The Crystal College

by Nathaniel Sullivan

  His companions became nervous.

  “B-but we have to leave,” Nix tugged at his sleeve. “Like you said. There’s no time to waste.”

  “Indeed!” The bot jumped in front of Nandor, swinging its arms. “We must pack and head out!”

  Reluctantly, he heeded their advice. He hated to admit it, but whatever had happened in the small home would have to remain a mystery. He gathered up his supplies by the bedside, and was immensely pleased to find that all his most valued items were still there. The aura-detecting spectacle created by Wagfrost, a fire-starter, a tiny tent wrapped so small it was less than a bundle of clothes, a spare change of wool undergarments, several herbs with different medicinal uses, a bit of gold, and, most importantly, leaning against the wall, were his beloved skis.

  They were beautiful. Priceless. He reached out with eager arms and practically hugged them. The blue crystals carefully embedded into them released a low yield of power when pressured by the rider, allowing them to propel the wearer uphill and along empty fields with surprising speed. The soft-metal edges were freshly sharpened for quick turns and the underbody was waxed so well it could milt ice. He could not contain a large smile as he carried his skis outside, and placed them parallel in the snow. It had been too long since they kissed snow.

  Nix placed her own skis beside his, but they were far less impressive. Steam-powered, an older model, and poorly maintained. The chain windings allowing traction underneath were worn, rusted, and slow, and the small engines powering each ski was so inefficient it probably burned a potent coal-stone each day, as the snow-intake for backup power often became useless and clogged.

  “We really must get you some better skis someday,” Nandor said.

  “Haven’t had a good chance. Or the money,” she replied.

  Dorin sat on the snow beside them as they mounted their skis, and he appeared to be tugging at his feet.

  “How do you travel quickly through the deep snow?” Nix asked the bot.

  The metal creature grunted as its pulled at it toes. There was a clanking noise, and suddenly all four toes snapped into place, merging into one straight line. Chink, chink, chink… gears ticked as the bot continued to yank its feet outward, pulling on opposite sides. Soon, its feet extended outwards four feet, just long enough to become a short set of skis. “This, is how.” The bot propped its newly arranged feet up in the snow. “But burns a lot of energy. I’ll need some coal and oil by the time we make it to where were going…” it looked to Nandor. “Where are we going, by the way? Do you have some plan?”

  “Where else to go?” Nandor let out a hearty laugh as his skis clicked into place. “Froj. And the Crystal College.”

  Nix did not share his enthusiasm. “We don’t have to go there, Nandor. A lot has changed. The city is not the same… it would certainly be safer if we could go elsewhere… anywhere else.”

  “Perhaps so,” he good-naturedly slapped her on the back. “But I still have much to set right. Grandmaster Forojen owes me some explanations, and sooner or later I’ll owe Lady Mikja a visit too.” He slung his pack over his shoulders, crouched low, and began to slide up through the snow. “Come, my friends!” he hollered over his shoulder. “To the Crystal College!”

  Chapter 18: New Lows

  What causes an otherwise healthy man to lose his mind?

  Tragedy? Hopelessness? A broken spirit?

  Insanity is far more complicated than any one event. Like everything else, it is a compounded series of circumstances all falling into place. The will must be broken. The spirit must be dampened. The guiding philosophies must be proven false. Disillusionment must be installed. The lens—the focal point through which the world is viewed must be altered—turned to pessimism, and dark thoughts.

  Many things can cause this, and no singular person is entirely safe from the realms of madness. Everyone can experience a new low, and there is no point of bottom, only the point in which the emptiness feels so unbearable that change is forced to occur.

  —The Light of Igra

  Nandor’s upbeat haphazard attitude flipped gradually as they approached the city of Froj, and it was replaced with murky memories. Where once he was hopeful and energized, he found old thoughts enter into the dark corners of his mind.

