The Guild was no friend of his. He hated the way they had been treated over the years, but there was little he could do about it. The Guild had a group of assassins known as the Zola’far. He had seen their gruesome work. The visions still haunted him. When they offered him the opportunity to help the Keep get free of the Guild, he jumped at the chance.
At first, it was seemingly insignificant things, but over time, their requests grew more brazen, their rewards more ... generous. Before he realized it, he was in very deep. Once he met the Master, he knew his life would never be his own again. He immediately felt her power, twisted dark power; power he feared and knew better than to try himself. This was the power of old, the power that had caused Ror. They had hinted several times that it would be in his best interest to keep the Master happy, and he didn’t doubt their word for a second.
The trouble was, although he didn’t like their methods, he agreed with their purpose. He also knew that, if it came to push and shove, the wizards of the Keep would come out on the short end of the stick. He wasn’t about to lose a lifetime of existence by being stupid, so he chose his side. He would have to live with that decision.
Once inside, he pushed the artifact into his shirt and turned down the hall, hurrying to get to his room. He rubbed his ice-cold hands while he walked, blowing warm air into his fist and rubbing his hand on his neck to warm them. He shifted his load to his other hand and did the same.
He hurried down the hall. It was already early morning and he had to make his way back to his room and get the book into place before the others in the Keep woke. His time was short.
Rua’tor had been up late, finishing research he had put off for far too long. There hardly seemed to be enough time to accomplish his studies anymore, what with the last watcher dying, the funeral, Ja’tar losing his sister and the spring rites, he had almost forgotten what he had been working on, let alone all that he had learned.
He looked up at the wall and read the time from the mechanical clock, one ball and a half into the new day. He shook his head. Where did the time go?
He rubbed his sore and tired eyes, which would no longer focus. He put his glasses back on his nose and rubbed his temples.
He looked at the volume he was studying with exasperation. He had barely covered five pages of translation from a book well over a thousand long. He unconsciously thumbed through a couple pages, staring at the text. He sighed, closed the book he was working on, set his stack of notes off to the side, corked his inkbottle and cleaned his pen nib. He would hopefully revisit them tomorrow.
Rua’tor pushed some of his writing and research tools to the side on the shelf above his desk, making room for those that still sat on the table. He carefully placed his ink, pen and tools in the space he had just created. He wrapped his viewing glass in a soft cloth and carefully set it on top of the pile, where it wouldn’t hazard to be broken. He took one last look back down the haphazard aisle at the piles of books and charts that were strewn about the floor. He hadn’t realized just how much Tar’ac had taken care of the library.
His eyes wandered to the alcove. The back wall in the entry still showed signs of where Tar’ac had been incinerated. It would take time for this place to return to normal, if it ever did.
He scooted forward on his chair and tried to stand, but his legs gave out and his back seized from the excruciatingly long hours he had spent bent over the tome using a magnifier to read the high Torren text.
Gripping the table with white-knuckled hands, he pushed himself upright, grimacing as his joints crackled and his tendons and muscles stretched for the first time that day. He almost immediately felt the call of nature and knew he must make haste in order to avoid a rather embarrassing situation.
After he took a couple of wobbly steps, his equilibrium returned and he steadied on his feet. He reached for the door and pulled the huge oak slab open. After standing there for several seconds, lost in thought, he shook his head and closed the library door. He paid little never-mind to the sealing of the stone hallway by the Elemental as he trudged purposefully down the long hall, heading in the general direction of his room, while trying to keep his overfull bladder in check.
He saw the spiral staircase ahead at the end of the hall and frowned to himself, wondering if he would be able to make it up to the dining room before relieving himself. He sharply turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and almost bumped into Collin, who had approached from a different hall. The man stopped abruptly and stood tall, his expression blank. He was wearing a heavy overcoat and had a big bundle over his shoulder.
“What the,” he said, more startled than hurt. “Oh, Collin, it’s only you! You gave me quite a fright.”
Collin looked up, not knowing what to say. “Didn’t mean to startle you old chap. I was just doing some research down the hall ... didn’t expect anyone else to be up this hour.”
“Really, me too,” Rua’tor laughed. “It seems the only time I can get some uninterrupted study in.”
“Exactly!”
Rua’tor pointed at the heavy overcoat, “Are you cold?”
“Freezing! Feel my hands,” he said, placing his frigid hands on the old man’s arm. “I put my jacket on to keep my fingers nimble. Parts of this old Keep are just not heated anymore.”
Rua’tor pulled his arm back at the touch. “You aren’t kidding, your hands are like ice.”
Collin shrugged. “My circulation isn’t what it used to be.”
“Mine either,” Rua’tor said, with a sigh. “Have you been exploring?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“You have a large duffle over your shoulder. Usually means someone is off looking for things.”
Collin laughed, removing the burlap duffle from his shoulder. “Just needed something to hold books in. Can’t seem to carry them all the way to my room anymore. My hands cramp up.”
Rua’tor unconsciously rubbed his own hands understanding full-well what Collin meant.
“Find anything interesting?”
