by Dan Zangari
“Good evening, grandmaster,” the sentries outside said in unison. Alacor simply nodded and walked down the path to the gates.
The illusion crossed the grounds to Iltar’s right, walking with a haughty gait. Pagus would undoubtedly reach the gates at the same time as Alacor. After everything he’d tried to do, it was still not enough! The things I do for this kid… Iltar grumbled inwardly.
Alacor glanced to his right, noticing the illusion of Iltar walking across the grounds.
“Are you making rounds now, Iltar?” Alacor said with a chuckle. “That’s why we have guards.”
The illusion of Iltar shrugged then said, “I thought I saw something. But it was nothing.” Pagus was quite skilled. Iltar couldn’t even tell the difference in the voice. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to intervene. The illusion of Iltar continued walking to the gate, ignoring Alacor.
“Not riding your horse?” Alacor called out, gesturing to the stables.
“I’ll fetch him later,” the illusion said. His tone was hurried, nervous. Pagus probably thought Iltar had already left the Necrotic Order for the day. But Alacor’s words inferred that Iltar hadn’t left yet.
The illusion hurried out the gates and disappeared down the road.
Well, that was close. Iltar shook his head. He’d better follow Pagus.
* * * * *
Iltar trailed the illusion of himself for nearly an hour. He was still invisible and was careful not to bump into anyone in the busy Sorothian streets. This furtive tailing was actually fun.
Eventually, the illusion entered an alley, cautiously looking about. Where was Pagus going?
Iltar crept into the alley and as the illusionary particles wisp from Pagus. The rebellious youth took a deep breath and then pulled at his satchel. It too had an illusion upon it, making it look exactly like the one Iltar carried. Pagus opened the pack, took one look inside, and then closed it.
What did he take? Iltar wondered.
Pagus then looked farther down the alley and headed that direction. Iltar crept close behind, but was careful not to draw any attention.
Pagus stepped out onto another road and hurried through the street. He wound his way toward a neighborhood on the northwest side of Soroth. This particular neighborhood consisted of modest homes, where the average citizens of Soroth lived. The houses were situated on small lots, with tiny yards between the homes.
What was he doing here? Pagus had a home not far from the Necrotic Order. His father had purchased it for him, so Pagus wouldn’t have to stay in the dormitories with the other students. It was actually not too far from Cornar’s home here in the city.
Pagus went to one of the three-story homes and knocked several times in a pattern. The door opened and Odinal—the apprentice of Melnor—ushered Pagus inside.
“Those sneaky boys,” Iltar whispered.
A raindrop fell onto his cheek. He looked up. The sky was darkening. Well, that’s not good. The rain would show his outline if it came down too heavily. Iltar had to get into Odinal’s home and see what they were up to before he lost his ruse.
Iltar crept across the street and stepped onto the porch just as the door opened again. Pagus, Odinal, and another youth named Tindil exited the home. Tindil was Jalel’s apprentice, and one of the oldest of the current acolyte ranks, barely older than Pagus.
“I wish you had brought your carriage, Pagus,” Tindil complained, scowling at the sky.
Pagus grunted. “If I had gone straight home, I would have been noticed. A little rain won’t kill you.”
“I’m not worried about us,” Tindil snapped. “I just hope that bag of yours doesn’t have any holes. Those tomes are priceless.”
Odinal simply locked the door.
“You don’t think I know that.” Pagus sighed, raising his brow.
The three youths walked down the porch, passing the invisible Iltar. They continued into the street and exited the neighborhood; all the while, Iltar followed them. The apprenticing necromancers continued together for a time but eventually split up. Iltar heard something about a gathering and decided to stay with Pagus, following the boy up to another home in a more affluent neighborhood.
Pagus knocked on the door in that same pattern, and then another familiar young man exited the home. The boy pulled a cloak over himself and donned a cowl. Iltar couldn’t remember his name, but he knew the boy was a student at the Necrotic Order. This new boy joined Pagus for a time but eventually went off on his own. Iltar watched as he knocked on another door, fetching another acolyte of the Order.
