Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin)

by Matthew D. Ryan

  Regecon opened the door to Ambrisia’s parlor and entered. Inside, he recognized Korina, the gifted young earth sorceress in training, seated on the sofa on his right, diligently writing something on a piece of parchment she had lain on a small table in front of her. Ambrisia stood nearby, reciting a list of instructions. They both looked up.

  Regecon turned to Ambrisia. “You wished to speak with me, Earth Mistress? I can spare about an hour. I hope that is enough.”

  “It should be,” Ambrisia said.

  Korina leaned over and pushed the cork back in the ink vial; using a small cloth, she wiped the last bit of ink off the quill, then placed both objects on a nearby bookshelf. She stretched.

  “Korina, you can join us,” Ambrisia said. “Guild Master, let's take a walk.”

  “As you wish,” Regecon said, then held the door open. “Where would you like to go?”

  “The gardens. It is quiet and secluded there.” The Earth Mistress and her young student moved to pass through the open door.

  Regecon followed, and they started down through the corridors. At this time of night, the halls held little in the way of traffic save the occasional odd watchman. They headed to the southern tower, then wound their way up to its topmost floor. Here the guild’s garden grew, filled with plants exotic and rare. It was set up in three tiers. The topmost level bore the only entrance and the bottom floor, the only exit. An inner stairwell ran between, connecting all three sections in a wondrous, convoluted trail leading from top to bottom.

  “What did you find out, Ambrisia?” Regecon asked. As he opened the door, a dazzling display of splashing colors greeted them.

  “Much. And none of it good,” she said, stepping into the room.

  Regecon followed. “Indeed.”

  Beside them, Korina paused a moment to sniff an exotic yellow flower—one formed in the shape of a cup and laced with fiery red stripes. “Guild Master, Mistress,” she began, “are you sure you want me here? I could leave.” She sounded almost anxious to be about her own business.

  “No,” Regecon said. “Stay.” It would not look good if he and Ambrisia were left alone to walk through the gardens. Many knew of their close friendship, yet propriety demanded that they keep some distance. Sharing a night cap was one thing; a romantic walk through the guild garden was something else. Actually, he thought, romantically speaking they probably measure out to about the same thing. Still, best to be safe. He turned to the Mistress of the Earth. “Now,” he said, “tell me what you learned."

  “The Sceptre of Morgulan was a weapon,” she said, “a weapon of pure, unadulterated evil.” Beside her, Korina straightened abruptly, her eyes widening.

  “So it was,” Regecon said. “I had suspected to a certain degree.”

  “You don't understand,” Ambrisia said, tersely. “There is nothing redeeming about it. It would corrupt whoever wielded it.”

  “Then why did Arcalian have an interest in it?” Regecon asked.

  “That is what troubles me,” Ambrisia said. “I just can’t bring myself to believe that Arcalian could contemplate… what? What did he want it for?”

  “Where did it come from, Mistress?” Korina asked. “I mean, originally.”

  Ambrisia exhaled as if steeling herself to speak. “It was a gift,” she said.

  “A gift?” Regecon folded his arms beneath his chest.

  “From Lubrochius, the Eater of Souls.”

  Regecon frowned sourly. Beside him, Korina's hand reached toward her heart, apparently in dismay. It clenched once, spasmodically, then relaxed. “Morgulan was in league with Lubrochius? That I did not know.”

  “Actually, according to Tulthinon of Skaren, Zarina the Black orchestrated the deal,” Ambrisia informed them. “She was a Child of Lubrochius, after all, perhaps even the most trusted daughter of all his black cults.”

  Korina clutched her breast again, and her voice had a distant edge. “The Children of Lubrochius? I thought they were only legend.”

  “No, they were real. At least they were a thousand years ago. Very real. They do not concern me though, for once the deal was made they had little to do with the fate of the sceptre. No, that distinction belongs to the Black Circle.”

  “Morgulan’s Black Circle?” Korina asked. Regecon raised both eyebrows, impressed by the young woman's knowledge. She seemed more learned about history than he was.

  “Yes. After he had conquered the human empires, Morgulan declared himself a god. He anointed the Black Circle: eighteen of his most devout and trusted minions. Fanatics to the end, they pledged their lives and some say even their souls to Morgulan and his dark cause.”

  “What did they have to do with the sceptre?” Regecon asked. He had to keep his thoughts on the conversation, not on Korina. He could be impressed with her later, after he had learned what he needed to know.

