by Dan Zangari
“For now I will allow events to play out,” Dorith replies and takes in a deep breath while sternly staring into Maurin’s eyes. “We need more proof, and until then I cannot act without drawing unwarranted attention.”
“There is a quicker way to obtain the answers you seek,” Maurin interjects with a serious expression upon her face. “I know you have the means.”
“Nothing short of a trek to Usazma’thirl…” Dorith shakes his head and leans back in the booth. “That would be the only secure way of contacting father.”
“Surely you have an Ul’thirl.”
“Not in my personal possession,” Dorith frankly responds. “And it would be too risky to retrieve one. If Iltar is indeed the necromancer, or working for him, then fetching a seer-stone will lead him straight to the vault, and the Ka’nakar. I cannot take the chance of having the vault discovered. Until I am certain of Iltar’s true agenda, I will not open it nor approach it.”
“The transportium?” Maurin suggests urgently. “If everything you say is true, then it is a worthy risk—and don’t retort with those silly Edicts!”
Dorith chuckles and slowly shakes his head, “That would attract far too much attention. Now, are you aware of any others in the kingdom who might have been in Soroth recently?”
Maurin shakes her head.
“Then we will have to wait for the others to return from Soroth and Merdan. I just hope it won’t be too late.”
“I think you are making a mistake,” Maurin sighs and raises her brow. “What about the record?”
“Thranar wanted to assemble a small task force from among the council to take it from Riner and the necromancer. In his rashness, Thranar believed it was being kept in Soroth; Iltar’s story eluded to the governor of Soroth being the true mastermind behind this entire ordeal, though they came into the necromancer’s possession first. A detail which could indicate that the qui’sha are behind this.
“However, if Iltar is the necromancer, or working for him, then there is no telling where it could be. An assault of that magnitude would only bring war to Los.”
“Oh, Dorith,” Maurin sighs while averting her eyes to the table. “You truly care for your Kingdom; but I feel that was the wrong choice to make, which brings me to wonder if that’s the true reason you asked to meet with me.”
Dorith nods his head while reaching into the inner pocket of his tunic; he pulls out a golden ring with an inlayed dark blue rogulin crystal.
While extending the ring toward Maurin, Dorith replies, “You know me too well. But after all, you are my sister.”
“Half-sister,” Maurin retorts while darting a sharp glance to Dorith. She grabs the ring while directing her gaze to the main dining hall. “What did you say the governor’s name was?”
“Riner.”
* * * * *
On the morning of Iltar’s seventh day in Alath, the necromancer stands before a classroom full of young would-be-mages, slowly reciting a complex illusionary spell; during that intervening time, Iltar had gained Rinden’s trust. The head of the Estate’s Illusionary school saw fit to make the infiltrating necromancer an instructor, teaching complex forms of illusions to a variety of young students.
White magic floats beside Iltar, coalescing into a humanoid form reaching from the floor to the top of Iltar’s head.
Amid his incantation, Iltar studies the classroom; it is large, spanning twenty phineals by forty phineals. The aforementioned pupils of magic sit in dark wood desks atop cushioned chairs, ranging in age from children to young adolescents of both sexes; each of them intently focus on their deceptive instructor and his labored incantation.
After a moment, the magic takes shape as an exact illusionary reflection of the necromancer.
Sounds of admirable whispers fill the classroom while the students gawk at the illusion.
Amid the whispers, Iltar paces in front of his class and says in a strained tone, “That’s how you create an illusion of yourself. Are there any questions?”
“Yes,” a young adolescent boy exclaims from the back row. “Can this work on other people?”
Iltar grins and chuckles, pacing toward the nearest window on the class’s right. Through the pane, Iltar can see the sun rising to the west, its rays breaking over the buildings of the Estate. After a moment, he answers, “Of course.”
While gazing out the window, Iltar hears one of the girls near the front of the classroom ask, “How long does it take to replicate someone else?”