What are these acolytes up to? Iltar wondered and caught back up to Pagus. Iltar followed the boy up to another home, one he recognized. It belonged to the parents of Agen.
Agen soon emerged after Pagus knocked, and they both walked together. Was Agen part of this mischief too? What was Pagus dragging these children into?
Not long after, the storm was upon the city in full force. It was raining hard and Iltar’s disguise wasn’t a disguise anymore.
Pagus was still gathering more students of the Order but Iltar had to stay with him. So, Iltar decided upon a new plan. While Pagus fetched another student, Iltar quickly ducked between two homes and relinquished his invisibility spell. Then he cast his own illusion about himself, taking the guise of a plump man with a scrawny beard.
Now clothed in an illusion, Iltar stepped out onto the street, watching the boys. He had to keep his distance now. Hopefully none of them were paranoid enough to be watching for someone following them.
They weren’t.
Pagus led the small band to his home not far from the Necrotic Order. Darkness had fallen, but the rain continued pouring. Pagus’s Sorothian abode sat on a nice fenced lot. It was a third of a phedan, quite large for a city estate. A wrought-iron gate in the fence opened to a wide path leading to the three-story home. The home was charming, with a black roof and a beige stone façade. Its large porch was flanked by a small garden and a two-story turret with ascending windows. At the rear of the property sat a detached carriage house that doubled as a stable for Pagus’s horses.
Iltar watched as the boys filed into the home. They looked soaked, and so was he.
Soon, Odinal and Kreely ran down the street with a handful of acolytes. They hurried through the gate and entered Pagus’s large home. That left only Tindil and whoever he picked up along the way, unless he was already inside.
Iltar looked around the street. It was empty, except for the occasional carriage parked on the street. That gave him an idea. He strolled nonchalantly to the nearest carriage and dismissed his illusion.
Looking about to see that no one was around, Iltar whispered another spell. Pale-green particles gathered in his hand, weaving together like fibers. The magical strands twisted, coiling beneath his feet. Within seconds, a rope formed, made of pure magic. Ropes such as these could adhere to any surface and were nearly impossible to break. Of course, one could sever them with destructive magics or a dispel.
With his magical cord formed, Iltar wound it around his arm and recast his invisibility. The gate to Pagus’s property was still open, so Iltar slipped inside. He scanned the yard. It was empty. Perfect! Iltar crept up to the nearest windows and peered inside. The boys were all gathered in a parlor, thirteen total. Tindil, however, wasn’t present.
Iltar had to sneak inside. He was familiar with this home and knew all of its secrets. It had once belonged to his former master, Rovin, after all.
Never thought I’d sneak into this house again, Iltar mused as he crept around the backside of the home. He looked upward, eyeing a dormer with shutters above the third floor.
With rope in hand, Iltar threw it as high as he could. Though it was invisible, Iltar could feel it adhere to the roof. Careful to not make any noise, Iltar scaled the side of the home. Thunder rumbled in the distance as he climbed. Good, something to mask my ascent.
Soon, Iltar was on the roof. He opened the shutters to the dormer and braced his hands on the glass, wiggling it
back and forth. This window had a loose lock. At least it had when he was younger. Hopefully none of the other owners had changed it. A click reached his ears, and the lock gave way. Iltar slowly slid the window open.
Thunder rumbled again, this time closer.
Pleased with himself, Iltar coiled his invisible rope and slipped inside the attic. He closed the shutters and then the window. The attic was dark, but Iltar knew his way around it. He crept through the space, carefully avoiding the creaking floorboards. A familiar musk tingled his nostrils. It reminded him of his past, but Iltar pushed those memories aside.
The door to the attic wasn’t locked, and Iltar opened it without a sound. Faint, unintelligible chatter rose from the home’s lower floors. An anteroom lay beyond the door to the attic, lit by a single lightstone sconce. The walls were a simple dark beige, painted to resemble stone. A narrow set of stairs led to the third floor, covered in dark wood.
Iltar crept down the stairs and into a loft overlooking the first floor foyer. The foyer was the main hub for the house. The living room, parlor, and dining room were all open to it. Here, Iltar could hear the conversation.
