A Secret Meeting

 

Grimmley used his staff to balance his old bones as he inched down the narrow stone steps. The cellar air smelled musty and felt cold and moist on his skin. But he was on a mission—a mission vital, he was certain, to the survival of his young apprentice, to his great order, to Griffinrock’s new queen, maybe even to the Harmonic Realms themselves. He had called in a number of debts owed him over many years just to get this meeting. He hoped that this conversation would lift at least a corner of the veil shrouding what he needed to understand. He slowed as he reached the end of the hall. Turning left, he stepped into the dim light. Before him was a thin woman in black on a stool, chained and gagged.

Grimmley gestured to the grandmaster Mystic standing guard before the cobbled prisoner. With a grim tip of her head, the Mystic whispered, “Aethra energi afairosyndeta, then slipped the glowing gag from the prisoner’s mouth. The Mystic exited the cell, then disappeared up the dark hall without a word.

Grimmley eased forward and settled on a stool he set before Meera Asheborne, watching as she worked the stiffness from her jaw.

At last, she spoke. “I never imagined I would one day be sitting with the great Grimmley Rollingsworth.”

“You know of me?” Grimmley asked with a hint of surprise.

“I could rightfully argue that every living Necromancer knows of you—by name if not by deed.”

Grimmley’s bushy brows furrowed. “How so?”

“The only grandmaster Shaman to ever turn down a seat on the Shamans Council?” Her upturned lips betrayed a smugness as his eyes narrowed. “Our network of spies is as adept as yours are in our lands.”

Grimmley grunted at her claim. Maybe more, he thought. “Which is a good lead-in to the conversation I was hoping we could have—”

Meera cut him short. “If you are hoping to learn more about the mission I was on, you will be disappointed. Surely, you aren’t expecting my tongue to loosen from being enamored by your presence.” Her gaze shifted to the door. “Nor will being distant cousins through our old order get you anywhere.”

Grimmley pressed his lips tight. It was the response he’d expected. But, given what the Ranger Annabelle Loris had shared about the Anarchic band’s actions at Dragongarde, it had not been hard to discern the band’s purpose—to ensnare Conner and his dragon bond and ensure that the two stayed clear of Graystone and the Tournament of Champions while Marcantos and his Anarchic preceptor infiltrated Griffinrock Realm’s royalty.

Grimmley removed a pipe from his robes, bit down on the stem, and lit the tobac with a match. “And what if I were to say that I really don’t care about your mission?” The Shaman waited as his words settled upon her, until the creases of surprise around her eyes softened. He had to tread carefully if he hoped to eke out any useful—and reliable—information. After her mouth closed, he pressed on. “I understand you are as bound to your order’s laws as I am to mine. However, I had hoped as ... distant cousins in the arts, we could find some common ground for an open conversation—one built on mutual respect in our shared trade.”

Meera grunted, then leaned back against the stone cellar wall, her eyes closed. A black mink crawled out from behind and snuggled in around her neck. “I have heard of your insatiable thirst for knowledge. But I am far beyond being interested in quenching your desires, Rollingsworth. My fate is sealed. My preceptor was the one who sent the undead assassin. I know too many secrets, and she will not stop until my life is forfeited.” She paused, relenting to the inevitability of her bleak future. “The only satisfaction left to me is that more Harmonics will perish at the hands of my assassin.”

Grimmley had reached the same conclusion. Now, to exploit that weakness. “In a way, your undead assassin has changed your fate.”

“How so?”

Grimmley gestured grandly at the dank cell about them. “This was never intended to be a permanent prison for someone of your abilities, Grandmaster Asheborne. You were mere hours from being transported to a more secure location, one quite suitable for constraining someone with your means.”

Meera dropped her back against the wall. “You could drop me in a hole a hundred paces deep and it would not help. My mentor will not stop sending assassins until I am dead.”

“And what if there was a different way through this? One that does not end with you dead?”

Meera glared back, but did not move. “I’m listening.”

“According to our laws, the rights to you as a prisoner do not reside with the Shamans Order ... or with any of the five other orders for that matter. You are a prisoner of the Dragonbonded.”

“And of what use is such trivia to me? It changes nothing.”

“The young man who is bonded to the dragon, the young man you detained, is my apprentice.”

“Apprentice?” Meera snorted. “You cannot teach the boy—” And then she clamped her jaw shut.

“Maybe, maybe not. In either case, I do have some sway over how he sees the world. It is possible I might convince him to have leniency in his ruling.” Grimmley was teetering on the edge of truth, but truth could often be bent before it broke. Besides, negotiating with an Anarchic orderman violated half a dozen laws of the Orderman’s Code he had spent a lifetime defending and protecting. But ever since Conner and his wayward dragon had stumbled into his life, breaking those rules had become part of the game.