  But rather than dwell on the duel against Lord Viken that he half lost and half won, or his injuries that had caused him to go through some healing process so strange that even his companions would not speak of it, or, indeed, even his failure at unifying the three cities to split the Green Forest equally, he constantly found his thoughts going to the one event that had changed his entire perspective—the expedition.

  The expedition that should have uncovered Marr’s Palace of Creation, but had proved only that Marr was both a liar and a dead man. A wise liar, perhaps, but a liar all the same.

  Such thoughts plagued him. Marr… a liar… my god… a trick. A simple trick. How was I fooled so easily? Without Marr—what even am I but a fool tricked by an old book filled with dim-witted philosophies written for men over a thousand years ago?

  And more importantly, if he could not place his trust in Marr, what could he trust?

  What reason do I have to believe that anything will be alright? The Green Forest will be abused and misused like always—the rich with prosper while the poor starve. Froj will be forsaken. There is no god to set it all right—there is no palace of creation with which I could create more green land—no. There’s nothing. Nothing but chaos. The world I once knew was nothing more than a sweet lie… we’re all damned into darkness and oblivion.

  At his side, Nix seemed to sense his unrest. “Nandor? Are you okay?”

  He shook his head uncertainly. “It’s just… just my memory. It is all coming back like a painful old wound flaring up on a cold day. Marr… the palace of creation…” he hesitated, and then slowed his pace so that they could ski side by side. “Did you hear about what I found in that place? Inside the ridge, behind the falls?”

  She shook her head. “All I know is that you did not find the palace—or if you did, it was unable to do the things you hoped. The rest, is a mystery. The expedition team never returned… there are rumors that monsters ate them… and some rumors are worse.”

  Nandor’s eyes widened. Just what he needed—more bad news. “No one else made it back?” He huffed in amazement, then he scowled—the world was cursed indeed. No—not cursed, he suddenly realized, just forgotten. Nothingness. Chaos and random chance bursting about utterly indifferent to right and wrong. No god to guide it. No philosophy to set it right.

  Nandor was not a man to cry. Not even under the most distressing of events. His life had been too hard to allow for tears to form—especially when near the gaze of others. What good did tears do anyway? But still—as realization after realization hit him, and hit him hard, he found it hard to contain all his emotions. He breathed heavy, and he slowed even more, as if a great burden had fallen on his shoulders.

  Nix gave a concerned backwards glance, and slid to a halt, causing him to do the same. Snow flung up into the air as they stopped on the mountainside, and they met each other’s eyes. “What did you find there?” She looked up at him, dismounting from her skis. They were near enough to the main road into Froj that the snow was not too deep for walking. He mirrored her actions, and then slung his skis on a strap over his shoulder as he carefully thought on her question.

  The sky was turning to night, but there were still enough moons visible for a soft, easy light, without need of a torch. When he gazed downwards he saw concern in her eyes—she was a sweet girl, but she could never understand what he was going through, and he knew it. There was no point in weighing her down with all of his heavy thoughts. He recalled an old verse that he used to often reflect on:

  Negativity breeds negativity and inaction. The wise man takes the path of enlightenment instead.

  —The Book of Marr

  But did the Book of Marr even matter anymore?

  He did not know
, but words came pouring from his mouth before he could stop them. He knew they were dark words. He knew they were negative, and disheartening, but he found himself powerless to their will. He had to speak, and no amount of wisdom he recalled could dissuade him. It was as if another person spoke through his mouth—a person he did not fully know, but had always been lurking in the shadows of his heart, and had finally been unleashed.

  “It was all a lie, Nixie. All of it.” He began to walk slowly on the road, keeping his eyes away from hers lest she see them began to water. “There was no Palace of Creation—the coordinates—we were following something else entirely. It was Marr’s grave. His true grave. The grave he hid from the outside world, so that everyone else might think he had disappeared into the stars by the hand of his god. I saw his body there, Nix. His body. Green irradiated all around him—a powerful aura. But he was dead. His words were all a lie. He was no prophet for a god—he was a deceiver.”