“… yes, when Tindil gets here, we’ll start,” Pagus said.
“Can we at least see them?” an acolyte asked.
“I don’t see any harm in that,” Pagus said. The sounds of rummaging through a pack reached Iltar’s ears. “Here it is, Praxion Velon’s Repository. While we’re studying these two weeks I’m going to make copies of the tome.”
Iltar groaned to himself. You’re an obstinate one, Pagus.
“And what’s the other one?” another boy asked.
“This one, well, Tindil was saying this book has some of the greatest secrets of all time. He heard Master Jalel speaking of it to a friend of his just last month.”
So they’re having their own study time, Iltar mused. He rolled his eyes and made his way down to the first floor, still invisible.
The doors to the home opened as Iltar left the base of the stairs. Tindil entered with four others. They removed their cowls one by one, and Iltar didn’t recognize anyone until he saw the last… It was little Bilda! Oh no. Now three of his students were mixed up with this mischief Pagus had caused.
“It took you long enough,” Pagus called from the parlor.
“Sorry,” one of the new arrivals shouted. “My little brother wanted to come along.” Bilda looked sheepish at the remark. He glanced to the boy who had spoken but said not a word.
Tindil marched through the foyer and into the parlor. He acted as if he was the leader. “Well, this is a good turnout,” Tindil said, eyeing the boys in the parlor. Counting those who had just arrived, there were nineteen. Tindil glanced at a low table in the parlor where two old tomes were resting. Iltar recognized one as Praxion Velon’s Repository.
“What were you doing, Pagus?” Tindil asked.
“Showing them the tomes,” Pagus replied flatly.
Tindil placed his hands on his hips. “Did you collect their dues?”
“Dues?” one of the boys asked. He and some of the others looked confused.
“They don’t need to pay us,” Pagus retorted.
“That wasn’t the deal,” Tindil said, exasperated. “We said they’d pay us.”
“No, that’s what you wanted to do.”
Tindil sighed and paced back and forth. “Look, we’re going to be teaching them. It’s only right that they pay us.”
“No one ever said anything about paying,” one of the acolytes spoke up.
“I brought my money,” said one of the boys who had arrived with Tindil. He handed over a small sack to Tindil.
“Well, I had definitely spread that word around,” Tindil said, taking the coin. “If you don’t have your coin, you’ll need to leave.” Some of the boys looked astonished, others disappointed.
“This is my home,” Pagus retorted.
“Actually it’s your daddy’s home,” Tindil said with a snicker. Two of the boys who had come with him laughed.
I hate children like that, Iltar groaned inwardly. They weren’t really boys, but Iltar considered them as such. Each of these acolytes was between fourteen and eighteen.
“Maybe you’ll just cover their costs,” Tindil suggested. “How does that sound?”
Pagus’s brow furrowed. He was angry at the suggestion. Did Pagus believe he was helping these boys? Tindil was obviously trying to exploit them. But what would motivate Pagus to help them?
“This is all I’ve got.” Agen pulled some coins from his pocket. He set them on the table beside the tomes.
“We’ll take a deposit,” Tindil said, picking up the coins. “You can pay us the rest later.”
Many of the other boys dug into their pockets, removing various sizes of Sorothian coins. Tindil didn’t even count how much they were paying him.
What an opportunist.
Pagus, however, folded his arms. He eyed Tindil angrily.
“Well, that should do,” Tindil smiled wryly. “For now. Did your servants prepare anything to eat, Pagus?”
Pagus didn’t reply, but walked out of the parlor. He headed straight for the invisible Iltar but walked past him, disappearing into the rear parts of the home while Tindil took charge.
“I think it’s too late to start any training tonight, but let’s have a read, shall we?” Tindil picked up the other tome. It was bound in off-white leather, but Iltar couldn’t read the title on the binding or the front cover.
“What’s that book, Tindil?” an acolyte asked.
“The Codices of Soron Thahan. It holds the secrets to the past and prophecies of the future, written by one of Soroth’s founding fathers. It’s his retelling of the world’s history. I heard Master Jalel speaking of the truths contained within it.” Tindil moved to a corner of the parlor and stood in front of a chair occupied by one of the younger acolytes.
