by Dan Zangari
Iltar strolled across the grass toward the eastern side of the campus. The lawn was neatly kept, but there weren’t many trees. Mages needed room to practice, and trees would just be in the way. Iltar continued around the Main Hall, nonchalantly peering into the windows but not seeing anyone. That wasn’t uncommon. Most of the rooms weren’t used here at the Order, not since necromancy had reigned as the dominant magical art.
He continued to the center of the grounds. Shallow steps led down from the Main Hall toward a courtyard with smooth stone paths leading to the various buildings. All was quiet, except for the occasional patrol of guardsmen who moved along the walls.
Iltar took in a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back. He blinked, and then everything changed. The buildings of the Order were in ruin, just as in his dream. Walls were toppled. A crater marred the place where the fountain should be. The sky turned yellow, the clouds crimson.
“What’s going on…?” Iltar muttered. Not this strange place again. It was like a mirror, a twisted reflection. Some dark and demented reality. But why was he seeing it? Were his fits of anxiety morphing? That didn’t make any sense.
“Iltar,” a stern voice called from behind him, where the shallow stair should be.
Iltar spun, and the desolate vista vanished. All was normal.
Alacor, Grandmaster of the Soroth Necrotic Order, stood atop the staircase with arms folded, staring at Iltar with his hazel-blue eyes. His gaze was cold and condescending. A long sharp nose jutted from a gaunt face accented by high cheekbones. The grandmaster was a tall and slender man, dressed in a black robe more elaborate than the one Iltar wore. Alacor’s dark-olive skin was wrinkled, his face covered in a long white beard. White hair hung past his shoulders, wispy and thin. Though he and Iltar were not too far apart in age, Alacor looked much older.
“I didn’t expect to see you today,” Alacor said, descending the shallow stairs.
“Alacor.” Iltar bowed his head, purposely omitting the title. “I was dropping my students off and decided to come into the city.”
“Oh?” Alacor asked, chuckling. He stopped beside Iltar, frowning with disapproval. “That’s a task for apprentices.”
“I had things I wished to discuss with the acolytes on the way back to Soroth,” Iltar lied. He didn’t want Alacor finding out about Pagus.
“I see,” Alacor said with a sigh of disappointment. “And here I thought young Pagus was being rebellious.”
“Pagus needed a break,” Iltar lied again. He wondered if Alacor had any idea that Pagus hadn’t shown up for yesterday’s exercises. Though, Pagus would have gathered all of Iltar’s acolytes here at the Order. Alacor would have had to be watching them depart at the northern gate to know what really happened. Unless Pagus got himself into trouble—
“He seems to need a lot of those,” Alacor said, grunting and stepping around Iltar. The grandmaster stood beside the fountain. “Perhaps he needs a master who can hone his discipline properly.”
Iltar grunted, not trying to hide his opinion.
“You don’t agree?” Alacor cocked his head.
“Pagus isn’t just a necromancer in training,” Iltar retorted. He had to conjure an excuse that seemed plausible. “He’s heir to his father’s dukedom. The boy has other responsibilities besides learning.”
Alacor laughed, shaking his head. He obviously didn’t believe Iltar. “You need to rein him in, Iltar,” Alacor snapped. “If you don’t, the rest of us on the council will act. You don’t want what happened to Balden to happen to Pagus, do you?”
Iltar’s hate for Alacor flared, almost boiling beyond control. Not now… he told himself. He couldn’t lose his temper here.
Alacor raised an eyebrow, studying Iltar. He grinned, seeming pleased that he had struck a nerve. Arrogant bastard. “Still that timid boy, aren’t you, Iltar?” he asked, snickering and stepping away from Iltar. “Enjoy your time in the gardens.”
The grandmaster ascended the stairs, walking toward the three-story windows lining the rear side of the Main Hall.
Timid? No, restrained. Now was not the right time to release all that suppressed anger. One day, when the time was right, Iltar would put Alacor in his place. Just not here. Not in the Order’s gardens where there would be witnesses…
Taking a calming breath, Iltar strode from the fountain, following the path toward the Order’s Record Hall.