“It depends on your concentration,” Iltar replies and steps away from the window. He turns toward the girl who queried, two seats away from the classroom’s outer wall. Once near her desk, Iltar places both hands upon it and sternly challenges her, “Do you care to try it?”
The girl timidly shrinks in her chair while a young masculine voice exclaims from the classroom’s rear, “I will try!”
Iltar averts his gaze from the girl and looks to the eager pupil, noticing the same boy who had asked the initial question; he stoically strides to the front of the class and boldly stands beside the necromancer.
“Very well,” Iltar says with a sly grin; he straightens up and steps away from the desk, turning toward the boy.
While focusing on his instructor, the boy methodically utters the words to the spell; white magical particles dance through the air and wrap around Iltar, then coalesce beside him, rapidly spinning.
A moment later, the magic takes a humanoid form. Several minutes later the illusion takes shape, resembling Iltar.
While examining the illusion, Iltar sarcastically criticizes the boy, “My goatee is off.”
In response to Iltar’s candid assessment, several of the students giggle while others loudly laugh.
“But I did it,” the boy firmly retorts, and his words are echoed by the illusion in a voice similar to Iltar’s.
Humored, Iltar grunts, turns toward the other students and generally asks, “Does anyone else want to try to do better?”
The laughter ceases and the students look at each other with overwhelmed expressions across their faces.
A sly grin forms upon Iltar’s face, and he says in a smug tone, “Then you can leave early. Enjoy your brief reprieve before your next class.”
Several of the younger students happily cheer and quickly grab their belongings from their desks while others solemnly rise from their seats with Iltar’s daunting challenge harrowing their minds.
Within a minute, the classroom is empty besides one adolescent girl, who slowly rises from her seat.
“Instructor Iltar,” the girl shyly beckons while nearing the front of the classroom; her light blonde hair bounces as she walks while her green eyes innocently yet timidly stare at Iltar.
“Yes, Idina?”
“I was wondering… well I… I was reading a story where a mage used illusions to conceal magic. Do you think it’s possible?”
Iltar raises his brow with a genuine sense of intrigue, then answers, “For many illusionists it is a hard thing. And you would need to be adept in the other schools of magic, typically.
“But last week, I visited Beglar’s Theater where a troupe of mage-actors was performing. They used something like what you’re talking about, except they used illusions of those other magical forms.”
“I see…” Idina mutters, darting a glance to the windows while Iltar continues.
“During that show, Master Rinden mentioned a myth concerning grand mages using what you’re talking about in combat. He questioned the practice as deceptive and dishonorable in natu–”
“I know,” Idina hastily interrupts and swallows hard. “I shouldn’t have asked…”
The young girl steps away from Iltar and heads for the door, but Iltar abruptly barks, “Wait! Close the door.”
Startled by Iltar’s command, Idina turns around, glances to Iltar, then shuts the door.
“Come here,” Iltar says in a mild tone while motioning for the young girl to come to his side.
Once w
ithin arm’s reach, Idina looks at the floor and timidly asks, “Are you going to report me to Master Rinden?”
“No, but I will tell you a secret.”
Surprised, Idina studies Iltar.
“It can be done. If you can harness any destructive magic, you can conceal it within the illusion. The magic must be mustered first, then the illusion wrapped around it to conceal it—but you must completely concentrate on holding the destructive magic back within the illusion.”
“Can you show me?” Idina eagerly asks and grabs Iltar’s robe.
“Why?” Iltar demands with a narrowed brow. “Answer me that first.”
“I want to be powerful!” Idina replies desperately. “I feel as though I need it, I crave it! But many of my instructors have said I crave too much… and it's wrong.”
After Idina’s answer, a bell rings through the closed door, indicating a change in classes for the students of the Illusionary School.
“You still have not answered, why,” Iltar says with slight annoyance. “What motivates you to become powerful?”
“I just feel it calling to me.”
