Chapter 10: A Bargain in Shadow, A Clutch of Stone and Fire
The air in the small room seemed to thicken, the perpetual twilight outside the grimy window deepening as the cowled figure fully entered. It moved with an unnatural fluidity, less a walk and more a gliding, as if its feet barely touched the warped floorboards of The Serpent's Coil. The scent of ancient dust, dry spices, and something else – a faint, metallic tang that Torrhen, with Flamel's alchemical knowledge, recognized as a byproduct of certain obscure sorceries – emanated from its voluminous black robes.
"You name them rightly, stranger," the sibilant voice whispered again, devoid of inflection, making it impossible to gauge age or even true gender. "Tears they are, from a fallen empire of fire. And like tears, they are precious, and not easily parted with."
Torrhen, as Vorlag the scholar, inclined his head slowly, his own movements measured, betraying no hint of the coiled readiness within him. His hand rested near a concealed dagger, but his primary defense was the fortress of his mind, shielded by Flamel's most potent Occlumency techniques, and the vial of 'Clarity of the Void' he had ingested moments before the shadowbinder's arrival. The potion was already working, sharpening his senses to an almost painful degree. The dim light seemed brighter, the subtle shifts in the shadowbinder's posture were magnified, and he could almost feel the faint, oppressive aura of magic that clung to the Asshai'i like a shroud.
"I understand their value," Vorlag replied, his voice a low, steady baritone, the carefully constructed accent unwavering. "It is why I have journeyed so far, and why I am prepared to offer a commensurate exchange."
The shadowbinder made a sound that might have been a dry chuckle, like bones rattling in a forgotten crypt. "Many come to Asshai seeking what is lost. Few understand the true cost. Riches are… ephemeral. Knowledge, power… these have a more enduring currency in the Shadow Lands."
Torrhen felt a prickle of warning. This would not be a simple transaction of gold for goods. He had anticipated as much. Flamel's memories were replete with tales of dealing with entities who valued arcane secrets or esoteric favors above mere material wealth.
"I am a scholar, as you may perceive," Vorlag said, gesturing vaguely to the few mundane scrolls and books he had brought as props for his persona. "I have gathered some small knowledge in my travels. Perhaps there is something within my learning that might… supplement a more conventional offering." He was fishing, testing the shadowbinder's interests.
The cowled head tilted slightly. "Perhaps. But first, let us speak of the conventional. The tears you seek… they are not trinkets to be bartered for a handful of silver. Their provenance is impeccable, their potential… limitless, in the right hands."
"I am assured of their quality by those whose judgment I trust," Vorlag stated, referring to Ilyrio's message. "And my resources are… considerable."
"Asshai sees much 'considerable' wealth," the shadowbinder countered. "The gold of Lannisport, the silks of Lys, the spices of Qarth… they flow through our shadowed port like the black Ash itself. What makes your offering unique?"
Torrhen had prepared for this. He knew a simple display of vast wealth might even be counterproductive, attracting unwanted attention or inviting treachery. He needed to demonstrate not just riches, but sophistication, an understanding of true value that would appeal to a creature like this.
"I offer not just quantity, but quality, and discretion," Vorlag said. He reached slowly into his satchel and withdrew a small, heavy pouch of soft, dark leather. With deliberate care, he loosened the drawstrings and poured a small stream of gemstones onto the rickety table between them. They were not the largest he possessed, but they were flawless, cut with an artistry that bespoke ancient craftsmanship: a dozen diamonds that glittered with an inner white fire even in the dim light, a handful of blood-red rubies the size of pigeon's eggs, and three perfectly spherical black pearls that seemed to drink the shadows.
"These are but a token," Vorlag said, his voice even. "A demonstration of intent. The true sum is substantial, in forms that retain their value across empires and ages. Untraceable. Unquestioned." He was hinting at the Valyrian steel coins and refined platinum he also carried, currency that held its worth even among the most jaded and avaricious.