  He glanced at the girl by his side. She did not meet his eyes, and they both stayed fixed on the road. For a moment, there was only silence, save for the clanking of the Jack-Bot following them a few paces behind. It appeared to be listening with interest, but was respectful enough to not interrupt them.

  At last, Nix found a reply. “You used to quote me words from the Book of Marr almost every day. I may not have always appreciated it, but still, as I reflect back on our time together, it helped me to grow. It changed me. Made me become a better person. Surely all that wisdom still matters?”

  Nandor held back a dark laugh, and it came out as a scoff instead. “Wisdom can be found anywhere. Even the gutters in the ruined streets filled with shit and senseless suffering have wisdom spewing from them, occasionally. But that is not what matters. Don’t you understand? My god—Marr, the prophet—that is the lie. There is no guiding force in the world. No benevolence. No nothing. Only chaos…” There was a growl in his tone—a bitterness that he could not contain. “…and if there is only chaos, then what chance do I ever stand in changing the world for the better? I have no god on my side. Perhaps people only want violence, and bickering. Perhaps the rich and strong are born to prey upon the poor and the weak. Lord Viken—Lady Mikja, Grimbone—they might be right. The contest of battle and killing… chaos. Perhaps that is the true way of the world.”

  Nix’s brows furrowed, and she looked increasingly uncomfortable with his every word. Nandor knew why—he had been her rock. He had always been steady in the face of any storm. Monsters, madmen, depression, evil people—it did not matter. He had guided her, and he had always had an answer for any situation, no matter how hapless it seemed. Now his true doubts were unraveled, and she was not properly equipped to handle it. Inwardly, he mocked her ignorance. She was far too young and naive to even begin to understand what he was facing.

  “Tell me you don’t mean all that?” she pleaded.

  “Girl,” he met her eyes with a frank gaze, and saw no use in lying. “I don’t know what I mean anymore. All I know is I need a drink. Something heavy.”

  From behind them the sound of clanking steps grew closer, and the bot came into view, nodding along with his words. “Yes! A drink! Good thinking sir! I could do with a pint of oil myself—clean the ‘ol cogs, as it is!”

  They arrived before the city walls to face a squadron of guards standing at the gates. The leader held up a hand as they approached, and spoke a cautionary word of warning.

  “Froj is not safe. Enter at your own peril.”

  “Do I look like a man who cares?” Nandor gazed downwards at them.

  There was a flicker of recognition across the guards face as he gazed up at the large, grizzled figure. “I-I know you,” he stuttered, nervously. “I saw you on the battlefield. You’re the one that killed Lord Viken! H-how are you still alive?”

  “It was a fair duel,” he replied. “Nothing more.”

  “But you were cut in half! A-and Lady Mikja! Lord Grimbone! You were plotting with them! You betrayed the city!” His hand fumbled for his sword, but Nandor shot him a stern look.

  “I was trying to negotiate peace between the three cities. It is Lady Mikja and Lord Grimbone who betrayed the contract. They should be the subject of your ire, not I.” His words somehow stopped the guard from fully drawing his weapon, but the captain’s companions were still uneasy. He ignored them, and pointed, “Now, open the gate. I have business in Froj.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Drinking, for one.” He nodded towards the bot at his side. “We thirst.”

  “You won’t be causing any problems?”

  This time, Nix replied, “Sir—do you honestly think that Froj could be in any worse of a state than it already is?”

  “I know we don’t need a man who killed our lord within our walls!”

  “Then how about a headmaster of the Crystal College—appointed by Grandmaster Forojen himself?” Nix tugged at the shimmering red amulet, pulling it from Nandor’s pack. The appearance of the item cause the guards to gasp—they knew the respect the amulet garnered, and were surprised to find it in her hands. “Let us in. We have much to discuss. We aren’t going to cause problems, we’re going to try to set things right.”