Iltar smiles then responds, “When you can clearly put your motivation into words come back to me. You’ll never accomplish your ambitions until you do.”
Idina smiles and looks Iltar in the eye while saying, “I like you, Master Iltar. If only you were more than an illusionist…”
With that said, the young girl turns around and walks toward the door, opens it and disappears down the hall.
Once Idina leaves the classroom, Iltar takes a deep breath and returns his gaze to the scene beyond the windows.
Amid Iltar’s gazing, a sly familiar voice whispers from the classroom’s rear, “Little does she know, her wish has already come true…”
Iltar darts to the door, closes it and turns a lock on the handle while demanding, “Tilthan?”
“At your service,” the thief exclaims while unveiling his cloak. He appears in the classroom’s rear exterior corner, bowing with his shimmering shroud in hand.
“You picked a horrible time to come find me!” Iltar snarls, dropping the ruse he has hid behind for nearly a week.
“I’m surprised they let you in,” Tilthan smirks. “And you’re teaching children! Whatever you’re looking for must be pretty important. Speaking of which–”
“Not yet,” Iltar grumbles. “Where are the others?”
“They’re working at Hethway’s Tavern, it’s on the east side of the inner city. Do you want to meet with them? I brought Nemral’s lenses.”
Iltar stares hard at the thief before answering with a nod.
Tilthan reaches into his small pack slung at his waist and removes a pair of silver rimmed magical spectacles; once removed, Tilthan motions for Iltar to come near while saying, “I don’t want to walk in front of those windows.”
“We are three stories up. No one can see inside,” Iltar sighs while shaking his head. He walks across the classroom and adds, “Besides, those are the students’ dormitories. No one should be in there, anyway.”
“I’m not taking any chances,” Tilthan retorts in a paranoid tone, then asks as he hands Iltar the lenses, “Do you want to leave now?”
“I have to teach more classes. This was only the first today.”
The thief sighs and agitatedly demands, “How long is that going to take?”
“Till dinner,” Iltar sneers. “I suggest you hide at the front of the room.”
“Forget that!” Tilthan exclaims while wrapping his cloak around him. “I’ll just come back later.”
“Don’t get caught!” Iltar snarls and walks back across the room.
“Do I ever?” Tilthan laughs. “Now open the door for me.”
Amid the thief’s demand, Iltar places the magical lenses within the inner pocket of his tunic.
Once the lenses are hidden, the dark necromancer moves for the door, opening it in an aloof manner.
* * * * *
Later that evening, the last batch of Iltar’s students tiredly file out of the necromancer’s classroom. Once the room is empty, Iltar examines the space in search of Tilthan, softly whistling Cornar’s signal.
Another whistle quietly echoes from the room’s front exterior corner, and Tilthan whispers, “How do you want to go about this? You can’t simply wear those.”
“We’ll sneak out together,” Iltar answers. “How far are we going?”
“To about the eastern gate; it’s a grand phineal south of it.”
Iltar grumbles while drawing Nemral’s lenses from his tunic’s inner pocket, and places them upon his face.
Through the lenses, Iltar can see the outline of the invisible thief, leaning against the corner with his arms folded.
“Let’s go,” Iltar commands and quickly utters the words to bring forth a concealing veil of magic; the white-gray particles wisp around him and he vanishes from sight.
* * * * *
An hour and a half later, Iltar and Tilthan appear within an alley on the eastern side of Alath’s inner city, nestled between two stone buildings. Their exteriors are altered by transmutive magic and resemble finished wood, a trait many of the buildings share within this part of Alath.
Beyond the alley lays a road known as the boarder highway; it lines the entire inner city and connects to each of its four gates. The sounds of horseshoes, creaking carriage wheels and footfalls reach Iltar’s ears while sparse traffic passes the alley.
Once visible, the necromancer and thief walk toward a door to their right, the side entrance of Hethway’s Tavern.
