1.11 The Fourth Path

The true treasure was not the elven box, not for Silven. It was knowledge. In a flash, he teleported to Desert Marsh and avoided the guards by their pointless wittering. He found himself back at Grennel’s window as if nothing had happened.

“Ah! You have valuable information, I predict,” said the murderer gleefully. Silven looked on scornfully, and then thought of the things he had done in the name of existing and managed a smile.

“I have seen a phenomenon that cannot be explained by the academy, I am sure of it. Now let me in.”

Grennel held up a hand. “Not so fast. Explain yourself.”

Silven relayed his tale of the elusive tree in excruciating detail. “Surely, the great scholar can see no explanation for the object of my quest appearing when directed. Unless you acknowledge the existence of a god?”

The professor’s neatly shaven face fell. “Quantum magics. Elsenberg’s purpose principle. You have failed.”

The words fell like lead weights into Silven’s ears. He glared through the invisible barrier across the still-unlocked window. “It’s...impossible.”

The scholar regained his composure and chuckled. “It’s quite a well-established theory, I assure you. Objectives of a magical nature will only reveal themselves to the fulcrum when they cross an expectation threshold. In other words, the fulcrum only finds them when they are told they exist, where they are, and a good deal of detail about their nature.”

Silven’s anger gave way to concentration at the words. “Fulcrum? As with a lever?”

The scholar’s eyes widened as if he had made a terrible mistake. He fussed with the papers on his desk and checked the lock on his varnished door. “Err, my own terminology, it’s true. That’s my modified take on the theory, based on... my own..... curse you, I’ve said too much! Be gone!” And he strode purposefully to the window.

Silven tried to hold on. “But why can’t you just tell me? I can aid you better then!” But the curtains had been drawn in his face. He stared at the fabric and felt his heart thumping louder and louder. The academic’s opinions would have been of no great consequence to Silven, if he had anything else to cling on to in the world. Yet, this was his one mad obsession, his one chance for answers, he was sure of it. He clawed at the barrier and turned away.

As he made his way down the wing of the academy, another window opened of its own accord and a reedy voice whistled out to the passerby. “In here, Silven.”

The warrior looked blankly at the extended hand poking through the opening and took it without a further thought. His thoughts had become fuzzy with frustration, and in his disturbed state he could pay little heed to danger.

The study he found himself in was similar to Grennel’s, but far cosier. There were plush leather chairs and soft rugs, warm paintings of farms and crystal decanters of alcohol on shiny tables. The man who greeted him was more welcoming too. Tall, confident and less fussy than his counterpart a few windows down, and offering Silven a glass to top it off. Silven grinned and took a gulp of the burning liqueur.

The man held out a hand and shook the limp wrist of his visitor. “You look tired. You should get some rest. May I recommend the Flutterby Club in Solmond? An exquisite spot for revivification of body and spirit.” Silven nodded absent-mindedly. He was still fumbling for a solution to Grennel’s barrier.

The smart gentleman guided Silven to a chair and took one opposite him. “I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting you in person. Sir Edmund Elsenberg, at your service.”

The gentleman shrank back in his chair as Silven let out a hearty bellow of laughter. “Hahaha. Either your theory is somehow true, or you’re a master eavesdropper. Out with it! Which will it be?”

Elsenberg cleared his throat. “I’m assuming someone has mentioned me, or my work. And so, yes, here I am. One minute I’m relaxing in my townhouse on Royal Street, and next I’m summoned here. It happens to all the quest-givers. I’m trying to unify my work with fast travel mechanics as we speak.”

Silven came round to full attention. It seemed that Grennel was right to dismiss his points after all. “Well, good luck with that. And what do you mean, quest-giver?”

Elsenberg took an elegant sip of his beverage. “It’s an unofficial title from Scroll Thirty Six of the Faction Reputation Reaction Regulation. I’m sure you’ve heard of it by now. It means that I have a right to override your current reputation in Desert Marsh whilst you’re in my presence. In other words, I’m not calling the guards to kill you at this present moment.”

Silven clapped his hands slowly. “Well, good for me. I can endure this miserable place even longer.”

The man continued unperturbed. “I only have this right, you will understand, to benefit the town. But my instructions will aid you in your work, rest assured.”

Silven guffawed again. “What work? I’m a nobody. No, I’m worse than that. I’m a bringer of doom and death, a man cursed to leave destruction wherever he may go. So tell me, Sir Helpmeberg, what would you have me do?”

Elsenberg smiled bitterly. “I’m looking for a man of your ilk, and pardon the vulgarity of such a judgement. That was why I was summoned. I do indeed want you to bring doom and death... to those who deserve it. Think about it. Warlord Wallace, and Zolar Ceneron, brought to their end. The north-west could be united again under its king. You get promoted to Friendly in Desert Marsh, at the very least. Trade flows freely again. The militias assemble under their local leaders. And at long last, the king can march on the greater dangers of the south-east: The Black Shadow and all his servants.”

Silven rose from his seat suddenly, blind rage threatening to burst from deep within. “That’s all I hear, wherever I go! Destroy, kill, slaughter! I’m tired of being a pawn in this game. I’m a free man, and I want a different life. Yes, I took up this sword, but there was no room with a parchment and quill. I’m going to do it. Right, I’m off to become a scholar myself, and work my way to.... whatever my associates can help me with. Keep your quests for a true warrior!” He slid his glass down the table and put one leg out of the window.

Elsenberg approached calmly from behind. “Never burn your bridges, friend. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling only you can unite the kingdom. There’s just something about you. So I’ll tell you. Wallace’s men use the password ‘Wallace Rules’ to enter their fortress. Imaginative, I know. And there’s a portal to penetrate Greenholme’s magic barricade in the basement of Ridgecomb Manor.”

Silven was out the window by the time the scholar finished. He looked back in amusement. “And how would you know this?”

Elsenberg shook his head. “I had a long-winded explanation of each ready at hand, but I’m afraid you skipped the dialogue. We can start again if you like?” He extended a hand. “In here, Silven.”

The hero scowled. “Bugger off.” But it was he who buggered off instead.