Victor of Tucson

Victor slept until nearly noon the next day, and when he opened his eyes, blinking in the diffuse light coming through the partially closed curtains, he was surprised by the silence and the fact that nobody had felt the need to wake him. With his head propped up on his plush feather pillows, he yawned and stretched, enjoying his room's calming, purple-blue color palette. Even the gauzy curtains were tinted a soft blue, which, in turn, tinted the light coming in. He enjoyed it and found it a nice change from the reds and burgundies of his quarters at Dar’s lake house.

He took his time bathing and grooming himself, dressed in his usual disguised-armor clothes, and then prepared to leave, intent on finding some breakfast. He paused near the door and, thinking it over, decided to return to his suite’s little parlor, where he’d spent the night drinking and making impulsive choices about his Class. He sat in front of the little coffee table where his empty bottle of whisky and dirty glass awaited—evidence of his crimes. A blue crystal bowl also occupied the table, piled with various fruits.

Victor scooped the plums, apples, and pears out of the bowl, setting them on the table, and then he reached into his storage ring and pulled out the heart he’d taken from Obert. Thanks to the magic of his dimensional container, it was still warm in his hand, the blood tacky and damp. Victor set it in the crystal bowl and stared. His body’s physiological reaction to the raw hunk of, if not human, then at least humanoid flesh, was a stark reminder of how much he’d changed. He wasn’t just Victor Sandoval from Tucson anymore. He was a Quinametzin titan, and his mouth filled with saliva at the thought of chomping down on a person’s raw heart.

Worse, Victor didn’t feel ashamed or dirty or even bothered by the idea. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he presented Victor, the teenage wrestler, with this heart and told him to eat it, there was no way it would happen—not without a fight. “Well,” Victor chuckled, “I guess some shit’s different.” He summoned one of his cooking knives, a very sharp, narrow-bladed one meant for deboning a piece of meat but that he used far more universally; he liked how it cut, and it was sharper than most of his proper “chef’s” knives.

Fighting to contain his eager hunger at the sight of the bloody organ, Victor sliced it into bite-sized cubes. Then, one by one, he speared the hunks of flesh and chewed them down. He could feel the Energy in the meat, and it was potent, but it wasn’t anything like the hearts of the great beasts he’d claimed. The wyrm and the gargantuopod, for instance, had overwhelmed him with their potency. This heart felt more like the giant spiders he’d slaughtered on Zaafor. It infused him with Energy, and he could feel his Core swelling, climbing toward the next rank. He also knew the Energy was infusing his flesh, inching him closer to level seventy-one.

Victor wouldn’t deny a bit of disappointment; he’d believed the rumors that Obert had a “momentum” affinity, and he’d thought it too much a coincidence that his new Class featured a type of battle momentum—surely the fates or karma or just the System had conspired to grant him a boon. He was embarrassed to admit that he’d begun to believe that Obert’s heart would infuse him with some sort of momentum Energy and help his new feat to improve in some way. Unfortunately, when the waves of euphoria faded and he looked inward, all he was sure of was that his Core was heavier and denser, scraping the surface of the next rank.

Victor carried the bowl into his bathroom and rinsed it before returning it to the table. He felt good—well-rested, energized, and eager to see what lay next for him. Even if he tried, he couldn’t be disappointed in the heart; an ordinary cultivator would have to work day after day for weeks or months to advance their Core by a single rank in the epic tier. Victor had nearly just skipped an entire rank by having a delicious snack.

So, it was with a grin on his face that he opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Bryn was there, her face, as always, obscured by her helmet, but he could see her eyes, and they looked stormy. “Something the matter?” The act of speaking triggered a yawn and a stretch, and Victor almost laughed as Bryn’s dark brows furrowed behind the slit in her visor.

“Why would you ask that, milord?”

“Oh,” Victor shrugged, “no reason.” He looked down the empty hallway, admiring how the high windows reflected on the polished marble floor. “Is anyone waiting for me?”

“Sir, I do not have your appointment book.”

“Well, Bryn, while you were standing watch here, did anyone come calling?”

“No, milord.”

“Has there been any talk of the next duel?”

“I believe an emissary from Xan arrived last night.”

Victor smiled, chuckling at her reticence. “But no one’s been looking for me?”

“No…”

“Okay, well, I’d like to have a look around the city. Can you direct me to—”

“Milord, I don’t think that would be wise.” After a moment’s pause and perhaps in response to Victor’s arched eyebrow, she added, “I apologize for interrupting, sir.”