The shadowbinder's cowled head bent slightly towards the glittering gems. Torrhen saw no hand emerge from the voluminous sleeves, but he felt a subtle shift in the magical aura around the figure, a faint, almost imperceptible hum, as if it were… sensing the stones, tasting their essence.
"A fair token," the sibilant voice conceded after a long moment. "But the tears are three. And their song is ancient. Such a song demands a chorus of… significant resonance." The shadowbinder was speaking in metaphors, the way of those who dealt in mysteries. It meant the price would be indeed astronomical.
"Name your price in full," Vorlag stated, cutting through the poetic obfuscation. "In terms I can understand. And then, I must see the merchandise. I will not bargain for a pig in a poke, no matter how rare the pig or how reputable its seller."
The shadowbinder straightened, a movement that seemed to flow rather than articulate. "Bold, for a man from the sunlit lands. Very well. The price is twofold." The voice paused, drawing out the suspense. "First, a tribute of material wealth that would make the magisters of Pentos weep with envy. A specific weight in purified gold, three flawless rubies of a size to match the heart of a lesser dragon, and a casket of ancient Valyrian coins, their minting untouched by the fires of the Doom."
Torrhen's mind, sharpened by the potion and Flamel's alchemical calculation abilities, quickly assessed the demand. It was indeed a king's ransom, pushing the limits of even his carefully amassed fortune. But it was within the realm of what he could provide, though it would leave his hidden treasury significantly depleted.
"A steep price," Vorlag acknowledged calmly. "But potentially acceptable, if the goods are as promised. And the second part of this price?"
The shadowbinder seemed to lean forward, the shadows within its cowl deepening, becoming almost absolute. "The second part is… a whisper. A secret. You are a scholar, you say. You have traveled. You have learned things. Asshai values knowledge that is… unique. There is a ritual, an old one, known to the sorcerers of the forgotten city of Omber. A ritual of… sympathetic binding, concerning spirits of the earth and sky. If you possess such knowledge, or something akin to it, a verifiable fragment would suffice. That, stranger, would complete the exchange."
Torrhen felt a jolt. Omber. Flamel's memories stirred. Omber was a legendary city, said to have been swallowed by the earth in a cataclysm long before Valyria's rise. Its sorcerers were reputed to have practiced a form of elemental magic, of binding spirits to their will, that was incredibly potent and exceedingly dangerous. Flamel, in his long life, had indeed come across fragmented texts referring to Omberi rituals, specifically those dealing with the animation of constructs and the binding of elemental essences. The shadowbinder was asking for something incredibly specific, incredibly obscure. Was it a random probe, or did this creature somehow sense the depth of knowledge hidden within him?
His Occlumency shields held firm. Outwardly, Vorlag merely looked thoughtful. "Omber… a name from dusty legends. I may have encountered some… theoretical discussions of their practices in my studies. Nothing complete, you understand. Fragments, as you say." This was a delicate dance. He could not reveal the true extent of Flamel's knowledge, yet he needed to offer something valuable enough.
"A verifiable fragment concerning the binding of aerial spirits, or the animation of stone through such binding, would be… sufficient," the shadowbinder whispered, a new note of something akin to eagerness in its sibilant voice.
Torrhen knew precisely such a fragment. A complex incantation and a series of ritualistic gestures for coaxing a minor air elemental into a specially prepared clay effigy, a piece of knowledge Flamel had once used to create a self-sweeping broom in his Parisian laboratory as a whimsical experiment. It was potent, yes, but not among his deepest or most dangerous secrets. And critically, it was verifiable by one who understood such arts.
"I believe I can recall such a fragment," Vorlag said slowly. "But its value is not insignificant. It would have to be in exchange for items of truly exceptional quality. I must see the eggs first. All three."
The shadowbinder was silent for a long moment, the only sound the faint, almost inaudible hum that seemed to emanate from its robes. Torrhen waited, his senses on high alert. This was the critical juncture.
"Very well, scholar of whispers," the voice finally hissed. "Your caution is… understandable. Follow. And tread lightly. The shadows of Asshai have an appetite for the unwary."
