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REGULUS DUG THROUGH his closet, tossing aside shirts and trousers and boots. Where had he put it? He glimpsed a corner of the small wooden box and seized it. The silver inlay of an A on the lid gleamed in the sunlight streaming through his window. The oak box was about the same size as both his hands, and heavy. He undid the latch and opened the box.
Inside, a large silver medallion stamped with a rose over crossed swords rested on red satin. The Arrano crest. The pure silver medallion had been left to Regulus, along with everything else, when his half-brother died and his father’s title transferred to him. Lady Arrano had thrown it at his head after he defeated her champion.
Regulus had tried to give it back to her. She could have sold it. But she resented his kindness. So it sat in its box, buried deep in his closet. Now his blacksmith would fashion it into a circlet for the thrice-accursed sorcerer. He snapped the lid closed.
One ingredient out of five.
He had already instructed his bewildered steward to find and purchase fifteen clams. They didn’t even have to be in good condition, he only needed their shells. But he decided to play it safe and get more than necessary. Just in case. Steward Preston didn’t question the uncharacteristic request.
Regulus had talked to Jerrick and to Perceval’s wife Leonora about flowers. They both did some recreational gardening and knew a good amount about plants. Between the two of them, they assured him they could secure a bushel of assorted white flowers. That left the neumenet root and the blood of an innocent. Regulus dropped off the medallion with his blacksmith before heading out. Holgren Forest was over a day’s ride away. It had already taken a day and a half to get back to his estate. He had spent the prior afternoon and evening making arrangements. Best not to delay.
Sieger had made a full recovery. Even after the long trek back to Arrano, his stallion was eager to leave again. As Regulus had decided he wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible, he left the Black Knight armor behind. Dresden accompanied him. Regulus had tried to talk him out of coming, but between the risk of getting caught entering a royal forest without a permit, concerns about a chance encounter with Carrick, and anger over hiding how bad things had been with the sorcerer, Dresden would not be dissuaded. Regulus decided to be thankful no one else tried to tag along.
Dresden’s concerns proved unfounded. They arrived at Holgren Forest the following morning without incident but searched all day without finding the neumenet tree. Holgren Forest was large, so they had a discouraging amount of ground to cover. When darkness fell, they were deep in the forest. They had no choice but to make camp and hope no forest rangers, or worse, a royal sheriff, happened upon them.
They spent the next day searching. Every snap of a branch or sudden rustling put Regulus on edge. Several deer startled him, and Dresden teased him relentlessly about being more skittish than a doe. Despair crept in as the shadows deepened in the forest.
“Reg.” Dresden pointed. “Did you see that?”
“What?” He turned Sieger, scanning the branches where Dresden pointed. Then he saw it. A flash of light. Like sunlight on water, but high in the trees.
Like sunlight on glass.
Bark like obsidian and leaves like shards of glass but soft as feathers.
They rode toward the flashes of light. They rounded a large willow and Regulus held up his hand to shade his eyes, squinting.
Some twenty paces ahead stood a tree several stories tall. Wide branches spread out, stretching over a meadow and nearby trees. He couldn’t look directly at the branches. Sunlight reflected off tens of thousands of silvery-white leaves, illuminating the surrounding forest. No trees stood within ten paces of its massive, shiny black trunk. Light bounced off leaves and gave the obsidian bark a dull glow. After a moment of gawking, he rode forward. Dresden followed.
The closer they got to the tree, the more leaves from the neumenet tree covered the ground. As long as his hand and no wider than two finger’s breadth and opaque, they looked like shards of glass after a heavy frost. He dismounted and retrieved a spade from his saddlebag. The leaves made a quiet rustling beneath his feet as he walked closer to the trunk. Like walking on straw. Curious, he knelt down. He touched one, half expecting it to cut him. Instead, it gave way beneath his fingers. He picked the leaf up. It was solid, yet light and soft to the touch. He dropped it, and it drifted to the ground.
He had the strangest sensation. Like the earth and forest around him were extra alive. The bizarre whisper of a breeze in the leaves of the neumenet tree above him sounded at once welcoming and foreboding. As if the tree itself invited him to rest in its shade, but with an undercurrent of doubt and warning. He shook his head and scanned the ground. Paranoia.
