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Gamble King Chapter 28. Never Tell Me The Odds
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 15:16:48 +0000 UTCMax stepped out of the Mage Tower into the cold night air, his mind still churning over everything he'd discovered in the library. The grimo
Max stepped out of the Mage Tower into the cold night air, his mind still churning over everything he'd discovered in the library.
The grimoire's scientific approach to magic felt like finding a manual written in his native language after struggling through foreign poetry all evening. But Kellor's dismissal of Blackwater as a "heretic" only confirmed what Max had already suspected—he was going to have to figure this out on his own.
The courtyard was mostly empty at this hour, save for a few guards making their rounds and the distant sound of horses shifting in the stables. Max spotted a familiar figure leading his mount toward the stable entrance.
"Bubbles," he called out, changing direction toward the stables himself.
His friend looked up, raising a hand in acknowledgment but not quite managing his usual grin.
Max made his way to Flash's stall, where the big warhorse immediately perked up at his approach. The destrier's ears swiveled forward and he nickered softly, clearly hoping for treats.
"Hey there, boy," Max murmured, running his hand along Flash's neck. The horse's coat was warm despite the cold, and Max could feel the powerful muscles beneath. "I've got something for you."
He pulled out several purple carrots from his cloak—oversized things he'd picked up from the farms the other day. They were easily twice the size of normal carrots and an odd violet color, but Flash had developed quite a taste for them. They still tasted like carrots, just... more so.
Flash crunched happily on the first one, purple juice staining his lips in a way that would have looked alarming on any creature that wasn't a horse.
"How's the family?" Max asked as Bubbles approached his own horse's stall nearby.
"Oh, they're doing alright," Bubbles replied, his voice lacking its usual energy. "My grandfather asked about you today, actually. Wanted to know how you were holding up with everything."
Max looked up from where he was offering Flash a second carrot, taking in his friend's slumped shoulders and distracted expression.
He let out a short laugh.
"He should be asking that question to you," Max said, studying Bubbles' face. "You look like someone kicked your dog."
Bubbles looked up sharply, surprise flickering across his face. "Is it that obvious?"
"You're about as subtle as a warhorse in a pottery shop," Max said, offering Flash another purple carrot. "What's eating at you?"
Bubbles let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging. "Chester Norton hasn't come back yet."
"From this year's test?"
"Yes. He was a friend of mine." Bubbles stared at the castle entrance, his voice growing quiet. "One of the most promising candidates too. Strong, smart, good with a blade. If anyone should have made it back by now, it's him."
Max studied his friend's face—the worry lines around his eyes, the way he kept fidgeting with his horse's reins. "You think he won't make it?"
"There's thirteen days left before this year's participants are officially considered lost and our test begins." Bubbles's voice was barely above a whisper. "If Chester doesn't come back... if he's dead out there... then what am I supposed to think about my own chances?"
Flash crunched happily on another purple carrot, oblivious to the heavy conversation happening beside his stall.
"You're scared," Max observed.
"Terrified," Bubbles admitted. "And that makes me feel like a coward."
Max leaned against Flash's stall, choosing his words carefully.
What would someone who actually knew what they were talking about say here?
Oh.
An idea came to mind.
Let's try this.
"Fear doesn't make you a coward, Bubbles. It makes you smart." That's good. That's pretty good. Max thought before continuing. "Before you're in deep shit, you plan. You think through the risks, you ask 'if I do this, what happens next?' You avoid stupid mistakes because you can afford to be careful."
Bubbles nodded slowly, some of the tension in his face easing. It seemed to be working.
"But when you're already in the deep shit—when it's life or death and there's only one way out—that's when planning stops mattering." Max's voice took on a more serious tone. "Chester might have planned perfectly and still run into bad luck. Or maybe he got overconfident. Point is, you're not Chester."
"But what if I am?" Bubbles asked quietly. "What if I'm just as doomed as he was? What would you do in my place?"
Max was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. "Never tell me the odds."
Bubbles blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. When the time comes to face what you can't control, you don't ask about the odds. You just do what needs doing and hope you live through it." Max gave Flash a final pat. "That's what separates knights from corpses." A pause. "I think."
"That's... terrifying and helpful at the same time," Bubbles said with a shaky laugh.
"I have my moments." Max gestured at himself. "Besides, look at me. I've lost what, twenty pounds? Actually have some muscle now instead of just fat? If I can go from complete waste of space to merely terrible in a few weeks, imagine what someone with actual talent can accomplish."