  “They appointed its guardian. You see, Morgulan made a mistake,” Ambrisia said. “After conquering the bulk of humanity and claiming divinity, he rushed to conquer the other races, never dreaming that they might unite to throw him down. But they did unite: lithlyn, shaladryn, agnari, even the windar. They stopped him. And they drove him back. Eventually, after the bloodiest war of all time it became clear that Morgulan was beaten, his power broken, and his empire collapsing. Morgulan saw this and with Zarina he developed a plan. They made a pact with Lubrochius to spare them from utter defeat. Legend has it that the Arch-demon agreed, but at a dreadful price. Morgulan and Zarina fought until the end; it is believed that they met their end in a final cataclysmic battle, but their bodies were never found, nor was the sceptre.”

  “No one knows what became of it?” Regecon asked.

  “There were reports ... Many of Morgulan’s human subjects were driven mad by the presence of their ... comrades-in-arms, as it were. However, a few survived with their sanity intact.”

  “What did those reports say?” Regecon asked.

  “Morgulan held a dark ritual, and anointed one of his generals, the most devout member of his notorious Black Circle, as guardian. It is said the man sacrificed his soul and his freedom in exchange for immortality. He would take the Sceptre and hide it, waiting until the end of time ... waiting for Morgulan’s dread return.”

  Korina scoffed in disbelief. “But immortality is impossible, even Alisha Silvertress, as old as she is, hasn't stopped the passage of time. Everyone knows that!”

  “Yes,” Regecon said. “Alisha Silvertress… if only we had her counsel in these dark hours. I'm afraid… I can barely say it…. but perhaps Toreg was right. Is it possible that Arcalian truly was up to something sinister?”

  “I can’t believe that,” Ambrisia said, shaking her head. Her voice dropped off to a whisper. “I won’t believe it.”

  “There you are, Regecon,” Morcallenon said, stepping into the garden. “I’ve been searching for you all night. Do you know I had to do a divining just to find you? By the way, is one of you wearing a talisman of some sort? I had to unravel quite a bit of interference to locate you.”

  Regecon shook his head and glanced first at Ambrisia, then at Korina. Both women shrugged, then the younger one reached up to scratch her breastbone. She saw him looking, and smiled. Her hand dropped casually to her side.

  “Have you made a discovery, Morcallenon?” Regecon asked.

  “Yes, I have,” the diviner replied. “And it is one that is most dreadful.”

  “Well?”

  “Can I speak in front of her? I do not think it wise. She is only a student.”

  “She is Ambrisia’s most trusted student, I am certain—”

  “Guild Master, I’m afraid I really must insist on privacy,” Morcallenon said, suddenly growing adamant. He turned to the young woman. “Korina, that is your name, correct? Could you be a dear and leave us alone.”

  The young woman flushed, but controlled her anger. She nodded tersely, then headed toward the door.

  Morcallenon reached out and cupped a red saucer-shaped plant and sniffed
it once. “You know, in all my years here, I have never once set foot in this garden. Only now, do I realize what I have missed.”

  “Tell us what you have discovered,” Ambrisia said.

  “Well, those sigils on the jar ... you aren’t going to believe this ... they’re from the school of deathcraft, you know, necromancy!”

  “Necromancy? The art of the undead? Are you certain?” Ambrisia asked.

  “Of course I am. I would not make such a claim unless I was.”

  “Another clue pointing in the same direction,” Regecon said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Morcallenon.

  “It is starting to look like Arcalian was in league with some very dark forces,” Regecon answered.

  “I must object,” Ambrisia said. “We can’t convict Arcalian until we hear his side. There’s probably a simple explanation.”

  “Perhaps,” Morcallenon agreed. His expression, however, showed little conviction.

  Regecon scratched his beard. “I know how you two feel—I feel the same way— but the evidence…” He let the thought hang there incomplete.

  “Regardless of Arcalian’s guilt or innocence,” Morcallenon said, “the fact that the sigils are necromantic got me thinking. You remember the black time? I was wondering—”

  “If it may have been generated by some type of undead,” Regecon said, completing the thought. “That is troubling. Which types of undead are strong enough to generate black time?”

  “I am uncertain. I’m pretty sure a wraith lord could and there are also several species of spectre that might. I believe there are others, but I would need to do more research to produce a precise litany. As you know, I still have several other matters to attend to.”

  “Yes,” Ambrisia said. “The paste and the book, of course.”

  “Well, Guild Master?”

  “I need time,” Regecon said. “Proceed as you have been. I will get back to you. You have given me much to think about.”