  The small squadron of guards exchanged glances, as if asking each other for permission. The captain sighed, and shook his head. “I suppose larger heads than mine will have to sort you out.” He motioned his hand upward, and the gate begun to rise. “Very well. Enter.”

  Nandor brushed them aside and he meaningfully marched into the city. Nix and Dorin followed at his heels, making an effort to stay close.

  “You’re not really looking for a place to drink, are you?” she asked, clearly not pleased with the prospect. In their time together, she had never witnessed him with an appetite for booze, which was intentional, on his part. Although he had drank often in his youth, he was far more careful anymore. But these were outstanding circumstances.

  He rumbled his reply, “I’ve just awoken from the brink of death, I’ve learned my whole life following Marr has been a lie, and Froj is likely damned into ruin, despite all my efforts to save it.” He shot her a look, daring her to question his decision. “So yes, Nix, I’d say a drink or two is in order. Maybe more.”

  And with that, he kept his eyes peeled for a suitable tavern.

  ***

  There were not many places open. It was becoming late, and any reputable taverns were either barred-up tight or abandoned from the war. But they still managed to find a place, near the college. The tavern was a frequent indulgence of students and workers looking for drugs or worse. Nix had attempted to dissuade both Nandor and Dorin from entering the dreary establishment, but they had both proven to be decidedly fixed on the matter. She understood Nandor’s persistence, at least, to a degree—he certainly had enough on his mind. The Jack-Bot, on the other hand, she had no idea as to why it was so set on drinking. She was not even sure if bot’s could drink.

  The Pissy Goblin, true to its name, was a seedy establishment. Story goes, there was once a captured goblin chained to the tavern walls who patrons would insult, hit, or throw darts at, but no matter how much suffering the goblin was forced to torment, it only grew angrier and angrier. One day, the miserable creature simply disappeared. Now, parents told children that the same goblin still lived in Froj, and captured naughty kids in the night.

  She found herself asking Nandor if such a story was true.

  He downed a heavy shot of winter whisky, then pointed at a cage hanging from the ceiling, and cuffs chained by the walls where people nearby threw darts. “You’re young, so you don’t know this yet, sweetheart. But generally, if something sounds too terrible to be true, you’ll find it is true. The worst of human nature always peaks its ugly head wherever it can.”

  Nix was not sure if she felt more horror or sympathy. Goblins were the monsters in the light. Terrible creatures, by all accounts. Vicious, vile, and smelly. There where endless rumors that unknown kingdoms in the great beyond fell to gob
lin tribes, and everyone in the Crystal South feared that one day the endless swarm of goblins would turn their gaze to Froj, Winfrost, or Norda.

  But still, even if they were evil, did any creature deserve such torture?

  She gazed around the tavern—the patrons were all drunks by trade. Old, ragged, retired mercenaries, rattled workers from the metal factories, and dancing women who looked like they had never known a single day of kindness. If there was once a goblin chained to these walls—it would have been terribly abused by these sorts of men and women. Hell, these men and women abused themselves. A goblin would have been brutalized.

  Faint flickers of light sparked on and off, causing her eyes to never fully adjust to the tavern. The lights were red and yellow—low quality moonstones, powered by gears, which were, in turn, powered by steam that emanated from below the rafters, filling the large room with a steady supply of heat. It was so warm inside that Nandor had already discarded much of his wolf skin clothes, and Nix was considering doing the same. There was a dense fog that hung in the air too—but it was not from the steam. It came from hookahs centered on stone rounded tables, with wooden pipes attached to mouthpieces. People inhaled different strands of hallucinogenic lichen, causing clouds of green, yellow and blue to puff from their mouths.

  Nix looked to the center of their own table. A hookah was dead center, and Nandor was lighting it up.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, not hiding her disappointment.

  Nandor shrugged, and held up his shot glass, waving the tavern girl to bring him another. “Should be obvious, Nix,” was all he said in reply. He lit the coals at the top of the hookah with his fire-crank, and then held the pipe up to his mouth, and inhaled deeply.