Could he be there? Pagus had expressed an interest in studying the forbidden knowledge kept there. But the Record Hall was well guarded. Old tomes were locked away in the deepest floors, tomes containing spells meant to be wielded by only the masters of the magical arts. Pagus wouldn’t be able to access them without incapacitating the guards.
The Record Hall was made of the same pale-gray galstra. It was only two stories tall and L-shaped. Windows lined both floors, accented with chiseled patterns of bricks along their edges. A small portico led to the only entrance, with two of the Order’s guards standing at attention.
“Good afternoon, Master Iltar,” the guards said in unison. “Back so soon?”
Iltar squinted, confused. What did he mean by that? He hadn’t visited the Record Hall in months. Unless… oh, Pagus! “Ah, yes,” Iltar said, and cleared his throat. “I believe I forgot something.”
“That’s twice in one day.” The other guard laughed, but then flinched. “Sorry.”
“Well, I am getting old…” Iltar played along with what he thought the guard implied. “I can’t even remember when I left this morning.”
“Actually, we didn’t see you leave,” the first guard said. “I guess the stories are true. There is a secret passageway beneath the Record Hall.”
There was no such thing.
Found you now, boy, Iltar thought. He was glad he had, before someone else discovered this reckless ruse.
The guards opened the doors for Iltar, and he entered, shaking his head. Iltar made his way through the building, descending a flight of stairs. He picked his way across the basement, eventually reaching a darkened hallway barred by a wrought-iron gate. Another guard stood there.
“Master Iltar…” The guard gawked at him. “How did you—”
Iltar raised a finger, his demeanor stern. He eyed the man with a raised brow. “Don’t say a word.” The guard hastily nodded.
Mood now dour, Iltar opened the gate and stepped through the darkened hallway. It soon curved toward a steep stairwell. Faint chatter reached his ears, but he couldn’t discern words. Careful to not make a noise, Iltar crept down the steps. One had to be stealthy while exploring ruins or dangerous hideouts.
Once down the stairs, he ducked behind a nearby bookshelf. Iltar still couldn’t understand the faint conversation, but there were three voices. Iltar slipped along the bookshelf, weaving his way closer to the sounds.
“… I think it’s supposed to be pronounced, ah-vel-knee-nah,” a young masculine voice said. Was that Kreely? It sounded like him. But Iltar didn’t spend enough time around the young necromancer to know for certain.
“No,” another said. This voice he knew. It was Pagus! “It’s avilnena. aa-vil-neh-naa.”
“Let me read it,” a third voice said. That was definitely Odinal. The first had to be Kreely. What a name… it sounded feminine.
Those three boys: Pagus, Odinal, and Kreely. Put them together, and you had trouble. As students they were bad for each other. But, they had a bond. If they ever became full-fledged necromancers, they’d be assets to the Order. They could become a powerful triad.
Pagus was Iltar’s apprentice, studying how to mesh the illusionary and necrotic arts. The rebellious youth was obviously putting his skills to the test by infiltrating the Record Hall. Odinal was Melnor’s apprentice, learning how to blend the arts of conjuration and necromancy. He was quite good. And Kreely; he was Alacor’s apprentice.
The three of them continued arguing about the pronunciation as Iltar moved around the bookcase. They had their backs to him.
All three—
each in their late teens—were shorter than Iltar. Pagus had light-brown hair. He was slender, unlike Odinal. Melnor’s apprentice was a little on the chubby side. Kreely, however, was not as slim as Pagus and had dishwater-blond hair.
“It’s pronounced ah-velk-na-nal,” Iltar said, correcting the conspiring boys.
Pagus spun, smiling as he saw his master. He held an old spell book, its contents the source of their debate. The other two started: Odinal backed away, stepping into a bookshelf. Kreely, however, tripped and fell on the stone floor.
“The K-sound is derived from the sequence of the other words in the incantation,” Iltar continued, his expression stern. “And the script you are reading uses the character sound for ‘E’ as a misnomer to deter curious students from doing exactly what you three are doing.”
“Thank you!” Pagus exclaimed, still grinning.
“Pagus…” Iltar grumbled, stomping toward the youth.
Pagus arched his eyebrows innocently. “What?”
“You know what,” Iltar said sternly. He stopped within arm’s reach of Pagus. “You abandoned Agen and the others yesterday. And then, there’s this!” He gestured to this forbidden part of the Record Hall.
