The Novel's Sidekick

Rial opened the door for them to enter, while Yeriel tried her last bit of resistance from entering the room, but the hand jerked at her back heavily to shove her inside.

She fell again, a couple of steps into the room. The floor was just as cold as the other room, perhaps more with no hearthstone. There was a heater in the middle of the room, next to the chairs, but she tried her everything to not look there. Just because a dark cloaked figure was sitting there. Other than that, there was another person, a lady, behind the warlock, watching her, glaring at her.

Yeriel’s heart skip a beat just getting the glares from her, full of hatred and contempt, as if her bare existence offended that lady. She stood up, not gazing in their direction.

“Karol,” the warlock called, “you seemed to be on the edge lately.”

“I’m merely doing my duty, master,” Karol answered, trying to hide the uneasiness from his voice.

“You seemed to be only aware of one way to do your duty,” the warlock said, seeming disappointed. “Very well, it would suffice now.” he waited for a moment and noticed the cuffs on the captives’ arms. “Why have you brought them chained? Unlock them. They are barely a threat when their channels are free. Now, they barely seem to be standing.”

Karol complied with the orders, freed her arms and next Althan’s, who seemed to regain more of his vigour and control, though all that was a mere pretence. She was not even sure if he was aware of it, or merely playing a fool.

“Go back, guard outside.”

Karol bowed more attentively before withdrawing, leaving the two captives and a rogue knight inside.

“Now,” Rojar Iker said, tapping a finger on the arm of the chair. His eyes darted towards Althan, considering what to make of him. “We are in the presence of royalty.”

Althan stood upright, shaking dirt and ice from his dress. “Look, Mister . . .” He paused, not knowing how to address the Warlock. Well, he was standing straight with what he went through in their first encounter was already startling enough. “What’s done is done. You can still choose the right decision.”

“And that would be?” Rojar Iker asked, amused. “Your highness?”

Althan prudently didn’t stare at his eyes and continued. “Of course, it's to send us back,” he said, trying to radiate as much of the nobility through his body language as he could. “You know my family, they would not withhold in rewarding you, and even an order of pardon for all the wrong you’ve done. What do you say? Isn’t that generous?”

“Generous indeed,” the warlock agreed. “Anything more than a couple of dynes is more than just generous in exchange for your sorry life.”

“You,” Althan’s expression darkened, anger sipped out of his skin, however, he reeled in, at least for the moment.

“However,” the warlock continued, “I’m not who will decide the price of your sorry life. A pardon might be too big of a thing to ask, but I can get a pretty interesting thing in return. Useless you may be, you’re a prince, nonetheless.”

Althan calmed down a lot after hearing that. His shoulders slumped, but he held it back again—though that hardly anything the Warlock kept his attention on. Althan nothing but a harmless cub, perhaps only a chick, who posing as a cub.

“Say, Rial,” Rojar eyes darted towards the rogue Knight, who was pouring a drink for himself at his sides, holding a glass bottle. “What do you think we can get in a change of his highness?”

“Kimbers has a lot of capital,“ Rial said inattentively. “The are not particularly gifted in Spirit arts, or have anything of magical value that would interest us if we succeed here. You could have done better there if you captured the other prince.”

Rojar shook his head. “I guess we have to be content getting mundane articles.”

“I believe you’re not very well accommodated to since you’re with us,” Rojar continued and turned to look at the young lady behind him. “This is Kiea, one of my apprentices, she will take care of your accommodation from now on. What do you say, Kiea? Are you willing to serve his highness for the time he’s with us?”

Kiea snorted first at Althan, but her eyes darted back to Yeriel again with that hateful gaze. Seriously, this apprentice has something wrong with her head to hate someone just in their presence.

“Now,” Rojar finally returned to Yeriel, staring at her for several seconds. “Yeriel Ruah, from what I’ve learned; do you have a mentor?”

Yeriel said nothing, but her eyes told everything. The horror, the disgust in them, couldn’t be masked.

The warlock clicked his tongue and stood up. He crept lazily towards her and stood just a couple of feet before her. “Don’t worry,” he said, lifting an arm towards her face, but Yeriel shook it off the very moment. “There’s no need to be disgusted.”

Royar Iker still tried and succeeded. Yeriel found her arms stiff, not listening to her call in the slightest. It was as if they were paralysed. The warlock wiped off the bits of snow from her face, rubbing slowly.

“The problem with you all is that you’re taught wrong at the academy. I can’t deny it's a fine institution, but it's full of lies and deception. Tell me, Yeriel, how many of the Magus have shown an interest in teaching their secret arts to you? I reckon it's more than half a dozen, right?”

Yeriel said nothing, swaying away from the arm that wiped the snow from her face. This was the hand that caused so many heinous acts, she felt a sudden churn in her stomach from those cold, deadly palms. She hadn’t had anything since last night, but whatever inside was trying to find its way out of her throat. Yeriel held on, gnashing her teeth.

“Half a dozen Magi showing interest in you is nothing much, providing the potential you got, but tell me honestly, how many of them really would teach you some of their secrets without a price?” The warlock wetted his lips, finished cleaning her face. “Actually, I’m no different from them. You will only get the arts after decades of being an apprentice under someone in the academy. However, my way is different. I can teach you what they can, but they will not. I can teach you as good as them and even better at some arts. Just think about it for now.”

Yeriel said nothing, clenching her jaws, and finding strength returning to her arms. She shook those foreign palms off, stepping back.

“You’re done?” Rial asked, holding a glass of drink.

Rojar Iker clicked his tongue with dissatisfaction, not at the Knight, but at Yeriel. 'It's always easier to get what I want if they give it willingly,' he muttered under his breath. "But eventually, I take it even if they don't give it to me willingly. It's just that it's a long process."

“I can guess why all your apprentices grow so tired of you,” Rial said, drinking everything out of the glass. “You’re like a child, Rojar, always jump off towards new toys, even though you’re not finished playing with the old ones.”

The Warlock snorted and took a glass and let the Knight pour the drink from the bottle.

“What do you intend to do with your son?” Rial whispered, pouring the drink for the warlock.

Rojar didn’t seem even a bit of interest to answer. He drank the alcohol, and regarded its taste, before finally opening his mouth. “You’re right about me, old friend,” he said. “I do jump off from one toy to another, however, I didn’t do that with my son, and look at what I made of him . . .”

“Disappointed?” Rial regarded him, raising an eyebrow.

Rojar shook his head. “No, far from it,” he said, sighing. “Now, I consider thinking, I don’t understand him all that well that I told myself all the years.”

“Well, you can do whatever you want, but the question is what you’re intending to do with him?”

The warlock shook his head. “It's almost time,” he whispered, “Four Moons already in the sky. I don’t have the luxury of time to go after him, even if he’s my son. Whatever he got himself into, he has to wait, wait until I finish here.”

"I hope your son don't mind waiting, holy hell, if we're late perhaps we'll never be able to get to him."

_ _ _

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