While approaching the door, Iltar whispers, “It’s crowded.”
“Uh yeah…” Tilthan replies, “It’s about that time people eat dinner.” Upon reaching the door Tilthan adds. “There’s an apartment upstairs that we can meet in. Once we’re inside the stairs are on your right.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Iltar snarls while pressing himself against the wall behind Tilthan, partially concealing himself from the view of those in the road.
“Of course,” the thief replies, removing a key from his pocket. “Nemral’s cousin manages it.”
“None of you better have told him why you’re here,” Iltar grumbles as Tilthan opens the door.
“We don’t even know why we’re here,” Tilthan retorts while rolling his eyes.
The thief glances to Iltar then steps through the doorway into a narrow hallway, laughing and shaking his head. He turns to his left, disappearing through a doorway not far from the building’s side entrance.
Iltar swiftly enters the hall and anxiously turns to his right, moving straightway for the aforementioned stairway. It rises two stories, with a square landing marking the middle of the stairwell. The necromancer reaches the top of the stairs and arrives at another landing with a single door placed on the wall left of the steps.
While cautiously moving toward the door, Iltar raises his right palm, and his favored black magic seeps from his pores, forming a globe of darkness. Once formed, Iltar opens the door.
The necromancer slowly steps into a large living room; windows with their draperies drawn shut line the wall to Iltar’s right, sparsely illuminating the space. A single chandelier hangs from the center of the room, devoid of candles or light stones. Beneath the chandelier, a couch and three chairs are squarely clustered together, each sitting atop a red and golden rug.
Wooden floorboards creek as Iltar enters the room. He warily examines his surroundings with narrowed eyes, extending his hand clutching his destructive magic.
Satisfied with the emptiness of the room, Iltar turns to his left toward a darkened doorway situated against the far wall; he creeps across the room, noticing an unlit hall beyond the door.
While nearing the door, an eerie beckon from a strained deep voice echoes from the landing, “Oh, Iltar…”
The necromancer abruptly turns, aiming his devouring magic toward the room’s entrance but stops short of flinging his globe once he sees the three thie
ves.
“Whoa!” Tilthan blurts. “I’m just trying to have fun!”
“And get us killed,” Nath quips while slapping the back of his hand against Tilthan’s head.
Tilthan rubs his head and grumbles, “Boy you two are paranoid…”
“Why shouldn’t we be?” Nemral remarks while stepping into the room; he is wearing chefs clothing and a tightly fitting cap.
“Weren’t you paranoid earlier today?” Iltar questions Tilthan’s hypocrisy then asks while motioning back toward the darkened hall, “What’s down there?”
Tilthan rolls his eyes and walks to the armchair nearest the apartment’s entrance and throws himself upon the seat.
“A kitchen. Bedrooms,” Nath responds as he closes the door; he moves toward the windows and opens a chest resting beneath them. The thief rummages through the contents and finds a small box, opening it to reveal three light stones which illuminate the room. With the light stones in hand, Nath moves to the chandelier and places each of the stones within it.
While Nath hangs the stones, Iltar dismisses his globe of darkness and asks, “When did you arrive?”
“Two days ago,” Nath responds while placing the last light stone within the chandelier.
“You found work fairly quick,” Iltar muses while walking toward the nearest chair; he looks to Nemral and remarks, “Tilthan said your cousin manages this place.”
“That’s right,” Nemral responds and sits on the couch. “She moved to Alath a few years ago. Cabrin told me she had left Klath, something to do about a dispute with one of her superiors in the Frontier Guard.”
“She got kicked out,” Tilthan spits the words, then with a tone of excitement adds, “She’s one of those feisty women!”
Ignoring Tilthan, Iltar sternly asks, “What does she know?”
“Just that we were looking for work, and a place to stay,” Nemral replies. “We’re living here above the tavern. We haven’t said anything else.”
“Good, keep it that way!” Iltar commands. “Where is the crystal?”