“Oh,” Pagus smiled smugly. “So, you don’t mind that I impersonated you?”
Iltar frowned, his eyes alight with impatience. Kreely began to sob, sputtering pleas. Odinal, however, knelt on the ground, fearfully gazing at Iltar. “Please, Master Iltar,” Kreely begged, “make it swift!”
Pagus laughed, shaking his head. He closed the book and looked to his friends. “Really? What’s wrong with you two?”
“We’ll be beaten!” Kreely screamed. “Not the acid. Not again! Please!”
“Silence!” Iltar snarled through clenched teeth. He didn’t want the guard to hear.
“I will submit,” Odinal said shakily. He began to tremble and leaned forward.
The boys’ pleading darkened Iltar’s mood. Alacor and Melnor are decrepit fools, he thought. Their “discipline” only breeds weakness.
“Wow…” Pagus turned back to Iltar. “I’m sure glad I’m your apprentice.”
“Stop your sniveling,” Iltar snapped at Odinal and Kreely. “Get on your feet!”
The terrified apprentices stood, unsure of what Iltar would do next. They didn’t know him, really. Their masters rarely allowed them to interact with other masters in the Order.
“Iltar isn’t going to do anything.” Pagus chuckled. “Well, besides talk your ear off.”
“Where do your masters think you are?” Iltar asked.
“At home…” Odinal answered timidly.
“And you?” Iltar asked Kreely.
“Same.” The boy squeaked the reply.
That would make things easier. Thank all that’s magical.
“Good,” Iltar nodded. “This”—he gestured between himself and the boys—“never happened. You were not here. You have not seen this book.” He pointed to the tome in Pagus’s hand, then took a deep breath. “Now, tell me why you’re here.” He looked at Pagus.
Pagus sighed, hanging his head low. “We wanted to learn some new spells. I was getting bored, and so were these two. We’re ready for such things.”
“You’re ready when we decide you’re ready,” Iltar retorted.
Pagus pouted, averting his gaze to the ceiling. “Uh-huh…”
“Pagus,”—Iltar spoke slowly—“I am not trying to hold you back. You might have the skill—the mental focus—needed to perform the spells. But there’s much more to advancing in the magical arts.”
“Really?” Pagus said, still looking at the ceiling. “That’s not how Grandmaster Alacor put it to Kreely.”
“Alacor is a fool,” Iltar spat. Kreely gasped. “He’s only the grandmaster because he inherited the position, not because he was the best suited.”
“Then you should do something about that,” Pagus said, finally meeting Iltar’s gaze. “Where is the great Iltar that I’ve heard of? The one in the daring tales whispered among mercenaries, in the fantastic legends sung in taverns?”
Iltar clenched his teeth. Pagus was acting stubborn. The boy stood like a prince, arrogant and defiant. If Pagus continued at this rate, he’d be endangering more than himself. This was the first time Pagus had enlisted others in his disobedience. Something had to be done.
Narrowing his eyes, Iltar swiftly uttered the words to muster his ensnaring tentacles. Dark green magic swirled in his palm, tiny strands weaving together.
Pagus’s eyes widened. He dropped the tome, stunned for a moment. He probably thought Iltar wouldn’t act in such a way. But Pagus soon regained his composure, uttering his own incantation. Off-white dispelling particles began swirling around the youth’s hands, but it was too late.
Iltar thrust his hand forward. Ensnaring tentacles burst from his outstretched palm, striking Pagus. They knocked him into a nearby bookshelf, binding him against it. Pagus nearly completed his dispel, but one of the tentacles flew into his mouth.
Unable to speak, Pagus couldn’t finish the incantation, and the dispelling particles vanished.
“You need to stop this flagrant disrespect,” Iltar said with restrained anger. “You’re putting your friends in danger. If you care about them, you will listen to me and be obedient.” He stopped and looked at the two boys, who gawked at him. “Some might think I’ve been lenient with you. Perhaps some consider me a coward, assuming I fear your family and wouldn’t dare ‘discipline’ you because of their power. That’s far from the truth.” Iltar stepped closer, his face close to Pagus. “I don’t fear them.”
