Those were the days Dalar cherished most. In many ways, they were all he could ever remember. There were many times when Dalar would be sitting in his study lost in thought, trying in vain to recall moments of his childhood. Every now and then a flicker of some repressed memory would give Dalar great joy; however, most of the time, he was unable to tap into those precious memories. He only hoped his son, a bright lad of three, would be able to fondly remember his days as a child. The hours of the day seemed to slip by as the High Scholar tried to recount his youth.
Dalar was surprised when he noticed the light begin to wane as the sun crawled beyond the western edge of the world. The brittle grasses radiated in the deep golden light of the setting sun. A lone sparrow sang a mournful song of hunger to the dying light.
The rolling vineyards of Valvius’ western territory looked nothing more than skeletal arms clawing from the ground. For the connoisseurs this was a travesty, for the Valvian reds were known as the epitome of the wine world. Now, with the devastating heat, their precious vintages were no more.
Soft blue light peaked through the crack and joints of his mount. The world immediately around the clopping, mechanical steed ate the wondrous light with wanton abandon – creating a circlet of varying shades and hues of blue along the roadway. Despite his protestations against the usage, and abuse, of the cortex technology, Dalar would always be the first to admit the light a cortex emitted was, perhaps, one of the most beautiful sights in all of Wynne. He did not know what it was about the radiating light, but whenever he saw it, he could not help but feel a sense of wonder at its subtle beauty.
Another hour or so passed before the sun gave way to the soft din of night, and still Dalar still drudged on.
Not far from where he rode, Dalar could see the orange glow of north facing braziers along Brixon’s outer walls. Even at this distance, the sound of joviality from the many taverns and inns resounded over the city’s wall. The smells of city life weighed heavily on the still, dust-laden air; from the putrid scent of human waste to the tantalizing aroma of various cooked goods, the aroma of Brixon filled Dalar’s senses with a warm, welcoming touch.
“Who goes there?” A soft, monotonous voice asked upon Dalar’s approach. A towering figure of over eight feet stepped out from a hidden shadow. Dalar was taken back by the mechanical construct that approached him. “Brixon does not get many travelers by night. State yourself and business.”
“Well, I travel by day, or night, as the need serves.” Dalar looked up into the glowing blue eyes of the golem.
“The one called five-eight-three must know what need that may be.” The electronic voice demanded.
“I am High Scholar Dalar Rhume,” Dalar gave a curt bow. “I am here on the orders of Chief Scholar Edwin VonBraun and Chancellor Baltrus Muge. I have ridden from Le Clos Noire in the north and followed the Mainway since the early rays of dawn.” Dalar indicated in the direction he had just come. “Typically, I would camp or make for one of the lovely inns along the way, but I have been called upon in urgency.” With a slow hand he reached into his saddlebag and produced the telegraph from Edwin. Dalar held the paper up high so the construct could examine the text.
“The one called five-eight-three apologizes.” It said, moving into a passive stance. “Brixon does not get many visitors outside of day. With all the trouble these days, the one called five-eight-three is to be extra vigilant.”
“Not a worry my good ser,” the scholar said. “I understand the terrors of our time. You have done your duty well. I shall commend your service to the Chancellor on the morrow.” Dalar smiled at the golem, who strangely seemed pleased to have received such a compliment. The mechanical guard led Dalar to a postern gate, as the main city entrance had been ordered to raise and fall with the sun. Dalar thanked the construct again and continued on his way.
The postern gate gave way to a winding flagstone road that followed the outer perimeter of the grand city. Closing his eyes, Dalar figured he would have to follow this roadway to the west for a mile or so, before being able to join the Goldway at a junction point.
The Goldway will then run for about another mile to the south, where I will branch off, but this time onto the east running Onyx Ring – that glorious district of exotic animals and trade goods. From there I will have to continue, passing several junction points until I find Verdigris Avenue, which will lead me to the north again and the home of the scholars – the Grande Libatorium of Wynne.
