Lanomis could hear the children cheering and running alongside
their wagon as it rolled into the town of Silver Hill. The
eager musicians shifted, preparing to unload their instruments as
the wagon slowed. Lanomis lifted the splintered false door
in the floor.
"I will sing the Whispers of the Hunt if the mage is in
the audience. That will be the signal." Nerina
whispered.
Lanomis turned to her and nodded, then slipped down into his
dark hiding spot. He heard the moan of the hinge as the
wagon door opened. As he lay in darkness, the floor above
him squeaked and moaned, flexing with the footsteps of his
companions. He heard—faintly—the muffled welcome of the
townspeople.
Then there was a long silence. The performance would be
on the eve. Lanomis’ cramped confines were nearly unbearable, but
the reward would be fitting the suffering he endured.
Minutes became painful hours.
The first melodic strum of the zither grasped him from distant
bemusement. What a beautiful sound it made. Nerima’s ballads
resonated, even through the wooden casket.
His signal came as the third song. Sweet relief poured
over him as he eased open the door above him, sat up and stretched
his rigid body. He slipped through the wagon door into the
darkness.
His eyes scanned the features of the buildings and once he had
his bearing, he crept throw the shadows toward the house of the
mage. A group of men stumbled out of the door of the tavern
ahead of him. He tucked into the alley, out of sight as they
passed, laughing and pelting each other with slurred insults.
He darted across the road.
He rounded the corner and jogged up the long winding path to
the house of the great mage of Silver Hill.
It stood, an eerie silhouette against the shard of grey moon
laced with brisk wisps of silver clouds. He passed through
the open gate and stood at the front door, grasping the amulet he
wore around his neck, given to him by the stranger who contacted
them. He silently hoped it was the key to offer him
protection from any charms lain upon the house.
After drawing a deep reluctant breathe, he turned the knob, and
the door opened. He crept toward the staircase and tiptoed
up them. The amulet warmed against his skin as he neared the
door to the study. He paused, reached inside his tunic,
clutching it. With his other hand, he opened the door and
lit the candle inside.
Spell components hung from leather thongs strewn from shelves
and there were tables with vessels and potions. He turned
toward the mantle of a dingy hearth and froze, awestruck.
Above it was a portrait of a man, bearing striking resemblance to
the stranger who hired him. But the painting seemed
centuries old, as dusty and weathered as the hearth below.
He scoured the shelves for the box he sought. I t would fetch
the most handsome reward he had ever earned. Then he saw it,
brilliant polished amber-colored gopher wood. He ran his
finger along the finely grained and ornately carved treasure, then
pulled a cloth from his belt. He unfolded the fabric and
delicately lifted the box, setting it down in the center, then
folded it and tucked the parcel beneath his arm. He hurried
back to the wagon.
***
The music stopped just as he slipped back into the wagon.
Nerima’s last chilling note resounded and was followed by cheer
and applause. Again he crawled into hiding until the wagon
rolled, bumping out of Silver Hill. A safe distance from
town the door opened above him. The companions looked upon
Lanomis; their eyes gleamed.
"Did you find it?" Nerima asked.
Lanomis unwrapped the box.
"Open it," Tobias snapped.
"We do not know what power it contains. We will collect
our reward, and be satisfied." Nerima gave Tobias a cold
glare.
"The amulet kept me safe from the protectives. It will
keep us safe from what lies inside." Lanomis fingered the
intricate latch, but he remembered the portrait. "What did
the mage look like?"
"An old one, he was. Ember robes, and a yard-long braided
beard." Tobias’ words put Lanomis at ease.
"No harm shall befall us as long as I wear the amulet," he
said.
"You lusty fools will one day be the end of us." Nerima
turned her shoulder.
Lanomis brushed her cheek with the back of his fingertips.
"What harm can come from a glance, Nerima?"
"Well, be done with it then, fools" she said turning back
toward the box.
All eyes trained on Lanomis as he slid the needled hammer from
its clasp and opened the box.
***
"Shirack." With a whisper the mantle blazed and
lit the study. Berian walked to the table and unfolded his
beautiful box. With his slender finger, he traced the fine
grains of the exquisite gopher wood, then opened the box.
The soft melody of his favorite ballad, Whispers of the Hunt
flowed within. He looked upon the four figurines of the
musicians inside, admiring their realistic likeness.