable to find an inn, he went to the local tavern to see if he could find a place in their common room for the night. Simon’s mere presence, or more specifically the clothes he wore, silenced most of the conversation immediately. Which was a shame, because the little hole in the wall had a nice vibe to it.
The owner was happy to put Simon up for the night, but even a round of drinks at the bar and assurances that he was passing through did little to renew the cheer that he’d accidentally trampled with his arrival.
That reaction felt odd to him because that should have been exactly what these people wanted from him: to leave, as soon as possible, taking no note of their business. His mere presence seemed to make them uncomfortable. That was par for the course he supposed, but it bothered Simon, and when the tavern owner let him sleep on the common room floor after the place closed, Simon barred the door and shuttered the windows just in case.
No one tried to kill him that night but, when he slept restlessly and woke to the sound of the innkeeper starting the morning fires, it was with the feeling he was being watched.
This isn’t ghosts, he told himself feeling unsettled. This is witches. It has to be.
If it were witches, though, where were their marks? Where were the dark auras? He pondered that while he got up and saddled his horse. He planned to stay for at least a sausage and a warm beer, but he also wanted to make it clear that he was leaving soon to put at ease whoever might care while he tried to figure out what was going on.
Things didn’t get any better when he finally did leave. Of course, he didn’t leave the village right away. There were only a few streets of houses, so it was easy enough to go by the one he cared about.
From the outside, the building looked unremarkable. If it was leaking evil from its chimney, he expected the entire structure to have some kind of taint, but that wasn’t the case. In fact, it took some asking around to find out that it was the home of an old widow. People almost seemed predisposed to forget about it unless he asked very directly.
That puzzled Simon, and he immediately thought of witchcraft; only the lack of witchmarks argued against that. In my last life, I couldn’t see such things if they were hidden well, but I can see everything now, he thought as he concentrated.
Still, he couldn’t quite see through buildings with X-ray vision, and he was unwilling to simply hammer down the door and go in unannounced, so he went to the headman to ask about her. That was less helpful than he expected it would be.
“Miss Odell?” he asked. “Why would a man of your stature want to know about a woman like that?”
“My investigation is not your concern,” he said, pulling the power card he used so rarely. In this case, he felt like he needed to. Something was wrong here, and it was more than just a little wisp coming from a chimney, and he needed the sledgehammer of the Unspoken’s reputation to try to break through the fog.
His harshness succeeded, at least for a moment, and he said, “Now that you mention it, I can’t remember the last time I saw the widow Odell. I wonder if she’s doing okay?”
“Maybe we should go check,” Simon said helpfully.
“Maybe we should,” the headman agreed. Even with that agreement, he tried to delay and suggested adding the priest or a couple of other citizens of importance to their group, but Simon wouldn’t have it. Delay would only complicate things. He could feel it. Something ugly was here just beneath the surface, and it drove him forward with urgency.
So, minutes later, they were walking back to the home that leaked evil. When they got there, Simon knocked and then stood just to one side of the door, making it all but impossible to see him if anyone cracked the door to see who was calling.
“Yes? Who is it?” a voice came from inside. It wasn’t particularly feminine, but voices seldom were past a certain age. That didn’t concern Simon, and he let the headman handle the pleasantries. Still, when the door opened, he saw a dark aura waft out immediately. It was pure evil, black on black, and it stunned him.
There’s no way that can be coming from one person, he thought, momentarily stunned as the widow came outside.
It wasn’t a woman who answered the door, though. The headman seemed to think so by the way he was talking to her. However, when Simon looked past the miasma that surrounded her and the faint haze around them, he felt sure he was looking at a man, and not a woman.
The confusion lasted for only a moment. Simon saw a flash of recognition in his eyes as he looked to Simon’s cloak, and Simon lashed out with a fist, punching the man disguised as a widow right in the teeth before he could get out whatever word of power he planned to speak.
“Geh—” was all he managed, thankfully.
Gelthic? Gervuul? Simon wondered as he pressed forward, wrapping his hands around the throat of the stranger before he could even think about closing the door in their face.
Even as he did so, though, the warlock reached behind the door frame and pulled out a wand. That was bad news, and Simon slammed him hard against the frame, breaking the flimsy piece of wood in his hand.
“What are you doing?!” the headman yelled, but Simon ignored him and focused on the warlock. That’s what he was. That’s why none of this had made sense.
Simon had come for a ghost; he’d suspected witches, but it was a warlock he had in his grasp. The dividing line between the two was somewhat hazy there, but it was entirely likely that he was a single word away from killing them both, so Simon held on for dear life.
When the headman tried to pull him off the warlock, Simon shouted, “Stop! Back! A single word and we’re all dead!” It wasn’t words, either. Simon had seen the man trace part of a word in the air at one point in their struggle. Truthfully, it was a miracle they weren’t both blown to pieces already.
The struggle that followed was brief and violent. The warlock managed to bite Simon’s hand and even stab him once with a fork rather than something deadly, but eventually he subdued the man and left him bound and gagged on the floor. Only then did he turn to the horrified headman and explain what had happened.
The man didn’t believe Simon at first. It was only as the strangeness of the home they were in became clear, and the word of lesser illusion started to fail, that he believed anything but what his eyes had told him: that Simon had beaten a harmless old woman in a shawl into submission.
“But… What happened to Miss Odell then?” he asked.
Simon shook his head. “No idea, but this villain might have been here posing as her to hide for a good long time. I’ll find out when I interrogate him.”
“Interrogate him?” the headman asked in alarm. “But you said he could kill us all with a single word!”
“He can,” Simon agreed, “But we won’t be letting him say anything. I’ll learn what I can with a few nods. Nothing more.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Simon might risk a few written responses, too. This man had information, and it was rare that he captured a mage of any kind alive. That thought intensified, though, when he started to look around the place. The small dirt-floored home had no basement. The bedroom had been converted into a small laboratory. While the windows were blacked out, it was hard to make anything of the papers on the walls or the desk, but on one wall, there were several small jars that glowed slightly.
Simon paused and studied those, and the headman made a warding gesture with his hand and moved to open the window. In those few seconds, Simon glimpsed something he’d seen before. The jars weren’t filled with light; they were filled with souls. They were restless and squirming things, but there was enough to make out a few details. If he’d known these people, he might have been able to recognize them.
Some were in worse shape than others, like they were older, or half consumed; however, before he could study the murky cyan swirls more closely, the window started to open. “Close that,” Simon shouted, not sure what effect the light of day would have on such abominations.
The headman did as instructed, but even that flash of light was too much. Several of the containers that were closest to the windows arced and popped as their fragile spells failed, and when the window was closed again, less than half of the souls that had been there still lingered.
“Ah, well,” Simon said to himself, “I was going to free them anyway, I just wanted to study them a bit more first.”