The shadowbinder glided from the room, not back towards the door, but towards the far wall, which seemed to ripple and shimmer like dark water as the figure approached it. Torrhen blinked, but the Clarity of the Void potion allowed him to perceive the subtle illusion, the faint magical ward that disguised an opening. The shadowbinder passed through the wall as if it were smoke.
Taking a deep breath, Torrhorrhenen followed, stepping through the shimmering illusion into a narrow, lightless corridor that smelled of ozone and ancient decay. The passage twisted and turned, descending deeper into what felt like the bowels of the earth beneath the city. There were no torches, yet a faint, phosphorescent luminescence emanated from strange fungi clinging to the damp stone walls, casting eerie, shifting shadows.
Finally, they emerged into a larger chamber, a circular room carved from the same greasy black stone as the city above. The air here was cold, heavy, and thrummed with a palpable magical energy. In the center of the room, on a raised obsidian dais, lay three objects, nestled on a bed of what looked like black sand that glittered with faint, star-like particles.
The dragon eggs.
Even from across the room, Torrhen could feel it – a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, a subtle vibration in the magical currents of the chamber, a dormant, immense power contained within their stony shells. His heart, for all its controlled rhythm, gave a distinct lurch.
He approached the dais slowly, his eyes, enhanced by the potion, taking in every detail. They matched the description Ilyrio's agent had provided: one was a deep, blood crimson, its surface veined with intricate traceries of gold that seemed to shift and flow like liquid fire. The second was a cool, jade green, speckled with flecks of burnished bronze that caught the faint luminescence of the chamber. The third, and perhaps the most striking, was the colour of polished obsidian, perfectly black, yet shot through with swirling patterns of intense, fiery red that seemed to pulse with a faint, inner light.
They were undeniably real. And they felt… alive. Not in a biological sense, not yet, but imbued with a potent, slumbering magic, a latent heat that belied their stone-like appearance. Flamel's knowledge of magical artifacts, of objects imbued with life force, confirmed his senses. These were no mere petrified curiosities.
"They are… as described," Vorlag said, his voice carefully neutral, though a tremor of raw excitement, quickly suppressed, ran through him. He reached out a hand, hesitating just above the surface of the crimson egg. He could feel its warmth, a definite, almost thrumming heat, and a faint, almost inaudible whisper in the depths of his mind, like the sigh of a distant furnace.
"Authentic Valyrian. Hatched, or rather, laid, in the shadow of the Fourteen Flames, before the Doom," the shadowbinder's voice came from the darkness near the edge of the chamber. "Their fire sleeps, but it is not extinguished. It awaits the one who knows the song to awaken it."
Torrhen straightened. "The price you named. The material tribute, and the fragment of Omberi lore. If I provide these, the eggs are mine?"
"Upon verification of both, yes," the shadowbinder confirmed. "The tribute first."
This was the most dangerous moment. Displaying the full extent of his wealth here, in this creature's sanctum, was a risk. But there was no other way. He had prepared for this. From hidden compartments within his robes and satchel, he began to produce the agreed-upon items: heavy pouches of gold that thudded onto a nearby stone slab, the three magnificent rubies that glowed like embers, and finally, a small, lead-lined casket. He opened it, revealing stacks of ancient, triangular Valyrian steel coins, each bearing the profile of a long-dead dragonlord, their surfaces untarnished by time.
The shadowbinder glided closer. Again, no hands were visible, but Torrhen felt the intense scrutiny, the almost tangible wave of magical assessment washing over the tribute. The air crackled faintly.
"The weight is… acceptable. The quality… undeniable," the voice hissed after a long, tense silence. "Now, the whisper. The Omberi fragment."
Torrhen took a steadying breath. He began to speak, his voice low and measured, reciting the complex incantation Flamel had transcribed. He moved his hands in the precise, intricate gestures that accompanied the ritual, his movements fluid and exact. It was a short but incredibly dense piece of arcane lore, detailing the alignment of planetary conjunctions, the specific vibrational frequencies needed to commune with aerial spirits, and the symbolic geometry of their binding.
