Chapter 6 - The power of the magestone (Rookie Games arc)

　　The artisan knelt before the weathered box, studying its intricate patterns as his fingers fiddled with the lock. There was an unspoken reverence in his touch, his hands folding as though in prayer.

　　With a loud pop the lock snapped open, sending Cedric reeling back in shock. It was the sound of a minor binding spell coming undone—a mere whisper against the grand incantations he had known in his lifetime as prince of Lothrian. But it was an assault to young goblin ears.

　　Kneeling like before an altar, the artisan plucked out a handful of trinkets—worn magestones of the green order and the red, their essence cracked, their power faded. Only a sliver of magic still clung to them.

　　If this was the prize, Cedric was not impressed. The mages of the hightower would scoff at the sight of one treasuring such... muted playthings. But Gael wouldn`t. She had earned her stripes in the order`s specialist ranks, granting access to cloth of dragonweave and amulets of greatfrost. But she loved it all still, every trace, every fragment of magic. Gael wouldn`t show scorn.

　　Delving deeper into the box, the artisan wove his fingers around a vacant silver locket, clasping it tightly. With his free hand, he eased the green magestone into the locket`s heart where it shone faintly with arcane grace.

　　The artisan moved in close, his arms outstretched to drape the locket over Cedric`s neck, but the prince recoiled—he respected the man for his knowledge and insight. For the old-forged honour he had glimpsed deep in the man`s soul. But there was no bond of trust between them.

　　"Good... instinct keeps you breathing." The artisan flashed a knowing smile as he dangled the locket in his held-out hand, where the prince felt safe to accept it. Safer.

　　As the locket settled around his neck, Cedric thought it a fine decorative piece. But nothing more. How wrong he was again. There was a vital surge kindling around him; in a heartbeat he was overtaken by a burgeoning magic that sparked his mind clear and right. The force of the locket honed his senses; it steeled his intellect—so drastic were its effects that he felt himself capable now of speech. Proper goblin speech—not the ugh`s and graaah`s he had earlier, and to his great mortification, cast into being.

　　Cedric looked at the artisan, really looked at him. "Who are you?... What are you?" His voice came out vibrant and clear, and Cedric was so pleased he could cry. Clutching the locket tight in embrace, he thought of magic`s mysteries and those who knew them: the mages and magisters dear, anointed and from the cloth. He thought of Gael.

　　The artisan grinned as he once more slipped his hand in the box rife with magical riches... that`s what it now was to Cedric. One man`s trash is another`s treasure... the proverb rings true as ever, the prince realized. It was only his position that had changed; from first birth the one man`... from second the other`.

　　Retrieving a green ring, the artisan adorned himself this time, placing it around his ring finger. A dim luminescence gathered around the man—a quiet swell of magic, proportionate to the size and quality of a half-sized magestone. Still, the artisan groaned in acceptance of its strength, contented in the way hunters get when they stalk a prey and return home without a scrape on them—that deep earthy satisfaction. There is no way better to describe the elation of magic come flowing through one`s body and blood; there is no way at all. This Cedric knew, because from unbeliever he had just been converted.

　　"Though lowly are we... now we can talk the way men talk." The artisan pulled himself as nearly upright as he could muster, stretching his arms and chest and then more gently his back—that twisted thing that irked him so... a body bent to cruel nature`s whim. Even one as the artisan had no recourse but to bitterly accept that which is doled out.

　　"Then talk," demanded Cedric, meeting the artisan`s stance and step—for without notice, the latter had grasped the final trinket from the box, a shard of red magestone, and had stridden off, making way in hasty stutter-step toward the second dune where the captive huntress still sat, staring at them in rapt amazement.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

　　"What am I? I am goblin, dreadful and low. The cursed shell of a man long gone." Fried and beat from work and sun, the artisan had little buffer left to humour Cedric`s nosiness.