Dalar smiled, as he was able to retrace the well-traversed path through the large city in his mind.
During his formative years within the scholarhood, Dalar found that, outside of diplomacy and literature, he had a natural gift with cartography and world geography. The added area of study only prolonged his schooling, but now Dalar could say that he was one in about a dozen or so to be as well versed in the world they lived; the study of geography was one often looked down on by the scholars, but Dalar found he had an innate skill in its teachings, so he spent an extra four years in persuit of perfecting his knowledge. Now he was so versed with the lay of the land, he could close his eyes and visualize every feature along the way, allowing him the ability of marking out the quickest path to his destinations.
It took Dalar the better part of three hours to traverse the way from postern gate to the Grande Libatorium. He had not counted on the streets to be congested with auto carriages and citizens. In the past, most of Brixon would have been at home, sitting by a fire or enjoying a family dinner. Dalar did not doubt the heat of day led to a city that thrived in the cool of night.
The scholar was glad to find the central square mostly void of activity. There were a few street performers loitering around the bases of three towing obelisks located at the heart of the wide square. These were the Valvian Towers of Time – a monument to man’s relation to the whimsical nature of the past, present and future. There was a lone copper plaque on a raised pedestal declaring the monument’s message:
Without recalling the past, how can the man of the present look to better his future?
It was a fitting message, made to honour the men who had fallen during the Great War and to warn against further such travesties.
Dalar rode around the far edge of the smallest limestone spire, which represented the future, letting the weight of its testament fill his soul with hope. Taking a deep breath, he led his steel-framed steed away from the monuments and towards the Grande Libatorium.
The front façade of the building was adorned with sculptures of the greatest scholars in the history of Wynne. The visage of Bold Newton of the ancient province of Issa stood central amongst the other effigies. In his hand he held an apple, as if to test his theory of gravity. Flanking Newton to either side were monuments to the great Asimo and Strauss, who were brothers from Ynoux, proving the world did in fact rotate around the sun.
The building itself was designed with tall, exaggerated angles, domed roofs, and hidden patios and balconies. Wild ivy encroached most of the lower sections of the stucco walls, providing a lovely sense of nature in the midst of the urban sprawl. The windows of the Libatorium were often too large, and always came to a curved top, mimicking the stained glass domes above.
Dalar smiled as he caught a glimpse of the verdigris stained copper plating that served as shingling for the building. He knew many members of the scholarhood praised the verdigris rooftops as a sign and testament to the persuit of knowledge. Many of these men and women often used the roof as their shield against the naysayers, declaring,
“Only a sharp and trained mind can stand forever, like a sturdy copper roof. Yes it may get worn and withered, and age will clearly show; however, the roof maintains its shape and purpose and needs no repair - just like the mind of a scholar.”
Dalar always thought it to be a rather ludicrous saying, and felt it only proved the common peoples views about the Council of Scholars; a view that painted the men and women of the scholarhood as nothing more than pompous know-it-alls looking to str
oke their own egos.
Dalar led his mount around to the back where the stable sat under a lone, withered willow tree. He tethered the mechanical beast to a sturdy metal hook, reached under its jaw line and flicked the power switch. The azure glow of the cortex dimmed to nothing as the power source turned off.
Stretching his back and legs as he departed the stable, Dalar let his steps lead him round the far side of the wilted willow tree.
For years, Dalar thought the lonely sentinel had developed an arborial sickness causing it to lose its leaves due to the sprawling city; however, upon his ascension into the esteemed ranks of the High Scholars, he quickly learnt otherwise. The Chief Scholar of the time, Benjamin R. Riley, had revealed to Dalar there was a hidden entrance located in the trunk of the tree, marked only by three misshapen blemishes on the trunk’s rough exterior. Now, Dalar pressed each of the blemishes in the appropriate order, and spoke a simple word of command. The trunk gave way to a small opening, which led to a descending spiral staircase of the finest marble. Looking about to ensure there were no prying eyes, Dalar retreated into the bowels of the lonely tree.