“Not really. I was looking for an old tome. Finally found it, and a few others. Too many to carry, so I found me this old bag. I was headed to my room to read when I bumped into you.”
“You’ll have to excuse me. Mother nature is calling,” Rua’tor said, with a nervous grin.
Collin waved him off. “No problem here.”
“You want to join me for a late snack after I ... you know? Gretta said she was making some rabbit stew.”
“I think I’ll ... decline tonight, not really hungry, but thanks. I think I’ll just go and read—try to get something done.”
Rua’tor looked over the elf’s shoulder at the bag. “Well, don’t stay up too late ...”
“I won’t. Have a good night!” Collin chuckled and yawned deep. “Maybe I won’t even make it past a page or two.”
“Night,” Rua’tor shouted as he hurried off, finding new urgency.
Collin watched Rua’tor waddle off and wondered what his response should have been. He decided to act as though nothing unusual happened if he was questioned the following day.
He readjusted the bag and headed straight to his room. He would wait until later to set the book where the lad would find it. He had time. As he saw it, there was no rush. From what he had heard, the lad’s training was not going well. Personally, he doubted that this boy was the one of prophecy. Given his parents, he should have been able to make a damn fine water ball.
Collin shrugged. Things would change soon. Best to be on the winning side. As far as he could tell, the wizards of the Keep weren’t up to the task. Neither was he.
The next morning, Collin rose early and headed straight to the library. The halls were empty and cold. The sun was still several hours away from rising, a lone cricket chirped and bullfrogs croaked in the distance as he snuck down the deserted halls, sticking to the shadows.
He cast his chant and let himself in. After searching for the row he knew the boy was cleaning, he took the oversized
tomb and set it precariously on the top of the tall bookcase. The ladder telescoped to the correct height as he commanded. He moved stealthily several rows over and waited, out of site, biding his time.
It wasn’t long before Bal’kor arrived. Ja’tar had assigned the boy to clean the library and had given the boy a casting stone to use to enter and exit the room. Collin shook his head. The old man was clever and had tied the stone to Collin using a blood spell. The boy was the only one who could use the stone, and only if he were both willing and calm.
He hated to admit it, but the kid was doing a fine job. He had already cleaned five of the rows and was midway down the sixth. The library had not been this clean in centuries. For sure, there were sections of books that were empty or would need to be moved again as other tomes were found, but the library could at least be navigated without stepping on books and tripping over scrolls. Several mages had even commented that they had found volumes they had been searching for, some for decades.
Bal’kor stood at the end of the long row and sighed. There were books on the floor, on the shelves, and in stacks on the end tables. Scrolls were stuffed into crates, and pails. They were lying across the aisles and leaning against the shelves. Each row had been taking him two days, sometimes longer. At this rate, it would be fall, maybe even winter before he went through the entire lower floor.
He turned to the side and looked in the direction of the upper level, which was over twice the size of the area he was currently working. He was going to die in the library, he was sure of it. He sat down on a stack of books and pulled out the hot meat pies that Gretta had made him. He was the first wizard to the kitchen every morning, and Gretta made him something special every day.
Today, his meat pies were pork and had thick slices of spiced apple mixed in with the gravy. Bal’kor took a bite and smiled widely. The pies were good, moist and tasty. He washed them down with several gulps of chilled mead, weakened with cider and wiped his mouth with his sleeve before belching out loud. The sound echoed around the room, causing him to smile and even giggle slightly. He finished breaking his fast and put the cloth wrappings off to the side. He would return them later.
He walked down the aisle, past several racks to where he had been working the previous night. He grabbed the first pile of books and carried them to his sorting table. He worked through the tomes, stacking them into neat piles to put away.
When he returned the third time, Collin peaked out from around the corner and spun a fine weave of air, pushing the tottering book over the edge of the rack, where it fell with a resounding thud right in front of the boy, scaring the willies out of him.
Bal’kor looked up, his eyes wide. He quickly calmed down. This wasn’t the first time he had almost been clobbered by a book falling from the tall wood cases. Bal’kor reached down and picked up the giant book, which had landed face down, but open—crinkling several of the pages.
Bal’kor’s scrunched his eyes when he saw the damage and he quickly unfolded the pages and spread them smooth. As soon as he touched the book, he heard the murmurs. He looked for where the voices were coming from, but couldn’t locate any source. The book felt warm to his touch and the pages were smooth, almost like silk.
Bal’kor couldn’t read any of the words, but neither could he put it down. He turned through the pages looking at the designs and ancient glyphs. Bal’kor looked to be sure he was alone, stuffed the book under his robe, and quietly headed back to his room.
Collin watched, deeply satisfied with himself. He didn’t know why the book was important, or why the boy needed to find it. He was just happy he had completed his part of the bargain. He feared the Master and wanted no part of her wrath.
Temptation
It took Ja’tar more than a full week to gather enough of the remaining travelers to form the tribunal of thirteen. They could have been anyone, all mages selected as travelers were more than capable of being in the thirteen. However, to open the Chamber, that was an entirely different matter. Ja’tar needed three Grand Wizards to open the Chamber. He counted himself as one, but needed two others. Grand Wizards were hard to come by these days, there were bloody few of them left. He prayed that he could locate at least two more, or they would have to forgo the rite and all of this would have been for naught.