"You did lost quite a bit of weight," Bubbles said, his mood lightening slightly. "Though you're still pale as a fish belly."
"Fish bellies are fashionable in some circles, I'll have you know."
"What circles? Circles of the blind?"
"Very exclusive circles. You wouldn't understand, being all tan, blond and ruggedly handsome."
Bubbles snorted. "Ruggedly handsome? Have you seen my nose? It's been broken three times."
"Adds character. Women love a man with character."
"Is that what you tell yourself when you look in the mirror?"
"Among other lies, yes." Max grinned. "Now get some rest. And Bubbles?"
"Yes?"
"I hope you survive out there. Someone has to keep me from brooding myself to death when you get back."
"Never tell me the odds, right?" Bubbles managed a smile for the first time that evening.
"Exactly."
They parted there, Bubbles heading toward the guards' quarters while Max gave Flash a final pat on the neck, the warhorse nickering softly as he settled in for the night. "Good boy. Rest well."
The servant quarters were quiet, most of the castle's staff long since retired. Max made his way down the narrow corridor until he found the familiar door marked with the healer's mortar and pestle.
He raised his hand and knocked three times in quick succession.
"Gerth."
Silence.
Three more knocks.
"Gerth."
Still nothing.
Three more knocks, each one deliberately louder than the last.
"Gerth."
From behind the door came the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by a string of the most creative profanities Max had ever heard.
The door flew open to reveal Gerth in his sleeping robes, gray hair sticking up at impossible angles, face twisted with the special kind of rage reserved for people who'd been dragged from deep sleep.
"What in the bleeding hells is wrong with you, boy?" Gerth snarled, voice hoarse with sleep and fury. "Have you lost what little sense the gods cursed you with? Do you have any idea what hour--"
He stopped mid-rant, his eyes widening slightly as they fixed on Max's shoulder.
Bro had emerged from the warm depths of Max's cloak, tiny body glowing an ominous orange as he took in the old man's aggressive posture. The spider's abdomen pulsed brighter, and Max could feel heat building as Bro prepared to defend him from this clearly hostile creature.
"Bro, no," Max said quickly, raising a hand. "We don't burn Gerth. Gerth is good."
The spider's glow flickered uncertainly, eight red eyes fixed on the old man who yelled at Max. But Max had spoken, and the spider seemed to respect his judgment. Bro's light dimmed to a barely perceptible shimmer, though he remained tense and ready.
Gerth, for his part, had gone completely still the moment he spotted the spider. His anger evaporated like morning mist.
"What," Gerth said slowly, never taking his eyes off Bro, "in the name of all that's sacred and profane, do you want at this ungodly hour?"
Max kept his voice calm and respectful. "I wanted to ask you about someone. A mage named Oberyn Blackwater."
Gerth's expression shifted, surprise replacing wariness for a moment before irritation crept back in. "Blackwater? Now there's a name I haven't heard in years." His frown deepened. "And you woke me up at this hour to ask about a dead mage? That couldn't wait until morning?"
Max winced. "Sorry, I thought you'd be awake. You usually are around this time of night, working on your potions and things."
"Well, not today," Gerth said sharply. "Some of us actually need sleep occasionally." He stood there for a moment, clearly debating whether to slam the door in Max's face, then let out a long, resigned sigh. "But since you're here and that bloody spider of yours looks ready to set my door on fire..." He stepped back from the doorway, gesturing reluctantly. "Come in, then. No point discussing this in the corridor and waking half the castle."
Max followed him into the small chamber, noting the organized chaos of herbs, bottles, and medical instruments that covered every available surface. Gerth settled into a worn chair, suddenly looking more tired than angry.
"Where did you hear that name?" The old man asked.
"I found one of his books in the tower library. 'Theoretical Foundations of Elemental Manipulation.' Kellor called him a heretic and warned me away from it."
Gerth snorted. "Of course he did. Kellor wouldn't recognize genius if it bit him on his pompous arse." He leaned back in his chair. "Oberyn Blackwater was brilliant. One of the finest minds I ever read during my time at the Conclave. Followed his philosophy myself, back in the day."
"What philosophy?"
"That magic should be understood, not just memorized. That questioning how things work wasn't heresy, it was necessary." Gerth's voice carried a note of old admiration. "He wrote several books, you know. Most were burned after his death. The one you found is probably the only copy left in the North."
