Private Tales The Lesser Key of Telemachus, Part V

[Rob Yew]

The shattered remains of Elbion were slowly picking themselves up after the Dragon Rising. The city still lay in ruins in some places, but in others the trickle of commerce was steadily rising and in time would make the city a prosperous center of knowledge and trade once again. People hustled and bustled about. Roofs were re-thatched, walls repaired, and lives went on.

But not in the Besotted Birch.

Galen sat in one corner of the decrepit tavern and stared up at the damaged ceiling, where water dripped down into a nearly-full bucket that sat on a stool as the rain outside came down in sheets. Galen's clothes were soaked and he shivered slightly. At least this place had a fireplace, which crackled homily. And at least he had enough money to buy a drink, he thought, as he sipped on his flagon of ale. But that was about the last of his coppers. After the stint with the Thronebreakers and their ignominious demise against the Dreadlord incursion on that Cortosi island, Galen had returned to Elbion to finish his studies.

What a dumb idea.

He recently examined his financial state and, much to his alarm, discovered he was in so much debt that he was probably worth more dead and alive. He had enough money for food for the next month, but the concept of repaying the college debts, well... it hurt his head. The nice fellows at the bank of Valkyr and Sons would be visiting him any day now to smash his legs. He couldn't believe the college had sold his loans to that bank. Didn't they know the reputation of those leg busters?

He had to get out of this pit. Some way. Any way. And he could only think of two ways. The first involved leaping off the top of the tallest floating tower left in the college and the second... well the second was why he was here.

"Aren't elves supposed to be timely or something?" muttered the half-elf orphan.

 

[Telemachus]

The elf drifted like a specter from the stairwell, scholarly robes pockmarked with wear from travel. A line of scarred flesh crossed his face - a memento from an ill-fated siege which did little to smother a residual aura of self-superiority.​

​

Some time after that siege, he crawled back to Elbion, though by the time he arrived a dragon had lain waste to the city. It took with it his office, much of his research, and a supermajority of his wealth. Such vulgar, tasteless beasts.​

​

Just as well. He had picked his way through the ash-heap to the site where the college once stood, sprinkled salt onto the ground, and drove it into the dirt with his heel. It was an old sidereal elf tradition, which symbolically stood for something along the lines of "don't come back."​

​

As always, the order had not been heeded. And speaking of directives that went unfollowed...​

​

"Galen," Telemachus coldly observed, canting his head slightly to one side.​

​

He did not bother to be seated, nor did he say anything else. Letting this bumbling milksop fill the silence would be amusement enough... For a few moments. Once Telemachus had heard his fill, he would leave.​

 

[Rob Yew]

“Telemachus.”

There he stood, haughty and imperious, regarding him as a panther would regard a mouse. And not a particularly large mouse either.

Galen knew he needed the sorcerer, but he couldn't help the spark of anger that rose at the sight of him. The anger surprised him. Before the Thronebreakers, he would've only felt cold fear at the glimpse of that face. Now? Well, now things were different.

Crushing mountains of debt different.

"I - "

What? He couldn't say it was good to see the master who had abandoned him. That certainly wasn't it. And he didn't have the energy for small talk after walking here in the rain.

"I want to make a deal. I know that's something you do. Have a seat?"

 

[Telemachus]

There was something different about the boy. Perhaps he had grown in both stature and bearing. Much in the same way a larva matures into a healthy, though no more respectable, cockroach. Nothing stirred in his features as Galen sputtered out his desires.​

​

"I prefer to stand."​

​

He remained as described.​

 

[Rob Yew]

“Uh, ok.”

Galen frowned at a knot on the table, took a sip of ale, then thunked it back on the wood. His fingers played up and down the handle of the flagon.

“I’m tired, Telemachus. Tired of spending hours ruining my eyes by candle light. Tired of passing harder and harder exams but never earning any more respect. Tired of the…”

Crushing debt?

Emptiness of existence?

“Well… it doesn’t matter. I’m done waiting for my turn. There’s so many things I could be accomplishing now.”

Including not getting his legs broken by Valkyr and Sons.

“I want to make a star pact, or whatever you call them. Do you have any portfolios available?”

 

[Telemachus]

An eyebrow raised.​

​

"And what would you accomplish?"​

 

[Rob Yew]

“For starters? Getting out of these college loans.”

He shrugged.

“And then? Maybe advisor to a king. Use my power to help people instead of spending my time wasting away in the library. I hear the Empire needs mages.”

 

[Telemachus]

Advisor to a king. Laughable. But Telemachus had not laughed - or even sensibly chuckled - for the better part of two centuries.​

​

"Goodbye, Galen," said Telemachus, in that lifeless voice of his, "Do not contact me again."​

​

Without any further formalities, the conjurer turned to see himself back to his lodgings.​

 

[Rob Yew]

“Don’t you turn away from me.”

Even Galen was surprised to hear the snarl rip from his own mouth.

He waved his hand and the walls shimmered and danced, whirling around until they resolved themselves in an illusory inn. One that didn’t have a stupid leak, but also did not have any exit.

“After everything? I fucking deserve this.”

 

[Telemachus]

Telemachus slowly turned back towards Galen, a hint of malice in his otherwise featureless eyes. Weak and undisciplined, like the rest of his race. A pact with the gods-from-stars would turn Galen into little more than a scuttling reaper, now with a debt that could only be paid in blood.​

​

His keeper would tear him apart, eventually, and nothing would be left behind.​

​

"Ignorant slave," Telemachus muttered, "No one deserves anything. Least of all you."​

​

He retrieved from within his robes a weathered scroll case, which he tossed dismissively to Galen.​

​

"Perform the ritual, if you even have the skill. They will find you if they desire it. I will not be your advocate."​

​

 

[Rob Yew]

“Fuck you.”

Hatred clawed through Galen's chest, leaving a cold emptiness in its wake, but he still stood and bent to pick up the weathered case.

"Leave then, just like you have every time before," sneered the young man, his fingers curling tight around the leather of the case as he struggled with his rage.

He shook as he stood there, dark hair plastered to his face, and watched his former master abandon him again.