“Why don’t you move?” Tindil said with a snide tone. “I need a place to sit.” The acolyte moved begrudgingly and sat on the floor. What a bully, Iltar thought. Just like his master.
Pagus walked back into the foyer, grumbling under his breath. Again, he walked right past Iltar. “Food is coming,” Pagus said as he entered the parlor.
Tindil smiled. “Good.” He opened the Codices tome and began reading from it. “Preface. Words cannot describe how magnificent ancient Kalda was. That world was perfect, filled with tevisrals. If our enemies have their way, my posterity might not know that term. But these tevisrals were grander than anything you could imagine…”
That sounds oddly familiar, Iltar thought. This preface sounded like Reflection’s words in his last dream. Iltar hadn’t dreamed of him since that last encounter. The nights had been quiet.
Tindil continued reading. “… that was until the Crimson Eye shadowed the world. It came, ever searching, and caused a devastation the likes of which our world had never seen. The Eye plucked our gods from us, and we were left alone, doomed without their divine influence.”
There’s that phrase again! Iltar thought. The Crimson Eye. What was it? The letter from Rovin’s father mentioned it, then the dreams, and now The Codices of Soron Thahan.
Tindil continued reading from the preface, speaking about survivors of a cataclysmic war. The survivors banded together, taking shelter beneath the world. They had taken upon themselves a vow to never allow such devastation to strike again. “As long as our blood runs true,” Tindil read, “and a remnant of our posterity roams Kalda, we will ensure that the old ways live on. We will not fear our Foe. We will stand fast. We will ensure that the Crimson Eye remains hidden for all time.”
Iltar was taken aback. Hadn’t that booming voice said something about his followers speaking a vow like that? Perhaps those dreams weren’t dreams at all. But that would imply they were of divine origin. Krindal mentioned that the Mindolarn prince claimed divine guidance, led by something called the Will. Could Iltar’s dreams be somehow tied to Krindal’s quest? That was a disturbing thought. I’m no
t some hero, Iltar mused. I’m far from it. Not with what I’ve done.
Tindil kept reading, but Iltar was lost in his own thoughts. “… and now it falls to you, who read this. I implore you. Seek the Ca’trusin, and take upon yourselves the vow, ‘May the Crimson Eye remain hidden for all time.’”
A bell rang from deep within the home, heralding the food prepared by Pagus’s servants. Tindil paused, bookmarking the page with a velvet strand.
I need to find out more about this book, Iltar thought. He strode to the parlor, dismissing his invisibility.
Several of the acolytes saw Iltar’s approach, including Tindil. Tindil paled in fear, dropping the Codices tome. “Oh no…” he said with a gasp. The tome hit the ground amid the frantic cries from the acolytes. Some were screaming phrases in an attempt to ward off torturous punishment. Their participation in Pagus’s rebellious actions was enough for them to be disciplined by Alacor and the others. How barbaric!
Chaos ensued. Some of the acolytes ran past him, headed for the home’s entrance. Others huddled in corners, screaming or crying.
Iltar’s students, however, remained in the parlor, looking at their master with uneasy gazes. Though they didn’t fear him—as the others feared their masters—they were unsure of what he would do. Agen and Bilda hadn’t been caught doing something out of line. Pagus, however, was his typical defiant self.
Odinal and Kreely remained as well, but they were leery. Their encounter with Iltar in the basement of the Record Hall was still fresh in their minds. They knew Iltar wouldn’t hurt them, but they were unsure of what would happen next.
“Silence!” Iltar shouted, his voice ringing through the foyer and the other adjoining rooms. “And cease your flight!” The fleeing boys froze, stopping short of the home’s entrance.
“Master Iltar,” Bilda spoke up timidly, “What are you doing here?” He stepped toward Iltar, unafraid of punishment. Several of the frightened acolytes stared at Bilda in bewilderment. Iltar ignored the boy and glared at Pagus. He raised his brow in disappointment but Pagus didn’t seem the least bit ashamed.