He saw a hint of black root breaking the surface of the ground and knelt next to it. Dresden joined him, also bearing a spade. Together, they dug around the root until a little over a foot was exposed. Regulus’ hunting knife made a high-pitched rasp as he sawed through the black wood. Dresden started on the other end, and the sound made Regulus’ ears ache.
Unlike the trunk, the root had no shine. But it was hard, sweat-inducing work. Every so often, a low, rumbling creak sounded from the trunk. Almost a groan. As if the tree felt pain. Ridiculous. Trees don’t feel pain. Right? He wiped away some sweat from his forehead before it dripped into his eyes. This is wrong. He felt in his soul there was something special, sacred even, about this place. About this tree.
But his freedom depended on getting this root.
His future. His ability to marry Adelaide.
Etiros, forgive me. I know I ask often. But forgive me.
Finally, he cut through the root. He could have sworn the tree shuddered. Glittering leaves drifted to the ground all around. He shifted and took over for Dresden, who sat back, panting. It took another couple minutes to cut through again. He picked up the root and strapped it to his saddlebags. A woody groaning followed them away from the tree. Regulus’ heart and conscience felt heavy.
They made it back to Arrano without being stopped, but Regulus didn’t relax until they arrived. They had been gone nearly five days. Eight days had passed since the sorcerer contacted him. Adelaide would arrive for supper in three days. It would take two to get to the sorcerer’s tower and back.
To his relief, everything else was ready. The circlet complete. Fifteen whole clamshells were in a bag, cleaned and ready. A guest bedroom was crowded with white flowers in vases, bowls, and jars. He only needed one more thing. One more thing to ask Etiros to forgive him for.
He knocked on Harold’s door. The small tin vial and knife in his hands seemed heavy as a boulder. Harold opened the door and smiled.
“What can I...” Harold’s brows knit. “What’s wrong, my lord?”
Regulus exhaled and his shoulders dipped down. He hated himself for doing this. His hands grew slick. His head ached.
Harold looked down at the vial and dagger in Regulus’ hands. “My lord?” The confusion and anxiety in his voice made Regulus’ stomach turn.
He looked away from Harold’s face, unable to meet his eyes as he held out the knife and vial. “I...” He swallowed. “I have to ask something of you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I need...” Another gulp. “The sorcerer needs your blood. The blood of an innocent person. You have a good heart, a kind soul, and have never killed.” He tasted bile at the back of his throat. “He said he only needs a few drops. I’m not asking as your lord.” He forced himself to look at his squire. “I’m asking as your friend. I won’t force you—”
“This will help free you?”
“I hope so.”
Harold nodded, then took the dagger. “My life is yours, my lord. I can spare a few drops of blood. That’s a small favor.” He made a small cut on the side of his hand. He held the blade against the wound and blood pooled on it.
Feeling wretched, Regulus pulled the stopper out of the vial. Harold placed the tip of the dagger in the top, and a small rivulet of blood dripped in. Regulus replaced the stopper. Harold handed back the dagger and held his other hand over the cut.
“Thank you,” Regulus said quietly. “You’re a good man.”
Harold shrugged. “I have a good example to follow.”
Regulus trudged up the stairs, the vial of Harold’s blood clutched in his hand. I don’t deserve your admiration.
––––––––
REGULUS DIDN’T WEAR the Black Knight armor on the way to the sorcerer’s tower, either. Let him be angry. Regulus needed speed, not theatrics. His saddlebags bulged. One end of the black neumenet root stuck out from under the flap. Leaves from the flowers poked out everywhere. If anyone stopped him, they would have plenty of questions.
He kept off the main roads, cutting across fields and through woods to take the most direct route. Stars appeared as he reached the dead forest surrounding the sorcerer’s tower. Moonlight made the barren white trees look ghostly. He dismounted and knocked on the door. After a couple minutes, a deadbolt clanged on the other side of the door. The door opened, and the sorcerer stepped onto the threshold. Firelight flickered inside the tower. Even standing a step below him, Regulus stood taller than him. But the dark power emanating from the sorcerer made Regulus feel weak.
“Ah. You’re early.” The shadow cast by the sorcerer’s black hood hid his expression. The black stones set in his red and black belt seemed to absorb all light, while the silver hairs in his brown beard glowed white in the moonlight. “Come on. Bring it all in.” He turned and went back inside, his tunics and robe rustling.
