When he had a chance around his efforts to earn them some coin, Therelin sought out Master Gheran once more—the magician who had hinted that it was Master Myandin that had kept secrets from Therelin, not the other magicians he had crossed paths with during his initial exploration out of Keth. It had been the better part of a year since Therelin’s first encounter with Gheran in the streets of Noress-That-Was.
This time, Therelin found him at the small guild hall on the edge of Cobblestone Bog, where he had searched for magicians the first time he was in the city. This time, the guild hall seemed much busier. There were some people recovering from all manner of injuries—broken arms in slings were as common as blood-stained bandages. Many more people seemed to just be in transition, waiting here for somewhere else to be. Master Gheran was talking to one man near a doorframe to another room, then turned to cross the room to another group when he spotted Therelin.
His eyes passed over Therelin at first, but then he glanced back sharply, and his eyebrows rose. “Gods—were you there? Did I send you there?”
Therelin grimaced as the master approached. “Yes, but I made it off. Were you there too?”
“No, fortunately not.” Gheran glanced around, then folded his hand in front of him. Therelin did as he was bidden and followed Gheran to his private study. It was a small room lined with well-kept bookshelves and a cushioned chair for reading. “So, you sorted out your answers—but at the worst of times, I daresay. Can I buy you a drink later? It’s the least I can do.”
“Of course,” Therelin said, smiling, “but you had no way of knowing the timing.”
Therelin noticed the spell chime on one shelf, similar to the device described by Kren and Selaara. It was a small metal plate, hanging on a hooked stand. A dull green gemstone sat in the middle of the metal plate. Still inactive, Therelin deemed, so the Isle of Dusk is still compromised.
“Many are wishing they had known,” the bearded man said, spreading his hands. “We estimate nearly a quarter of magicians on the Isle died. Those that have survived bring grim tidings indeed. But it’s too soon to say much with certainty.”
“Spirits—a quarter?” Therelin breathed. “It can’t be so. Is there news of Tarro?”
Gheran shook his head gravely. “Nothing definitive. Some say he won, some say he lost, while others only report to having seen him. We know he had supporters, ultimately, though most recount that they had arrived later than Tarro had, likely to give their master time to make his foolish ultimatum. Did he truly think that our people would deny our allegiances and join him?”
Therelin paced to one side, bewildered by the cost in lives. “Have the magicians begun to organize? Is there a plan in motion—to deal with Tarro?”
The short man lifted his shoulders. “There’s so much disarray—many magicians have lost their mentors or their figures of authority in the chaos,” he explained. “The only thing I know for certain is that we need a new meeting place before we can properly decide how to respond.”
“What of the Noress Magicians’ Guild?” Therelin questioned. “How will you handle this?”
“Right now, we’re just trying to find food and shelter for those who have come—or some way to aid them in getting back to their places of origin. I have already heard talk of sending a party back to the Isle of Dusk to properly determine what has happened in the aftermath of the attack. I would not dare attend such a venture myself, but I will support those who brave such danger.”
Therelin blinked. Brave? More like foolhardy! Likely, any returning to the Great Isle would face the same consequences as those who did not escape, be that captivity or death. He leaned on his driftwood staff and looked back at Gheran. “I’m trying to learn more about Tarro himself—apparently Lord Dakhu here in Noress might have answers about him. What does he seek and why? Is there any way I can also help the guild in the aid effort?”
“Many of those who can help are land-owners or those who have economic influence—chartering a ship, for instance,” Gheran told him. “I think we all would appreciate information about our enemy though, so do not hesitate to return with answers if you find them.”
“Certainly,” Therelin replied. “I’m staying at the Lowtide Tavern once more—do not hesitate to find me there for anything you need. These are dangerous times, but we must remain close with those we can trust.”
“The Lowtide—that’s well and good, but for the drink I promised, we’ll go farther ashore,” Gheran said with a wink.
Therelin bobbed his head and turned to leave, but then hesitated. “What about your own contacts? If Lord Dakhu does not have the answers I seek, do you have anyone else that might prove insightful?”
“Someone who knows about Tarro?” Gheran asked. He rubbed his beard and looked at the floorboards. Then, with a tilt of his head, he answered, “The most likely individual I would seek resides in Saanazar, but it is not a contact I would pursue without ample consideration—hardly a friend, in other words. As for Lord Dakhu, the state archives are usually off-limits for us magicians, but perhaps you will have more luck.”
Therelin expected more luck—after all, he bore a personal letter from Selaara. Hopefully, Lord Dakhu would aid him as he would aid a friend. He thanked Gheran for his time and they agreed upon a place to meet at sunset.
Kren met Therelin at the Lowtide an hour later, fresh off work from his bakery. His job was earning him more than Therelin’s herbal trades, but he was also much more applied to his work. Before meeting up with Master Gheran, Kren followed Therelin to a tattoo parlour near their tavern. The night before, Therelin had explained the reasoning behind his tattoos, and why he would now be getting a new one.
The tattooist looked at him like he was half-mad when Therelin explained what he wanted, but he convinced the man it was of personal importance. The man did a good enough job sketching out what Therelin was thinking—the shadowy figure of a man’s bust, drinking grains of sand from a canteen. Inking the first portion of it to Therelin’s left shoulder took two hours, and the tattooist insisted that he return within the next few days to finish it in another two- or three-hour sitting.
From there, Therelin and Kren made their way to the Silver and Flask, a middle-class drinking den. Gheran bought them both a round and they discussed the ongoing alliances that were forming in response to the threats from the south, as well as sharing anecdotes of past experiences that had led them here. Of course, they could only speak of certain tales—omitting any details from the Isle of Dusk.
An hour later, as they were preparing to depart, a sailor arrived from the harbour and shared news with those at the bar. It spread like wildfire, for likely fire had been involved. The city of Starath, it seemed, had fallen. Of the Great Isle and its immediate neighbours, only Bellasa stood now. Another victory for Tarro, Therelin thought with disappointment and took another sip of the ale.