Summer, year 568 of the Varakarian Cycle

  The tension hung thick in the air between them. Kharg leaned back in his chair with fingers steepled thoughtfully beneath his chin. Ivar was clearly restless and had no idea what their next step could be as he fidgeted with the stem of his wine glass. The silence stretched, broken only by the muted clink of Fafne's claws on polished wood as the faerie dragon pawed at a stray piece of fruit.

  Kharg sighed, mulling it over. “Ivar, if even you couldn’t get any meaningful information from the Veythar estate, it’s unlikely that I’ll fare much better. Lord Orin’s household seems intent on keeping everyone at arm’s length. Still...” He tilted his head, his voice taking on a determined edge. “I should probably visit the estate myself. Another pair of eyes might catch something you missed.”

  Ivar gave a slight, reluctant gesture of agreement, though his skepticism was clear. “It’s worth a try, but I doubt they’ll be any more forthcoming with you than they were with me.”

  Kharg allowed himself a warm smile. “Perhaps not, but sometimes it’s not the answers people give that matter, it’s what they try to hide. Either way, we’ll need more than just questioning reluctant servants if we’re to find him.”

  He paused, and his expression shifted into something more guarded. “There is... another way. Something that might help us narrow the search.”

  Ivar straightened, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Another way?”

  Kharg inclined his head. “It’s a shamanic technique I learned from Hrafun, the elder of a northern clan whom I trained with before coming to Varakar. It’s not something I’ve spoken of often, but it allows me to locate individuals. If I’ve marked them, that is. Caspian carries one of those marks.”

  Ivar leaned forward, intrigued but cautious. “You mean you can find him? Like some kind of tracking spell?”

  “Not quite,” Kharg replied, his voice tinged with an academic curiosity. “Spiritism, as I practice it, ties into the essence of a person, their spiritual imprint.” He hesitated, glancing between them. “I… may have marked Caspian before I left the Academy. He never knew. It’s subtle and non-invasive, but still… not exactly polite among mages to do so without asking.”

  A faint note of guilt entered his tone before he admitted, “In truth, I marked all three of you. It was… precautionary.” He gave a small shrug. “The Sphere of Spirit, one of the more advanced fields of magic in Varakar, has similarities to what I learned from Hrafun. And I suspect that you might find similar spells within our form of Elemental Magic that tie into the Sphere of Spirit.”

  Ivar raised an eyebrow but said nothing, allowing Kharg to continue.

  “The catch,” Kharg admitted, “is that the range of my magic is limited. I might be able to sense him directly within a hundred yards or so. But to expand that range, I’d need to enter the dreamworld.”

  “The dreamworld?” Ivar echoed, his tone equal parts curiosity and apprehension.

  “It’s a state between the waking world and the realm of sleep,” Kharg explained. “There, my senses are heightened, and the range of the mark’s pull extends tenfold. Within a radius of about a thousand yards, I could pinpoint Caspian’s location if he’s within that distance.”

  Ivar’s brow furrowed. “And the downside?”

  “It’s not without risk,” Kharg admitted. “I’ll need seclusion to enact the magic, a quiet place where I won’t be disturbed. The process takes about an hour and is... draining. We’ll also need to move methodically, searching the city area by area. Inns or private rooms would work best as a base for each attempt.”

  Ivar was silent for a moment, digesting the information. Finally, he nodded, though his expression remained cautious. “It’s a plan, at least. Better than waiting for the seneschal to suddenly have a change of heart.”

  Kharg gave a wry smile. “I thought you might say that. We’ll need to plan carefully, though. And since it’s getting late, I’ll need tonight to prepare. There are some supplies I’ll need to gather before we begin.”

  “Fair enough,” Ivar agreed. “I’ll come by your place in the morning, and we can get started then.”

  As the two shook hands on their agreement, Kharg’s mind began to race through the preparations he’d need. He would need focus stones, ritual chalk, and incense to ease his passage into the other realm. He might even be able to channel some elemental powers if he procured some small cups and candles. His thoughts turned briefly to Caspian, his friend’s laughter and quick wit lingering in his mind like echoes from another life.