The sorcerer had never invited Regulus inside. He recovered from his momentary shock and removed the bulging saddlebags, then followed the sorcerer.
The ground floor consisted of one large circular room. A modest fire burned in a huge stone fireplace across from the door. An ornamental rug covered the entire floor beneath a leather armchair. Two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stood on either side of the fireplace, filled with leather-bound tomes and stark white human skulls. The sorcerer headed up a spiral staircase to the right of the door.
“Close the door,” he called as he disappeared around a curve. Regulus nudged the door closed with his boot and followed.
They passed two more open circular rooms as the staircase spiraled around the outside of the tower. Regulus peeked through the open doorways as they passed. One had several desks, some covered with open books, others with large pieces of parchment. Another fire crackled in the fireplace behind a desk covered in rocks and gemstones of various sizes and colors. The next room contained a massive four-poster bed, a small writing desk, and a closet. Were any clothes in the closet? He’d never seen the sorcerer wear anything other than the layered black and red tunics and robes he wore now. None of the rooms had windows.
The staircase opened into the final room at the top of the tower. A long table with a workbench sat in the middle of the room. Four gold rods were laid end-to-end on the table. He recognized the one that widened at the top as the first thing the sorcerer had made him retrieve. The sight of it gave him flashbacks to the first time he had discovered he couldn’t die. A minotaur had impaled him on a spear. Right through his chest. He recognized two of the other three pieces as well with a sickening twist of his stomach. He’d killed a monk who wouldn’t get out of way for one of them. Not on purpose. He’d tossed him aside, still adjusting to his new strength, and the man’s head had cracked open on the stone wall of the monastery. The man’s vacant eyes still haunted him.
Positioned just above the rods lay the strange hollow gold egg he had taken from the dragon’s lair. As he looked at the five pieces positioned in a line, he realized they belonged together. They formed a staff. But the sorcerer hadn’t forged them back together.
Regulus looked around as the sorcerer motioned him inside. A bronze mirror identical to the one locked in his chest hung on the wall near the fireplace. Light flickered from the fire and from numerous candelabras on the walls around the room. Smaller desks were placed around the edges of the room, covered in various flora in glass jars. A large, shallow bronze bowl sat on one of the tables. The sorcerer pushed aside some books piled on another table.
“Unpack it all here so I can examine it,” the sorcerer commanded.
Regulus complied. The flowers came out first and the sorcerer grunted approval. The sorcerer snatched up the neumenet root, inspecting it and muttering to himself while Regulus emptied the bag of shells onto the table. Apparently satisfied, the sorcerer set the root next to the flowers. He checked the shells while Regulus set the silver circlet on the table.
“Hm.” The sorcerer picked up the circlet. His hands glowed with green light and the circlet made a quiet thrumming sound. “Pure. Good.” He put the circlet down and Regulus exhaled in relief. “And the blood?”
Regulus handed him the vial. “From my squire. A good young man who has never taken a life. An innocent if I ever met one.”
“Excellent.” The sorcerer removed the stopper and peered inside. “Should be enough.”
“Will that be all, my lord?” Regulus stepped back from the table.
“For now.” The sorcerer replaced the stopper and set it next to the other ingredients.
Regulus clutched the saddlebag. Nothing but dried venison, a bit of rope, and a spare dagger left in it now. “And...my debt?”
“You annoy me with your constant nagging.” The sorcerer pursed his lips. “I’d think you would be more grateful. I made you the strongest, fastest man in Monparth, possibly in the world. And immortal. Yet you can’t wait to give it up.”
I want to be free. “You mentioned this,” he indicated the ingredients, “would get me close.”
“Fine.” The sorcerer waved his hand. “One or two more tasks, and your debt will be paid in full. I’m close now.” He looked away, and Regulus followed his gaze to the separated staff on the table in the center of the room. “So close I can taste it. This time, I won’t fail.”
The sorcerer looked back to Regulus. “I’ll be needing you soon. You must be prepared to act quickly when the time comes. Now go.” He waved his hands like he was shooing away a small child. “Your presence irritates me.”
Then why trick me into being your slave in the first place! But Regulus turned and left.