He took the stairs two at a time, letting his feet guide him in the soft glow of everflame lanterns, which sat in small crevaces along the descending wall. Dalar soon came to stand at the base of the stairs in a large, marbled hall. The room was spacious, and bare, save for a cast iron bench along the far wall. In his early days as High Scholar, Dalar had spent many afternoons relaxing on the bench with the latest piece of praised literature.
Several minutes passed as he navigated the winding passages of the lowest level of the Libatorium. Soon enough, and after several more flights of twisting stairs, Dalar found himself standing in the Hall of Knowledge.
If one were to enter the Libatorium by normal means, they would find themselves in the wide space known as the Hall of Knowledge. The floor was made of a hardened jadestone from the furthest reaches of the Far East. Woven into the sparkling jade floor were scenes of airships, flying in the heavens, all depicted with varying colours of alabaster shells, pearl and topaz. To either wing of the hall were descending stairs of maple, stained in a dark cocoa varnish used most commonly in southern Grubbenbrut.
Waiting for him, in the center of the room, was none other than his old friend, the current Chief Scholar, Edwin Baltrus.
“Dalar, my lad,” the older man said as he moved forward and embraced the younger. “How good it is to see you in these troubled times. I hope Lillian does not mind my abruptness?”
“Of course not, Edwin. She knows my loyalties to the scholarhood.” Dalar replied smiling.
“I am sorry for the urgency, but the Chancellor could not afford to wait a fortnight for our annual gala.” Edwin patted Dalar’s shoulder as they broke their embrace. “How is your son, big now I would assume, yes?”
“Quite,” the thought of his son filled Dalar with a longing for home. “Jakob will be three this time next month. He has an uncannily inquisitive mind, from me no doubt, and a fierceness that I am sure he gets from Lily.”
Edwin smiled, leading Dalar to the western most stair. They gossiped briefly as they ascended. The older man led Dalar through a large archway of granite. Dalar had no need to guess they headed for Edwin’s private chambers. As they wound their way through the upper halls of the Libatorium, they passed many more effigies to the great minds of science, art and literature.
Before long, Dalar found himself sitting in a cozy wing backed chair made with the softest purple velvet cushions a man could ever ask for. Dalar let himself be consumed by the luxurious comfort. Edwin sat in a matching chair to Dalar’s right. The room was aglow with a soft orange light that came from a small little fire that burned in the bowels of an ornate hearth. Between the chairs sat a lonely end table, which stood roughly three feet in height. Atop it sat a bottle of hard Di Delgan rum, the best known to Wynne.
Edwin handed a small, crystal glass to Dalar and poured them both a drink.
“I suppose it would be best to tell you of the urgency.” Edwin stated absently, as they each held their drink, lost in thoughts to the embers across the room. Dalar took a small sip of his rum, and motioned for Edwin to continue. “You know of the troubles Valvius faces?”
“Aye,” Dalar said, suspecting his urgent summons was somehow related. “I know of the troubles, but not the extent. We don’t hear much in Le Clos Noire about the greater world.”
“I know, I know.” Edwin sighed. “I won’t bore you with the details, but things have gone from troublesome, to out right dangerous my dear Dalar. And it is only getting worse.” The older man took a mouthful of his drink, never removing his gaze from the low burning fire.
“I had no idea it was so bad.” Dalar said after a minute.
“That is only the beginning. Right now we don’t know what is truth and what is rumour. The reports that come in are as varied and inconsistent as they can be. The only thing that stays the same in all the tales is either loss of life, destruction of property, or women being stolen from their homes. And recently,” Edwin hesitated, and distracted himself with another mouthful of rum.
“And what Edwin?”
“You are familiar with the Margoux family?” Dalar indicated it was so. “Well, over a fortnight ago Katherine Margoux went missing in Malefosse.”