Meera tried to rub at the shackles chafing her wrists. “I am sure the boy—and his dragon, for that matter—would like nothing better than to see me dead.”

“Compared to the fate you face in the hands of the other orders . . .” Grimmley shrugged. “With my assistance, you at least have a chance at life.”

Meera dropped her hands into her lap. “Well, I am intrigued to hear what knowledge you think I possess that is worth all this effort.”

“Let’s start with something simple. Have you ever heard of Fettering Stones?”

“No,” she replied flatly.

“I have never seen one myself, but I can describe them. They are black onyx stones rich with Earth and Fire elementals. Their signature trait is a flickering web of blue light that emanates from its depths. I’ve read that this is impossible to miss.” As Grimmley spoke, Meera’s expression changed. She had seen at least one of these stones. “The master Barbarian who traveled with you—Briarmede, I believe is his name?” Conner had told Grimmley that Briarmede wore one of the stones. Grimmley puffed vigorously on his pipe. “Do you know how this particular Barbarian came into your service?”

“No. The commander at Farlorde assigned him to be in charge of the band that accompanied me.”

Grimmley stroked his beard. “But you found his ... abilities useful.” It was more a statement than question.

Meera hesitated, tilting her head forward before answering. “Yes.”

Grimmley knew he had struck a chord. Meera seemed startled by his line of inquiry. He waited.

“At first, I found his behaviors odd for a Barbarian,” she said. “Few of his order are fond of Necromancers or the undead we often acquire for our personal service. But Groegan never looked bothered by either. More, unlike other Barbarians, he seemed attuned to what was going on around him, even beyond his senses. He was the one who rightly directed us to Dragongarde even though the clues we had gathered were sending us south.” Meera’s eyes narrowed. Her black-eyed bond studied him from under her chin. “I am wondering whether your interest lies in these stones or in those who are in possession of them.”

Grimmley waved away the accusation with a flick of his hand. “Think of it as an old fool’s hobby. I spent most of my adulthood curious about these stones. Then recently, I heard of a few in possession of these stones. Naturally, my interest was piqued.” His attempt to defuse her troubled expression was not working. Maybe a different approach would help. “I am looking for someone who might know something about them ... or might have one that I could study.”

Meera pursed her lips, her brows low. “Grandmaster, you are a Shaman of great renown. But I would bet the Dons know nothing of our little chat. And keeping this conversation a secret had to cost you dearly. So, don’t try to fool me into thinking your interests are purely academic or the ravings of an addled old man. The only person who could have told you about Briarmede and his Fettering Stone was that astute apprentice of yours. You are here because you want what I know about him.”

Grimmley chuckled. “Now I see how such a young person rose to the highest ranks of your order.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Honestly, I don’t care about the Barbarian. It is the stones I am trailing. Yes, Conner was the one who told me about the Barbarian and his stone. He also told me about another man, an Assassin as discovered later, also in possession of one of these stones—the same Assassin who attempted to place the Warrior Evinfaire as the queen’s own Champion. Two missions. Two ordermen. One objective.” Grimmley studied Meera’s stunned expression. His intuition had told him she was not part of the network of spies. Judging by her reaction, he had been right. “No matter what you think, neither fortune nor fate landed this Briarmede in your camp. It was planned and executed with a precision that defies simple explanation.”

Meera sat wide-eyed. “You say these stones are rare. Yet here are two.”

“Yes,” Grimmley tried to keep his voice from sounding ominous. “There were fewer than fifty such stones recovered by Tatem Creeg and his disciples when they excavated Shan-Grail.” Grimmley rose and ground his knuckles into his lower back with a groan. He was way too old for such skullduggery. But he was willing to go all the way to the end of this riddle, even if it took the rest of his days.

He signaled to the Mystic waiting outside the cell. “Grandmaster Asheborne, I thank you for your time.”

“Grandmaster Rollingsworth.” Meera’s eyes pleaded with Grimmley as the Mystic shoved the gag back in her mouth.

“As I said, I will talk to Conner and express the need for leniency.” Grimmley moved back up the hall. Meera had not been as helpful as he had hoped. He still had no idea who was in possession of the stones. But he now knew the Barbarian had directed the Anarchic band to Dragongarde before Annabelle and her force of Scouters got there. Now he was certain the stones had helped facilitate the Anarchists’ awareness of Conner and Skye. And that led him to the answer to another question that had nagged him for years.

Harmonics had various means of communicating through the Physical plane—Shamans had Transit Stones, Rangers used enchanted emeralds, and royalty dispensed commands throughout the realms with Scrying Chambers built by the Mystics. But these all had limitations, and only worked over short distances. If what Meera had said was true, then the network of spies had coordinated with Anarchists as far away as Thanatos—thrice the distance capable by known methods. If Fettering Stones were being used to communicate, then they were very powerful indeed.

He needed to get his hands on one of those stones. And soon.