  * * *

  The day proved to be dark and cloudy when he pulled the curtains in his room that morning. He had risen early, his mind clear and focused on the tasks at hand. After a quick breakfast, he summoned one of the clerks, a wiry young man with ink-stained fingers, and gave him clear instructions.

  “Go to the Cartographers’ Guild,” Kharg said, pressing ten shillings into the clerk’s palm. “Secure a map of the city for me, one with a proper scale, if possible. This should cover the cost.” His funds were dwindling, though fortunately, his father had arranged for Farad to extend him an allowance months ago, keeping him from true insolvency. And the money he had earned from the goblin raid had also been very welcome.

  The clerk offered a quiet motion of assent, tucking the coins away. Farad, watching the exchange from his desk, raised an eyebrow. “You’re quite serious about this, aren’t you?”

  Kharg gave him a wry smile. “It’s a serious matter, Farad. Caspian’s missing, and I intend to find him.”

  Farad sighed but waved him off, trusting Kharg’s judgment even if he didn’t fully understand the situation.

  With the map task delegated, Kharg set out into the bustling streets of Varakar to gather the remaining materials he would need for his shamanic ritual. His first stop was an apothecary’s shop tucked into a narrow alley. The sign above the door read “Jarth’s Remedies and Rarities.” The air inside was thick with the mingled scents of dried herbs, oils, and incense.

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  “Chalk and incense,” Kharg bade the shopkeeper, a bald man with sharp eyes who moved with a smooth efficiency.

  The shopkeeper laid out several bundles of incense sticks. Kharg selected a mix of lavender and myrrh, both known for their calming and focusing effects—perfect for what he intended. Next came the chalk, slender white sticks neatly stored in a wooden box. He tucked them away before moving on to a jeweler’s stall, where trays of polished crystals glittered in the sun. After a brief inspection, he chose several clear quartz stones, their purity and symmetry well-suited for channeling energy.

  On the way back, he paused at a potter’s stall. The vendor, a cheerful woman with clay-streaked arms, looked up from the spinning wheel as he approached.

  “Ten small bowls,” he said, nodding toward the stacked wares. She packed them quickly, wrapping each in straw and lowering them into a woven basket with practiced care.

  Candles were easy enough to procure from a nearby vendor, and as he made his way through the crowded streets, he paused by an urn of flowers outside a tavern. With a furtive glance, Kharg scooped a handful of soil into a small leather pouch, brushing off his hands as he slipped the pouch into his satchel.

  When Kharg returned to the Silverwolf Trading House, the clerk was already back with the map. It wasn’t perfect, but it was detailed enough to mark out potential areas for their search. The man also pressed six shillings into Kharg’s hand with a wry shake of his head. “Impossible to bargain with. Fixed prices, they said.”

  Just as Kharg was packing supplies into a satchel, making sure that everything was accounted for, Ivar arrived with a jaunty “Morning” and a nod. Determination glinted in his eyes, tempered by a trace of unease. “Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s get this done.”

  * * *

  Together, they set out for Caspian’s home in the Noble District. They headed out to the Trade Street thoroughfare, bustling with merchants and artisans, and soon passed the major crossing of the Royal Road. The thoroughfare became Noble Street as they entered the district’s outskirts. The gradual transition in atmosphere was unmistakable. The lively energy of the marketplace gave way to a quieter, more reserved air, punctuated by the soft clatter of hooves on cobblestones and the occasional murmur of passing conversations.

  The level of refinement of their surroundings grew even more pronounced when they turned right onto Mansion Road. The houses were still built in close proximity with shared walls, yet their facades displayed fine stonework and intricate carvings. Some had grand, arched entryways, while a few went further, framing their doors within sets of two or even three successive arches of carved stone. Each home boasted a unique flair, whether in ornate cornices, colorful mosaics above the windows, or delicate ironwork on the balconies. The front doors sat a step or two above the street, reached by polished stone steps and painted in deep hues of green, red, or blue, many bearing a family crest. The cobblestone streets were clean and uncluttered, a testament to vigilant maintenance, with no stray dogs, rats, or clutter in sight.