Unfortunately, Zedd’aki didn’t count. He never took the final rite and although he was more than capable, he had never been elevated to Wizard of the High Order.
They came from realms spread across the many places under the Guild’s influence. More than a few remained lost. Ja’tar had not the mastery of the orb that was possessed by a watcher, nor did he know the count of how many travelers were still out in the realms. For that matter, he wasn’t entirely sure of where those realms were. He knew names, sure, but only the watcher knew where those realms were precisely located. He wasn’t even sure of all of the names of the realms, mostly because he couldn’t find any of the Books of Records that the watcher had finished, and he had always asked for them to use as reference.
The travelers were summoned through the travel Gate, the same way they had originally been sent, however this time, none of them knew they were being brought back to Havenhold. All they knew was that they were summoned to step into the Gate. They arrived through the Gate over many days. Many were less than enthused at their untimely retrievals from the lands they now called home.
Frustrations grew as the time dragged on, first a few days, then a week passed. They argued that they could not be expected to leave their realms without guidance for such a long period of time. A few days, perhaps, but for the early arrivers, it had already been almost a full week. A lot could happen in a week. Many filled those days with study, others with getting reacquainted with those they had not seen in centuries. Trips back to the Keep, known as Retrievals seldom occurred. The life of a traveler was a solitary one, and for most of the mages selected, that suited them just fine.
The Gate turned transparent and the mystical haze swirled between the runes. Zedd’aki stood next to Ja’tar while another mage stepped from the Gate. “Well, that gives us twelve.”
Ja’tar nodded, “And the two additional Grand Wizards we require to unseal the Chamber.”
A very old mage with pure white hair let the mist dissipate before he stepped clear of the platform, the disappointment clearly showing on his face. His long dark brown robe fit him poorly and dragged several feet behind. In his gnarled hand, he grasped a long staff made of twisted vine upon which a fist-sized blood stone was mounted. He raised the staff and took a hesitant step forward.
Ja’tar stepped forward. “Welcome home Menzzaren!”
Menzzaren raised his staff high in a salute, “Hail Ja’tar, Keeper of the blah, blah, blah. How long has it been you old coot?”
“Time has little meaning, but several centuries at least. How have you been? You look old!”
“I am older.” he waved his hand. “I was old when I left ... I should have died several times by now, but the gods keep me around to toy with and taunt. It apparently gives them great pleasure!”
“We’re all getting old,” Ja’tar answered back with a big grin. “So you’ve seen the gods then?”
“Bah! They don’t talk to me any longer,” he said, waving his hands around his head. “They just invade my dreams to piss me off.”
Menzzaren pulled a long hook-necked pipe from his cloak and after checking it, lit it with a flick of his wrist. Ja’tar immediately knew he had used the old magic.
Menzzaren coughed and hacked for several seconds before clearing his throat and taking a big draw on his pipe. The room filled with the distinct odor of Tor root.
Zedd’aki wrinkled his nose and took a step back, knowing how potent and addictive the root could be. Ja’tar took a deep breath and held it in. Zedd’aki looked at him with chagrin.
Menzzaren turned to Zedd’aki. “It’s for the pain you know! Seems that it is the only thing that gets me through the day. Something gnaws at my innards,
can’t seem to cure it. The root makes the pain ... tolerable.”
“How went these past centuries?” Zedd’aki asked.
“I’ve been busy. You know how it is with the realms.” Menzzaren shrugged. “This King begot that, conquered another, wars, famines, pestilence. You know the score. There is a revolt ... again ... and the King’s castle is under siege. He is a belligerent, whiney sot. I would have beheaded him myself if it weren’t against the rules.”
Zedd’aki choked back a snort.
“It’s true you know, the politicians argue about the most inconsequential things, things that don’t matter. They’re all daft, self-serving dolts. They argue philosophy while their charges die and starve. I should have wiped the countryside clean of their poison and put a farmer in charge.”
Ja’tar shook his head. “I didn’t know things were so bad.”
Menzzaren looked puzzled. “The watchers didn’t report the calamities?”
Ja’tar’s face saddened. “I’m afraid to say that we no longer have a watcher, let alone many.”
Menzzaren’s eyes blinked rapidly. “Tar’ac passed on ...? Wondered what this was about.”
Ja’tar met his gaze. “Killed! That is part of the reason I called you back.”
Menzzaren grunted his acknowledgment. “So, what is this about? I’m assuming I’m not the only one you’ve called back.”
Ja’tar smiled. “You aren’t that special.”
“But apparently I am!” Menzzaren snorted and took another drag on his pipe.
“We need to have a Closing. I’ll go into more detail later.”
Menzzaren shook his staff at Ja’tar, “Well then, I truly am special, especially since you need three Grand Wizards. Here I thought you just missed an old friend.”
“Maybe, but only in this case ...and I have missed you.”
Menzzaren’s brows arched, but he said nothing.
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