“Why wouldn’t it be wise?”

“There are factions in the city who worship Ranish Dar, and there are factions who view you as the harbinger of an apocalypse. Were you to wander the streets, I fear it would be akin to pouring water on a grease fire.”

“Well, we’ll need to ensure people don’t recognize me, then.” Victor grinned as an idea came to him. “You’re going to have to lose that armor.”

“Sir, I’ll need to report our outing to my captain, and I think—”

“Bryn, do I, technically, outrank your captain?”

“As the crown’s champion, sir, you hold the highest military office in the nation.”

“In that case, we’ll keep this outing between us. Now, can you go ahead and change into something less conspicuous?”

Bryn looked around, then nodded. “I’ll go to my quarters and return after—”

“Nah.” Victor opened his door and held it for her. “Go ahead and use my room. I’ll wait here.”

Her helmet inclined briefly, and then she stepped through. Victor pulled the door shut and looked through his storage rings for a hooded cloak. He had a few, though he rarely wore them; thanks to the constant heat produced by his Quinametzin blood and his feats, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt chilly or even the need to protect himself from the elements.

When he pulled forth a dark gray cloak with silky, rust-colored lining, he remembered when Valla had given it to him and felt a surge of melancholy that threatened to send him back to his room to curl up on the bed. He shook it off, though, and was just slinging the cloak over his shoulders, pulling the hood up, when Bryn emerged from his room. She’d changed out of her gleaming armor and wore a simple blue tunic over black leggings tucked into sturdy-looking boots. Of course, her belt sported not one but two heavy-looking swords, one a little shorter than the other.

As Victor fastened the clasp, securing his cloak, she frowned, and Victor got his first good look at her face. He liked it immediately. She looked like an athlete who spent a lot of time messing around with sharp objects. Her jaw was strong, her nose was a little flat, her lips were thin, and her brow was heavy and dark. Altogether, she looked healthy, strong, and dependable, especially with all the tiny scars on her cheeks, chin, and forehead. He almost commented on them. He nearly said, “You like to practice without your armor, I see.” But he caught himself at the last minute, realizing not everyone might be proud of their scars.

Luckily, Bryn had her own acerbic comment, saving him from second-guessing himself, “I don’t think a cloak and hood will suffice to keep folks from noticing you.”

Victor held up a finger, grinning as he cast Alter Self, reducing his height to just around six feet. He was positively tiny by Ruhn’s standards. “How about now?” he asked from the depths of his cowl.

“Ah, well, um,” Bryn took a step back to look him up and down more easily. “I suppose folks will think you’re a traveler, but I don’t think they’ll suspect you’re the queen’s champion. You feel reduced in more ways than simply size. Have you hidden your power?”

Victor waited until the cloak’s resizing enchantment caught up to his smaller body, and then he nodded. “It’s part of the spell. Anyway, let’s go. I’ll follow you. Maybe avoid people who will ask us questions.”

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“Um, milord,” Bryn reached up to scratch at her very short, stiff brown hair, narrowing her perpetually scowling dark eyes. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, right! I need to speak to someone knowledgeable about magical…stuff. Someone who knows a thing or two about Death Casters and phylacteries, but hopefully a lot more.”

Bryn’s scowl didn’t relent. If anything, it deepened. “Is there something more about you that—”

“It’s just some information I need, Bryn.” Victor chuckled, shaking his head within his deep cowl as he looked up at her. “I’m not planning to turn into a lich or anything—at least, not yet.” He laughed and reached up to clap her on the shoulder. It felt like slapping a brick wall.

Bryn continued frowning for a moment, and Victor thought she was angry or was trying to think of a response without cussing, but after a minute, he realized it was just her regular expression. Just when he thought he’d need to prompt her again, she nodded slowly. “I believe I know someone who might have the knowledge you seek.” With that, she turned and began striding down the hall. Victor had to double-time it to keep up with his much shorter legs.

They didn’t encounter many palace denizens; the passages were broad and convoluted, and though they walked by several guard stations, Bryn just nodded at the men and women on duty, and they let them pass without a word. Victor chuckled at one point when he had the stray thought that maybe the other guards thought he was Bryn’s kid. When she looked down at him with her usual stern expression, he couldn’t help laughing. “I wonder if they think I’m your son.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You don’t move like a child. My comrades simply know I can be trusted, so they don’t ask questions.” After a minute, she looked down at him again, and this time, her thin, stern lips were curled into a smile. “Besides, I’d be too embarrassed to bring such a scrawny child to the palace!”