"Why was it kept?"
"As a cautionary tale, supposedly. Though I suspect someone in the tower library had enough sense to preserve at least one example of proper magical thinking." Gerth studied Max's face. "What did you make of it?"
"It actually explained things. Like, really explained them. Not mystical poetry about divine triangles and pure intent."
Gerth laughed, a genuine sound this time. "Aye, that sounds like Oberyn. He had no patience for mystical nonsense. Said magic was a science, not a religion."
"What happened to him?"
"The same thing that happens to anyone who pushes too hard against the established order." Gerth's expression darkened. "He didn't deserve his fate. Should have been listened to, not silenced."
A thought struck Max, one that had been bothering him long before he'd even arrived in this world. Back when he was just a reader following Bjorn's adventures,. "Gerth, can I ask you something else?"
"Go ahead."
"This world... it's been around for thousands of years, right? With elves living for centuries, dwarves with their deep knowledge, all these long-lived races sharing information and building on each other's work. By any reasonable standard, this place should be more advanced than it currently is. But it's not. Why?"
Max had actually asked Sabo about this once, even made a forum thread about it back when he was obsessed with the novels. How could a world with near immortal beings and magical resources remain technologically stagnant for millennia? He'd never gotten a satisfactory answer.
Gerth was quiet for a long moment, his expression growing thoughtful.
"You're asking dangerous questions, boy," he said finally. "But they're good questions." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Magic comes from the Aspects and other... higher beings. I won't pretend to worship the bastards like most folk do."
There was clear disdain in his voice.
"Along with that magic came instructions. Spells, handed down like commandments. Cast this way, think this way, achieve this result. But those same beings also made it very clear that looking beyond what they prescribed was forbidden. Heretical. Punishable."
"Punishable how?"
"Death, usually. Sometimes worse." Gerth's voice was grim. "Knowledge is limited by design. Try to know more than you're permitted, and you'll find yourself facing consequences that make mortal execution look merciful. It's a machination designed to keep us exactly where we are—powerful enough to be useful, but never powerful enough to threaten those who rule from the shadows."
Well, now Max regretted why he even asked. But, oh well. "So progress is actively suppressed."
"Has been for millennia. Oh, there's the occasional breakthrough that gets grudgingly accepted. But real innovation? Real understanding? That's heresy, and heretics don't tend to live long enough to share their discoveries."
"And Blackwater?"
"Pushed too hard, too fast. Started asking questions about the fundamental nature of magic itself. Why it worked the way it did, what other possibilities might exist." Gerth shook his head. "Last I heard, he died in a magical accident while experimenting with new spell formations. Officially, anyway."
Hmm. Not good.
Max was quiet for a moment, processing this. Finally, he looked up at Gerth. "Speaking of things that might help with understanding... do you have any Draught of Perfect Recollection? I think it could help with my magical studies."
Gerth studied him for a long moment. "That's what you really came here for, isn't it?"
"Part of it. I genuinely wanted to know about Blackwater too."
"Well, you're shit out of luck on the draught." Gerth's tone was matter-of-fact. "Don't have it, don't know how to make it. It's high-level alchemy that requires ingredients I've never seen and techniques they don't teach outside the Conclave."
"Where could I get it?"
"The Conclave in Evrador. They brew maybe a dozen vials per year, sell them for prices that would make kings weep." Gerth scratched his beard. "Though with your family's resources and connections, you might have a chance. If your father sees the value in it."
Max nodded slowly. "How much are we talking?"
"Last I heard, a single vial cost more than most lords spend on their armies in a year."
"Ah." Max felt his hopes deflating. "That much."
"That much." Gerth nodded. "Though again, your father might see it differently. High Lords have been known to pay outrageous sums for magical advantages, especially for their heirs."
Max weighed his options. Asking Tredor for an astronomically expensive magical potion would require explaining why he needed it, which would inevitably lead to questions about his magical studies, which would probably result in Kellor getting involved, which was exactly what Max was trying to avoid.
On the other hand, he would eventually need to remember many concepts to have a better understanding. And Tredor had seemed pleased with his recent progress and behavior changes.
"I'll ask my father," Max said finally.
Gerth nodded approvingly. "Smart. And if he says yes, make sure you know exactly what you want to remember before you drink it. The Draught doesn't discriminate—it'll bring back everything associated with whatever you're thinking about, whether you want it or not."
