Book 8: Chapter 63: An old face
The decision to make both a festival and a market out of harvest meant that a host of tasks had to be completed in a short span of time. A huge area outside the city had to be cleared and made suitable for thousands of people to gather.
A meadow south of Archen was chosen, where carpenters erected simple structures to provide a stage for competitions and fences for pastures that animals could be herded together and traded. The brewers and brewsters set to work turning grain to ale, and tents and benches were made for merchants to conduct their trade. In particular, messages had trickled into Nahavand that their neighbours desired to buy livestock and salt, among other things, offering cloth, tools, and glassware, including Khivan contraptions, along with exotic goods from Tyrian lands.
Most tasks were left in Valerius’s capable hands, leaving Martel to work on his own idea for communication across long distances. As the Khivan glasscutter had warned him, a danger was that glass could intensify light until it caused a blaze. A possible solution was if Martel could enchant a lightstone so bereft of heat, there was nothing to intensify. A challenge even for an expert enchanter, and Martel would not consider himself possessive of such skill; he envied Alastair’s current students, learning enchanting rather than battle magic. But he would try; Henry provided him with the perfect stones to work with, and if he failed, perhaps he could write Alastair and discuss the matter with him by letter.
“Master Martel, there’s a visitor for you!” Squirrel, the child possibly named after a pair of impressive front teeth, came barging through the door.
“Squirrel, what have I told you about the door being closed?”
“You’re working on magic.”
“And?”
“I should knock first and go away if you don’t answer.”
“At least your memory is fine,” Martel sighed. “Who’s the visitor?”
“Some old fellow. He’s outside the city gate. Asked for you by name.” “Did he give his?”
“Said he was an apothecary. Oh, Leander.”
Martel widened his eyes. “Thank you, Squirrel. I’ll deal with it.”
Outside the gate stood a weathered alchemist, and his old looks still belied his true age. Martel observed the lich that he and Eleanor had met years ago, in a small village in Nordmark. Despite his undead state, Martel had judged him to be harmless. He had not thought about Leander in a long time even with the novelty of an undead being friendly to the living; the encounter with him had been brief. Yet Martel could imagine what had brought the lich here, back to the city that he once called home.
“Leander,” he spoke loudly, using his magical senses to gather information. He felt the heat that came from the potion Leander used to mask his nature, but he could not sense any particular mood or thoughts; not because the lich could block the magic, but because his feelings were so muted, they could not be discerned.
The old alchemist turned, and his furrowed face gave the glimpse of a smile. “Martel. It’s all true, then, all the rumours.”
“That depends on what you’ve heard.” The battlemage gestured for his companion to follow him down the path, out of earshot from the guards.
“That some foolhardy adventurers rebuilt Archen. I didn’t recognise names like Firebrand or Blackstaff, but they said it was a firemage, and I figured that could only be one.”
Martel regarded the lich. Like Atreus, Leander was a survivor of Archen, though the disaster had exacted a heavy price from him, turning him undead. “I can’t imagine what you feel, seeing people in this place again.”
“To tell you the truth, not much. I only spent a few years here before I was sent to Nordmark. Maybe I’d feel it more strongly if I was still alive.” Leander gave a shrug. “It was mild curiosity that drove me here, and now I feel mild satisfaction.”
“You’ve travelled quite a distance to satisfy mere curiosity.”
“It was time for me to move on anyway. Stay too long in one place, people get suspicious. This seemed as good a place as any. Besides, travelling is easy when you don’t need sleep or food.”
“Fair point.” Martel frowned. “Wait, am I to understand you’d wish to settle down here?”
“It’s my nature to fall into routines.”
“I don’t quite follow?”
“It annoys me that I must keep moving about. Pack up all my things and find a new place to settle. The suspicion that people give a newly arrived apothecary, fearing that I was driven away from my last home because I sold poor medicine.”
“You want to settle here permanently. For the rest of… your unlife, however long that is.”
Leander shrugged again. “That’s it, really. Who knows? Maybe if you lot begin studying magic, you can learn much from my state. That might at least be interesting. Perhaps even find a way to ensure me a peaceful transition to the afterlife, assuming such awaits me. Or just let me find true death without pain.”
Martel finally understood. Leander had sought out the only place led by people who had discovered his secret and left him in peace. In a city where Asterians, Khivans, and Tyrians would gather, could there be room for someone of Leander’s nature? “I guess it’s not the strangest idea. We could use someone with your skill in medicine and alchemy. And it’s not like you’re another mouth to feed.”
“I am the ideal worker.” Leander gave a vague smile that could be sarcastic or simply the effect of his restrained demeanours. “Night or day, I’m available.”
Suddenly, Leander gave a violent shiver, wiping his expression away. Martel would have thought him ill with fever, except that undead did not get sick, and he had felt the release of magic familiar to him. Turning on his heel, Martel saw the spellbreaker of Archen with a countenance of cold fury, ready to defend his home and destroy the lich before him.