  They passed several patrols of city guards whose breastplates and tunics were finer than usual, and every man was very well-groomed, every last one of them. Their sharp eyes scanned the streets, subtly discouraging loiterers and those who didn’t appear to belong. Kharg noted how they stared at him and Ivar, only moving on when they took in the finer details of their attire. The absence of street performers, hawkers, or beggars lent the district an eerie tranquility, broken only by the occasional carriage and the deep toll of a distant gong marking the time. He realized he barely noticed such gongs anymore, their heavy notes now part of the city’s background hum.

  The pair followed Mansion Road for two blocks before reaching King’s Square, the heart of the Noble District’s social scene. The square was a wide, elegant expanse bordered by prosperous taverns and restaurants. Their names were etched in gilded script and chalk-written signs outside advertised expensive wines and gourmet delicacies. Outdoor seating areas overlooked the square, where nobles reclined in cushioned chairs while sipping from crystal goblets and enjoying the warmth of the sun. The air carried a subtle aroma of spiced pastries and roasted meats, blending seamlessly with the gentle hum of refined conversation.

  From their vantage point, Kharg and Ivar could see the noble estates that dominated the inner circle of the district. These grand properties were surrounded by tall stone walls, their boundaries marked by lush greenery and wrought metal gates adorned with house insignias. Uniformed guards, their attire bearing the colors and crests of their respective houses, stood at attention, their postures rigid yet dignified.

  The estates closest to Mansion Road were uniform in size, each boasting an inner garden and a three- or four-story mansion at its heart. But as the estates stretched farther into the district, they grew in scale and opulence, their walls enclosing sprawling gardens, elaborate fountains, and additional structures such as guesthouses or private stables.

  After passing the first six identical estates, they approached Caspian’s home. Ivar, in a low voice, mentioned, “Lord Orin holds the rank of baron. Not the highest in the hierarchy, but certainly well-placed.”

  The estate’s gates were of intricately forged iron, the family crest, a stag in mid-leap, prominently displayed at its center. A pair of guards, clad in immaculate uniforms of green and gold, stood watch. Their sharp eyes appraised Kharg and Ivar as they introduced themselves.

  The officer in charge grunted, his tone laced with impatience. “Weren’t you here just a few days ago?” Despite his brusque manner, he agreed to send word to the seneschal.

  It didn’t take long before the gates creaked open and the pair was let inside. The estate’s grounds were a masterpiece of design and meticulous care, and even Kharg, despite his upbringing as the son of Sitch Nar’s wealthiest merchant, felt a twinge of awe.

  They walked along a white-tiled path flanked by flowerbeds bursting with vivid hues, their arrangement a symphony of color and symmetry. A pagoda nestled among the greenery offered a shaded retreat, its delicate wooden latticework painted in soft pastels. The path led them around an exquisite marble fountain whose centerpiece was a sculpted nymph pouring water from an urn. Beneath the rippling surface a dozen starkly orange fish swam around lazily. There were marble benches along their path, ornately carved with floral motifs that invited visitors to linger and admire the surroundings. Statues of mythical creatures and historical figures stood among the gardens, their craftsmanship so lifelike they seemed poised to move.

  The mansion itself rose majestically at the end of the path, a three-story structure that formed a welcoming U-shape around a courtyard. Another marble fountain graced the courtyard’s center, the cascading water providing a tranquil undertone to the scene. Balconies with carved stone railings overlooked the estate, their designs both intricate and imposing. The front door was flanked by four towering pillars that held up a small, tiled roof.

  Kharg and Ivar ascended the steps, and the sound of their boots against the polished tiles echoed across the garden. The door swung open to reveal a tall, austere seneschal. His expression was as unyielding as the stone statues outside, his calculating eyes taking in every detail of their arrival.

  “Lord Orin is unavailable,” the seneschal said with a slight bow. “And I’m afraid I have no information regarding Master Caspian’s whereabouts.”

  Kharg probed gently, his tone measured. “Surely someone must have seen him last. A servant, perhaps? Or one of his companions?”

  The seneschal’s lips thinned. “I can assure you, Master Kharg, that everything within this estate is under control. If there were any cause for concern, Lord Orin would have addressed it.”

  The exchange ended as fruitlessly as Ivar’s previous attempt, and the two friends left the estate, their frustration mounting.