　　"That`s not what I saw for truth," Cedric pushed on. "I have seen the shape of your soul. Dreadful is right. And insufferable and obstinate... that I can add from experience. But a curse? No. I`ve seen hell and worse. You are no curse." Cedric stifled the cry of victory he wanted so desperately to utter. With the locket and the magestone, he finally felt half-himself again. He was not whole, but a semblance of a semblance came a thousandfold nearer than what he had been in seemingly forever. The confidence of the prince was remounting. Strident and resilient, in body, in mind—he had regained his footing and was again walking every bit the path of the warrior-poet.

　　"Listen well, wretch," the artisan spat, fury roiling in his beaded goblin eyes. "In life you were duke or prince or king... maybe marquess or earl, if that is the station the Blackroses have fallen to." The man scanned Cedric for a tell, a hidden intrigue glinting from his glare... but the prince was tight-lipped and stern, betraying nothing more of his rank or line.

　　"But this is not life. This is the hollow after. You are nothing here, like me and her..." the artisan flicked his head towards the huntress. "... and like all the rest. Nothing. Until you prove yourself worth a damn." He bent low to the sands like an agile man might, no bracing nor grunting. The power of the ring no doubt.

　　The artisan grabbed hold of the wooden buckler Cedric had lugged from cave to beach, socketed the red magestone in the backside gem slot. "You Blackroses are all the same... always the dagger and shield, always the rope and the beachside route because the forest is dark and unpredictable, and it frightens you. A calcified line, a legacy of cowering." He fastened the rope to the buckler`s handle, fastening it around his neck and contorted back. "I`ll hold on to this for now... you can have it back when you`re ready." The man rose tall and proud, with the leaned-back look of a lord draped like cloak around him. It was a whisper in a wordless way, the artisan daring Cedric to stand up or stand down, confident he would choose the latter.

　　But a prince does not suffer indignity lightly.

　　Bristling at the slight to his house, Cedric lunged at the man, his clenched fist soaring close behind. The artisan reeled as he took the brunt of the blow on his raised shoulder, his strong leg sliding back in the sand. Swiftly he retaliated—a clean right hand catching Cedric over his guard and landing squarely on the cheek. But the prince was ready for it, turning his head in line with the strike`s trajectory, negating most of the impact. In a singular motion, Cedric wrapped both hands around the artisan`s out-stretched arm, pulling back with all his weight and force, sending the man toppling forward, face first in the sand. Cedric spun out and away, reaching for the dagger he had previously discarded; it was wood, and it was weak, but it was a weapon all the same.

　　The prince towered over his fallen adversary who struggled and writhed in the sand, though his movements were slow, hindered by the weighty buckler on his back. Cedric gave a mock thrust of his dagger, cautioning the man to yield... or else.

　　The artisan sighed, then threw his hands up, palms facing the victor. "You`ll take a beating to win... not a cadet branch nobody then." He propped himself up on one shoulder, biting away a pained howl. "A mainline Blackrose sent down to serve the goblin death. Been a while, that. I would have bowed to you in life. But sworn duty dies with the man." He sought Cedric`s eye, motioned his intent to rise.

　　Stepping back, Cedric lowered the dagger. "You speak of fealty but do so with treasonous tongue. Were I not so diminished I would hang you on the spot." Cedric took a deep breath, weighed his next words carefully—for a man`s word, once given voice, cannot be taken back so easily. It was a gamble, but looking down at his fragile green form, the prince knew: he was all-in anyway, a hapless stranger in a strange land, whether he wanted it or not. He could only hope he wasn`t holding a losing hand.

　　Righting his shoulders, the prince rose regal against the sea and sand. "If it is as you say... if you swore a bannerman`s bond to the royal Blackrose, then I call upon you now to honour it." Cedric`s heart beat something fierce, and he tried not to think of the artisan`s soul, the golden truth of it he had glimpsed in fear and in awe. He would whimper; he would wilt—and so Cedric willed himself not to bring it to mind.

　　A long breath. A dutiful pause. Then the prince spoke like a prince should.

　　"I am Cedric, prince of the Blackrose, lord-protector of Lothrian under my father`s command. You have my gratitude for the necklace, and my disdain for your cowardice. I pardon you the once, and accept the necklace as token of your remorse. It has given me word and it has given me life. Rise now, and strike at me if you dare. There is enough of a man left here to stop you."