Victor’s laugh renewed and, in high spirits, he and Bryn made quick time out a side entrance, then through the gate where, once again, the soldiers waved her through and Victor too after she jerked her thumb his way and said, “I’m escorting this one out.”

Things were different in the city. The palpable pall of despair was gone, and the evidence of the night's revelries was everywhere. Victor saw people passed out in parks, empty kegs, and tankards on nearly every garden wall, and the folks who were up and about cradled their heads and moved very slowly. Seeing those things, he had to bark another laugh as he attempted to jostle Bryn’s shoulder—his small hand was rebuffed by the meat of her muscles. “I can see why no one came looking for me! I wasn’t the only one sleeping in!”

“Yes, well, some of us have duties.”

“Was that a complaint?” Victor crowed. “My stoic guardian wanted to be partying last night?”

“I had a few drinks. You didn’t know it, but one of my fellow guards relieved me for nearly four hours.”

“Four hours off? What did you do with all that time?”

“Hah, hah.” Bryn waved a hand dismissively, further improving Victor’s good mood. He was happy to be getting some personality out of her. She surprised him further by asking, “Why the heart?”

“Huh?”

“It’s one of the things everyone is asking me about. It’s no secret around the palace that I’m your escort, so people think I know things. Everyone wants to know why you took Obert’s heart.”

Victor thought about the question, and it reminded him that he didn’t really know Bryn. He was trusting her, in a way, because he had a—perhaps unhealthy—lack of fear when it came to people harming him. If he were being clever, he might have considered the fact that he’d just let a single individual lead him out into the city, unbeknownst to anyone. If Bryn were a traitor, she might be leading him into quite a trap, and no one would even know to look for him. No one would even know he was missing until, probably, the next day.

He shook his head as the paranoid thoughts began to spiral. “Why do you think I took it?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps to make you seem mad. Perhaps as a show of intimidation. Perhaps you have some sort of grisly ritual passed down by your primitive ancestors—”

Victor couldn’t help the growl in his voice as he snapped, “My ancestors would think you were the primitive.”

Bryn clamped her mouth shut and held up a hand. “I overstepped. I’m sorry, milord.”

Victor sighed, tamping down his Quinametzin pride with a frustrating effort of will. “Nah, don’t be like that. I’m sorry I bit your head off. My, uh, bloodline carries a lot of baggage—I have to fight the pride of my ancestors constantly.”

“Is your bloodline so potent?” She glanced at him as they walked, and he could see the confusion in her eyes.

He figured a half-truth wouldn’t hurt. “Yeah, my distant ancestors were great beings, and I don’t think they really exist on this plane any longer. I guess you could say that when I claim an opponent's heart, it’s a way to honor the rituals of my ancestors and also my foe. When I take that piece of an enemy, it's not about disrespect; it’s the opposite. I wouldn’t take the heart of an opponent I didn’t respect.”

Bryn’s scowl turned contemplative, and she sounded sincere when she said, “I see.” They walked quietly for a while longer, and Victor’s earlier paranoia kept him alert, watching for signs of ambush or betrayal. They traversed busy streets, though, not back alleys. Bryn stopped before a large building with a tavern and tailor on the ground floor and pointed to the upper level where a sign read, “Trobban’s Enchantments, Rare Books, and Artificing.”

Victor had a hard time imagining the shop could be a trap. “This is the place?”

“I hope so. Troban is well respected by many, at least among the guards.”

Victor started up the stout wooden stairs on the side of the building, chuckling at his own awkwardness as he stretched his legs between the wide steps. When he reached the top, he looked down to see Bryn hadn’t followed. “Not coming in?”

She shook her head and sat on the bottom step. “I’ll await you here.”

Victor shrugged and pulled the heavy door open. A chime sounded from within, and a voice called out, “Welcome in.” The shop was neat, with a sitting area in one corner, a sales counter on the rear wall, and a workbench taking up the left half of the room. A giant-sized man stood at the workbench, deftly using a wood chisel to smooth the contours of something that looked a lot like a doll’s head. “Come around the bench, will you? I can’t look up right now; this is a critical step.”

“Sure.” Victor walked around the workbench, feeling kind of ridiculous with just his head and shoulders clearing the surface, but he’d chosen his disguise, and he meant to stick with it. He watched for a minute while the man worked. He had curly white hair and bushy white eyebrows, but his face looked young, and his golden eyes were very sharp as he scrutinized his work.