Then he stepped back, returning to where he had stood when he cast the spell. “What you see as boring and tedious cultivates discipline. Punishment doesn’t cultivate discipline, only fear. You cannot breed greatness through fear. If you want to be a powerful mage, you’ll do what I say. Not because I’m a pompous fool, but because I’ve walked the path and know what must be done.” He waved his hand, dismissing the magic.
Pagus stumbled from the bookshelf and swallowed hard. He looked at Iltar with a gaze his master had never beheld. Respect.
“Now the three of you need to get out of here,” Iltar said. “Follow me.” He bent down, picking up the book Pagus had held. “You”—Iltar looked to Pagus—“go up to my office and wait there.”
One by one, the three apprentices followed Iltar. He gestured for them to wait before they turned the corner leading to the gate. Iltar continued forward, and the guard stationed there opened it for him.
“All done?” he asked.
“Not quite,” Iltar said. “Go tell the guards at the doors to send word to those stationed at the Main Hall. Relay a message to my groom that I’ve resolved the matter. I’ll wait here by the doors while you’re gone.” He waved, dismissing the guard. “No one will get through.”
Puzzled by the request, the guard shook his head and hurried off. Once he was gone, Iltar went back around the corner. “The guard is gone,” Iltar said. “Go.” He gestured the apprentices forward, and they complied.
As they reached the gate, Iltar suggested, “You should probably be invisible.” The boys passed through the gate, and Iltar closed it behind them. They each turned, looking at Iltar. Kreely’s and Odinal’s faces were twisted in confusion mingled with gratitude. Pagus, however, was somber.
“My office,” Iltar reminded the youth.
The three of them hurried off, and Iltar couldn’t tell if they did as he suggested.
Soon after, the guard returned. “Your orders were relayed,” he said.
“Good, I’ll be up in a little while.”
Back in the forbidden area, Iltar examined the book, Praxion Velon’s Repository. Hefty read. Some odd spells were contained within it, complex but ultimately useless. Praxion failed to grasp important ideas about the ebb and flow of magics. There were much better tomes to learn powerful spells from.
This is why one needs a master, Iltar thought.
He made his way t
oward the place where the book belonged. Iltar replaced it near another volume hanging partway off the shelf. That looks like Rovin’s journal, he thought. Why would it be here? Pagus and the others must have moved it around.
Iltar hefted it. He remembered seeing the journal years ago as a young boy studying the necrotic arts. Rovin had never let Iltar see its contents, claiming it was private. Even after Rovin’s death and the journal’s inclusion in this forbidden library, Iltar had never perused it. Not that he wasn’t privileged to do so. After all, Iltar was one of the members of the Necrotic Order’s council. He occupied the fifth seat. So, any of these tomes were his to read.
Curious, Iltar opened the journal, finding a page bookmarked with a folded piece of parchment.
He scanned the page as he walked to where the journal should be placed within this library. The entry was just one of the many recollections of a mission undertaken for the Mindolarn Empire by Rovin and his brother. It told of a battle in the nation which was now Litor. It was a boastful entry. Iltar grunted. He’d never cared for Rovin’s exaggerations.
Iltar unfolded the parchment. “Now what does this say?” he mused aloud.
It was a letter addressed to Rovin, from his father. Iltar read past an introduction and cut to the heart of the letter. “The seat of this empire is glorious! They have so many kinds of tevisrals, things I’d never imagined. But, before I carry on, I’m writing this to tell you that we’re relocating here. One of the princes told me I’d be welcome to stay as long as I wished, and that I could send for you and your brother. I’m sure your mother would have wanted this. It’s a good opportunity for you two. I even have a private tutor arranged for both of you, and then after you’re tested you can attend the Hilinard. Their knowledge far exceeds what the others are teaching at the Sorothian Magical Order.
“I also sent a letter to your uncle, explaining everything. The two of you will love it here! But most importantly, we can worship freely. No longer will we have to slink in the shadows. This is where our family needs to be. Hopefully you will be here within a month. I’ve heard rumors that one of the Chosen is coming to the Feast of Sorrows. I’ll see if I can get us in. Your brother will probably be too young to attend, but you’re just the right age. Oh, Rovin. This is such an exciting time!