“Katherine? What was she doing in Malefosse?” Dalar asked. The heir to the Margoux family estate had long been a close confidant, and friend, for Dalar. He had shared many of his deepest secrets with the lady Katherine as children. Perhaps more distressing than the loss of a close friend was the woes inherent in her disappearance, for the Margoux estate funded a good portion of Valvian industry.
“Oh you know her, trying to save the impoverished.” Edwin took another mouthful of his drink, finishing off the glass. “But that’s not all. Her cousin, Lucian, has taken it upon himself to go against the grand council and is creating search and rescue teams to set forth into the wilds of Wynne to find our missing women. I do not doubt he hopes to uproot the people behind the troubles we Valvians have been facing these long months aswell.”
“That is either very bold or very foolish of the representative.” Dalar stated, taking a deep pull of his own drink. “Probably more akin to outright stupid. This is why the Chancellor should have sent a scholar to the grand council, not a soldier.”
“I agree Dalar, but the Chancellor is supporting this, and the purposed plan in how it will operate.”
“Can you tell me what this plan is, Edwin, or is it not for any ears other than yours?” Dalar leaned towards his old friend.
“The plan, as I mentioned, involves several search and rescue units.” Edwin looked at Dalar with sad, grey eyes. “ They will operate independently and off the record. The Chancellor and Lucian both agree secrecy is paramount with this operation. Lucian fears there maybe agents working within the council for this supposed, oh what did he call it?” Edwin paused, thinking quietly to himself. “Ah yes, this so called Imperial Order of Wynne.”
“That is a bold accusation.” Dalar sighed. The soft crackling of the fire mingled with the slow ticking of a nearby clock. Dalar watched the low flames, distraught over what was happening to his beloved Wynne.
“Dalar, there is more.” Edwin said, as he, too, leaned forward.
“There always is, isn’t there Edwin?”
“Yes. I am afraid, there always is.” The chief scholar agreed. “These troupes are to consist of soldiers and scholars.”
“Scholars? What help will we be on this kind of mission?” Dalar could hear the confusion in his tone, and sensed Edwin had voiced the same concerns at one point.
“I thought the same when the coded telegram arrived, but once I spoke with the Chancellor, I understood.” Edwin shifted in his chair to look at Dalar again. “They are not recruiting just any scholars Dalar. They are asking for scholars that are versed in diplomacy, geography and even interrogation.”
“Which is why I have been summoned?” Dal
ar asked, knowing the answer before Edwin could confirm it. “What if I refuse?”
“The Chancellor has declared any who refuse will be branded a traitor to Valvius, and investigated for ties with this Imperial Order.” It was clear Edwin did not agree with the Chancellor’s consequences for refusal. “Apparently, our great and noble Chancellor views this as an issue of national security and will not take no for an answer, for the safety of Valvius falls on all of its citizen’s shoulders.”
“I told Lillian I would be no longer than a week.” Dalar sighed and took a deep swallow of his drink. “What happens now?” He asked, taking the last mouthful of rum.
Edwin rose from his chair, walked over to the hearth, and rested his hand on the ornate mantle piece. He looked up at an oil painting of Aristo Topeles, the founder of the Libatorium and the scholarhood.
“Now, we train.” Edwin lowered his head, hiding his contempt. “We must select and gather the finest scholars that meet the criteria and prepare them for this task. You are here as my aid in getting our brothers set for the days to come. When the time comes, you will be leading a team of your own to search out the missing Katherine Margoux.”
“I will be searching for her, and her alone?”
“Aye,” Edwin raised his eyes to meet Dalar’s stare. “You the best geographical scholar of our time, Dalar. You have this memory that works wonders. Katherine went missing in Syntar, and of all our numbers, you have been known to traverse the northern province the most. That will prove pivotal in finding the missing delegate.”
“Edwin, I have not been to Syntar since my years as an initiate. That is many moons ago now, I doubt even a mind such as mine can recall that sort of detail after all this time.” Dalar rose from his chair and stood beside his friend. “Edwin, there must be a better candidate. Surely we must have some Syntarans that would serve the task well?”
The Spark Page 8
