The Magician's Sorrow

With a start, Kastus Iharovich opened his eyes and bolted upright, stumbling backwards several feet before finally regaining his footing. Within moments, the macabre scene of his greatest tragedy faded into oblivion, once again leaving the Archmaester alone in the endless snowy fields of the Zal Pamya. With a heavy sigh Kastus made to leave the memory hall, plucking his silver-trimmed cloak from the tree branch where it hung and drying the soaked knees of his trousers with a wave of his hand.

As he trudged through the snow towards the hall's exit, Kastus could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He clasped at his wife's silver wedding amulet hanging from his neck, as if by squeezing it tightly enough he could cast off the sorrow that hung over him like a fog.

"I miss you, Yelena. My heart yearns for yours." He wiped away his tears with his free hand, sniffling. As he opened the heavy wooden doors that led out from the Zal Pamya into his Dwerzik's main hall, Kastus chuckled to himself. "You would've enjoyed my new companions, love. They are certainly entertaining, to say the least." He strode across the Dwerzik's grandiose foyer, briefly glancing up at the twinkling constellations overhead and running his hand along the edge of the smooth mahogany table. "You'd have enjoyed matching wits with George most of all; he loves to argue almost as much as you do- did." He corrected himself, the smile fading from his face. Standing before the Dwerzik's main entrance, he sighed again. "We'll talk soon, lapochka. Otryko."

The weighty stone door swung open in response to the word of power, and at once Kastus felt a stiff breeze upon his face and the smell of the river Dun in his nostrils. Stepping out onto the deck of the Santana, Kastus turned to see the Dwerzik's entrance silently slam shut, before slowly melting away like a snowdrift in heavy rain. He gazed out over the starboard beam, squinting in the light of the rising sun: it was the morning of September 23rd, not two days since he and the rest of the Argent Company had escaped the forests of Eastwythe. The Santana sailed for Dalhurst, from where they would regain their bearings before embarking on the final leg of their journey north.

Gazing across the largely-empty deck, Kastus spotted a small figure sitting cross-legged near the bow, adjusting the windlass of his hefty crossbow. He slowly strode over to the sitting man, who was too engrossed in the maintanence of his weapon to notice Kastus approach. "Morning, Bo." The dwarf's head shot up, a look of bewilderment flashing across his face for a brief moment before his eyes settled on Kastus and he relaxed.

"Oh! Why, you startled me Kastus. Good morning to ya! What're you doing up so early?" Bo made to stand, gingerly placing Hartlath upon the deck.

"I don't sleep, Bo."

"Oh, yes of course!" the dwarf scratched his head. "To be honest Kastus, I'd forgotten. Must be hard, not sleeping? Do ya not get tired?" Kastus shook his head.

"It's the damndest thing, but I don't. I haven't felt fatigue since our companions saved me from that observatory." He gestured towards the Eastwythian crossbow laying at Bo's feet. "Something wrong with your new weapon?" Bo glanced down at Hartlath briefly before shaking his head.

"No no, nothing like that. Just making some tweaks! You learn a thing or two when you've been all the places I have, you know." Kastus nodded, pretending to understand how decades spent in Westwythe and Sinopa informed one on Fey-designed crossbow maintenance.

"I'm sure. Well, I'll leave you to your solitude then, I have some things to attend to before we convene with the rest of the Company." Bo gave a quick nod and smile before returning to his work, whistling a Sijmeni folk tune. Content that he would not be disturbed, Kastus made an about-face and marched towards the stern, pausing to ensure the captain's quarters were empty before stepping inside. Alone in the silence of the cabin, the magician's facade crumbled, and burying his face in his hands he fell to his knees. Hot, salty tears streamed down his face as his body was racked with violent sobs. Kastus tore at his hair and beard, silently damning the men who cursed him such that he could not feel pain. "I should have been there. I should have come home sooner. I should have insisted." Kastus opened his eyes, shuddering as he drew in shallow, ragged breaths.

"It should have been me."

But it hadn't been. And while he knew he could never turn back time, he could certainly find the man responsible for his family's ruin. Taking a deep breath, Kastus stood and adjusted his clothes. He reached into a pouch on his belt, and from it retrieved a small wooden box. Raising it to his lips, Kastus whispered the short phrase he had not uttered in over 20 years, smiling as the box's enchantment fizzled out and it opened with a sharp 'click'. Kastus leered greedily at its contents: a single shriveled finger, cut from the hand of his son's murderer and wholly desiccated by time. "I finally know your name, Harold," Kastus muttered. "And now, there is nothing on this Earth that will stop me from finding you."

He snapped the box shut.