As he spoke the final word, the phosphorescent fungi in the chamber seemed to flare for a moment, and a faint, almost inaudible sigh, like a gust of wind in a confined space, echoed around them.
The shadowbinder stood utterly still. Then, slowly, it nodded its cowled head. "The whisper… is true. It resonates with the old currents. A fair exchange, scholar of the sunlit lands."
With a gesture that was more a ripple of shadow than a movement of limb, the shadowbinder indicated the dais. "They are yours. Take them, and depart Asshai swiftly. Such treasures attract… unwanted attention, even in the Shadow Lands. And know this: their awakening will demand a price of its own, a price of fire, and perhaps, of blood."
Torrhen did not need the warning. He knew the lore. He produced three carefully prepared containers he had brought with him – cylindrical cases made of dark, hardened weirwood, their interiors lined with layers of soft, alchemically treated lamb's wool and thin sheets of lead, designed to cushion the eggs, maintain a stable internal temperature, and, crucially, to dampen their magical aura, making them harder to detect by magical means.
With extreme care, his hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him, he lifted each egg from the black sand and placed it within its container. The crimson egg felt like holding a banked furnace, its heat potent. The jade egg was cooler, but vibrated with a subtle, earthy energy. The obsidian egg was the heaviest, its surface surprisingly smooth, and pulsed with a deep, resonant power that seemed to thrum in his very bones.
Once all three were secured, the lids sealed with waxed cord and alchemical sigils of protection Flamel had designed, Torrhen turned back to the shadowbinder.
"Our transaction is complete," Vorlag said, inclining his head.
"Indeed," the shadowbinder whispered. "May your fire lizards bring you… what you seek. Or perhaps, what you deserve. The paths of fate are ever twisted in Asshai."
Without another word, the figure seemed to melt back into the deepest shadows of the chamber, vanishing as silently and abruptly as it had appeared. Torrhen was left alone with the three precious containers and the lingering scent of ozone and ancient magic.
He did not linger. The urgency to leave Asshai, to escape its oppressive atmosphere and unseen dangers, was overwhelming. He retraced his steps through the lightless corridor, the illusionary wall shimmering back into place behind him, and emerged into the grimy squalor of his room at The Serpent's Coil.
His heart was hammering, a mixture of triumph, relief, and an almost suffocating sense of responsibility. He had done it. He possessed three dragon eggs, the seeds of a power that could reshape the destiny of the North, perhaps even the world. Flamel's lifelong ambition for ultimate knowledge and power, now intertwined with Torrhen's fierce, protective drive for his homeland, had taken a monumental leap forward.
But the shadowbinder's parting words echoed in his mind: "Their awakening will demand a price of its own, a price of fire, and perhaps, of blood." He knew it. Flamel's texts were explicit about the sacrifices often required to hatch and bind such creatures of immense magical power, especially for one not of the Valyrian bloodline. He would need fire, intense and prolonged. He would need potent magic. And, most likely, he would need a blood offering, a ritual to link the nascent dragons to his own Stark lineage, to ensure their loyalty, their very essence, was tied to the North.
His thoughts raced ahead, to the long journey back, to the formidable challenge of smuggling these priceless, dangerous artifacts across half a world. And then, the even greater challenge: hatching them in secret, raising them, training them, all beneath the very noses of the Targaryen dragonlords and the watchful eyes of a suspicious realm.
He strapped the three precious containers carefully to his body, hidden beneath his robes, their weight a constant, reassuring pressure. He gathered his few mundane belongings, casting one last look around the squalid room that had served as the stage for this extraordinary transaction.
It was time to leave the Shadow Lands. The wolf had snatched his fire. Now, he had to carry it home, through a world that would tear him apart if it ever discovered the true nature of the treasures he bore. The game was far from over; it had merely entered a new, far more perilous phase.