"Noted." Max stepped back from the doorway. "Thanks for the information."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me if you actually manage to get your hands on a vial." Gerth began closing his door, then paused. "And next time you need something from me, try knocking at a reasonable hour."
The door shut with a soft click, leaving Max standing in the narrow corridor with a slowly warming spider on his shoulder and the daunting prospect of asking his father for enough money to fund a small war.
This was going to be an interesting conversation.
Meow.
Max stopped mid-turn. He looked around the empty corridor, wondering if exhaustion was finally catching up with him.
Meow.
There it was again. Definitely a cat. Which was odd, because in all his time at Frosthold—both in Harek's memories and his own experiences—Max couldn't recall ever seeing a single feline anywhere in the castle. Dogs, yes. Horses, obviously. The occasional falcon in the mews. But cats? Not one.
He turned around slowly.
A small cat sat at the far end of the corridor, perfectly poised in that way cats managed effortlessly. It was pure white with unusual blue-green eyes that seemed to shift color slightly in the torchlight. The cat had the kind of bearing that suggested it was aware of its own magnificence and expected appropriate deference from lesser beings.
In other words, it looked exactly like every cat Max had ever met, only prettier.
"Well, hello there," Max said softly.
Bro shifted on his shoulder, eight eyes focusing on this new creature with interest rather than suspicion. Apparently cats didn't register as threats in the spider's assessment of potential dangers.
The cat regarded Max with a cool, evaluating stare. After a moment of consideration, it stood and padded toward him.
Max had always liked cats. There was something about their complete self-possession that he found admirable. He crouched down slowly, extending his hand.
The cat approached, allowed him exactly three gentle strokes along its head, then stepped back with the air of someone who had granted a significant favor.
"You're beautiful," Max told it honestly.
The cat accepted this as its due, then turned and began walking away down the corridor.
Max watched it go for about three seconds before his brain kicked in with a simple observation: Cat. Want to pet more cat.
"Hey, wait a minute," he called softly, following after it.
The cat continued its unhurried pace, apparently unbothered by Max's pursuit but not particularly encouraging it either.
Max trailed behind, Bro swaying gently on his shoulder. They made their way through sections of the castle Max rarely visited, down narrow staircases and along passages he didn't recognize. The cat never looked back to see if Max was following.
"You definitely live here," Max observed. "Question is, with whom?"
The cat didn't dignify this with a response.
They emerged through a small doorway into one of Frosthold's gardens. The moonlight made everything look silver and white, turning the snow into something that sparkled. It was pretty, Max supposed, though mostly it was just cold.
The garden had stone paths winding between what were probably flower beds in warmer months. A few benches sat arranged around a central area, and on one of those benches sat Aelara.
She had a book open in her lap and was reading by moonlight. She wore a heavy dark cloak and had her hair braided back. The whole scene looked like something from a painting, if paintings included people crazy enough to read outside in winter.
The cat trotted over to her immediately, leaping onto the bench and settling into her lap.
"There you are," Aelara said, closing her book and scratching behind the cat's ears. "Where have you been, Ghost? I was starting to worry."
Her voice was affectionate. The cat purred loudly enough for Max to hear from where he stood.
Max remained at the garden's edge, partially hidden in shadow. The entire scene was definitely not a coincidence. He'd followed her cat to find her reading alone in a moonlit garden. That was either fate or the universe having a sense of humor.
"Oh my," he breathed.
This was definitely an opportunity.
Time to go make her laugh a bit.
Comments
R. Maxwell Steele
Seems like he's not the type to get basic help and would rather slam his head against the wall than use the door.
R. Maxwell Steele
It feels like it jumped from being wise to "never tell me the odds" in a way that feels forced. The missing link is between trying to minimize risks and going full send. Before you are in a rough situation, you avoid stupid mistakes game the situation out and ask if I do this, they will do what? But ultimately when you get into a rough spot and there's only one way out, that's when "never tell me the odds" makes sense. If it's life or death, the odds don't matter, you have to try to live anyway. Bubbles said he saw him casting magic like a pro.... but his practice was throwing invisible gas? And it wasn't working so why did he say it like he witnessed him being proficient? As a reader, I assumed the simple advice to bind the chemicals had apparently worked off screen and now he was doing it. Then he goes and talks to his mentor and confirms, nope, still doesn't work. So that section doesn't seem to make sense.
SC
Why doesn’t he ask Kellen for help?