“What brings you in, stranger?”

“I’m trying to find some help for a friend of mine, but the nature of the information I’m seeking is kind of a specialized topic. I also think she’d appreciate it if I kept my inquiries discreet.”

“Well, discreet I can be, especially if I don’t know the topic.” For just a fraction of a second, the man looked up and locked eyes with Victor despite his deep cowl. Victor felt like the man measured him with that brief look. When he broke the gaze and looked back to his work, he said, “I’m Trobban, by the way.”

“I’m Victor.”

“Ah, the name is familiar, though not your…stature.”

“I told you: discretion is important to me.”

“A disguise!” Trobban clicked his tongue. “Intriguing!” He carefully smoothed the wooden head—Victor had seen enough of its features to name it so—and nodded. “That’ll do for now.” He looked at Victor, smiling as he blew some wood dust from his fingers. “Now, what’s the topic I can help you with?”

“Are you familiar with death-attuned magic? With phylacteries?”

“Certainly. How could a well-learned man not be? I’ve read a dozen books on the topic at least.”

“That’s encouraging.” Victor wanted to lean on the table, but it was too tall for him. He settled for moving around to the end near the wall and leaned on that, folding his arms over his chest. “I have a friend who’s a death caster. She had to flee into a hastily prepared phylactery because her body was…destroyed. Now she’s kind of trapped in the phylactery with no vessel prepared to house her.”

“Ah! Do you seek my help in preparing a vessel? I’ve read of several ways to do so. There are rituals from—"

“There’s more to it,” Victor interrupted, holding up a hand. “You see, my friend, she’s never loved death-attuned magic. She hates her former masters and loathes the idea of becoming like them. We’re hoping this transitory state she’s in might lead to something of a rebirth, a way to help her change her path, avoiding something she’d feared was inevitable.”

Trobban mimicked Victor’s posture, folding his arms over his chest. “Death Casters and their apprentices are a complicated subject. I’d hate to come between a master and his—”

“She’s free from her master. He believes she was destroyed.”

“Truly? And you have access to your friend’s phylactery? Her, um, master isn’t aware of it?”

“I can access it, yes. And no, her master isn’t aware. He’s not even on this world or even close to it.”

Trobban nodded, stroking his chin, picking at some flecks of sawdust he found in the stubble there. “In that case, there are some options we could explore. If I could speak with this friend of yours…” He trailed off, arching an eyebrow in question.

“I’ll need to run it by her. Listen, Trobban, it’s not convenient for me to wander the city. Do you think you could come by the palace?”

The crafter’s eyes widened, and he leaned across his worktable, staring hard at Victor. “I would be honored! I have a wagon constructed just for such a cause—a mobile workshop! Why, it would do wonders for business if people saw me driving it through the palace gates!”

Victor moved back around the side of the table, holding out a hand. “In that case, let me extend a formal invitation. Can you make it this evening?”

“Ah, but the revelries…” Trobban shook his head. “I think it would be safer in the morning hours, sir. I’d hate for my wagon to be caught up in the mayhem, not if it’s going to be anything like last night.”

“All right. Tomorrow morning, then. I’ll let the guard captain know.” Victor shook the man’s hand, then let himself out, and as he descended the steps, he called out, “Bryn, let’s grab some food! Aren’t you hungry?” Before she could respond, he added, “Also, there’s no trouble with me inviting this guy to the palace, is there?”

Bryn stood and squinted up the steps to him, shading her eyes from the sun. “Um—"

Victor hopped down the steps, stopping on the third from the bottom so he could look her in the eyes. “It’ll be fine, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure it will be, but you should check with Queen Kynna about your schedule. You may have term negotiations tomorrow.”

Victor nodded, frowning. “Yeah. Yeah, all right, Bryn. Let’s get some food, then it’s back to the palace for me.” He continued to the ground, gesturing to the people moving about on the street. “Looks like folks are waking up! I’m in the mood for soup. You know any place that’s good?”

After a bit more back and forth, Bryn settled on an idea for a restaurant, and Victor followed her through the streets. On the way, he thought about how he was using the poor woman, basically an employee who was forced to spend time with him, for company, and he decided it wasn’t probably healthy for either of them. He needed to make some friends in Gloria, and though he was working to help Arona escape her bodiless state, it probably wasn’t wise to put all his eggs in that basket. Still, it was something, and he was looking forward to telling her that help was on the way.