by Dan Zangari
“I was following your ringleader,” Iltar said mockingly. “I noticed him sneaking out of the Record Hall wearing my illusion.” Pagus started, eyes widening. “Don’t worry”—Iltar waved his hand—“No one else discovered him. I saw to that myself.” He took a deep breath and paced for a moment. Some of the boys looked at each other nervously.
“You obviously realize the seriousness of what you’ve done,” Iltar said, “else you wouldn’t be so frightened.” He let that sink in for a moment.
“What are you going to do to us?” Tindil asked, pressing himself against the chair.
“He won’t do anything,” Pagus said, his tone full of contempt. “He’s too soft.”
“Don’t test me, boy.” Iltar cocked his head toward Pagus and eyed his apprentice. He needed to be more forceful with Pagus. Perhaps some discipline in front of his peers would do him good. It had worked for a time after catching him in the Record Hall.
Iltar grinned, uttering an incantation. Orange magic coalesced in his right hand. Pagus flinched and began casting his own spell to retaliate. Green magic wove through the air. He was trying to do what Iltar had done in the Record Hall: use an ensnaring tentacle spell to shut his master up.
But such a tactic wouldn’t incapacitate Iltar.
An orange ball of life-draining magic formed in Iltar’s hand before Pagus could finish his spell. Iltar flicked his wrist, and an orange cord flew from his hand. The cord wrapped around Pagus’s neck like a snake, dropping the rebellious youth to the floor and interrupting his spell. The cord pulsed once, and Pagus gasped for breath.
“He’s going to kill him!” one of the boys cried.
Young Bilda was looking up at Iltar. The boy looked confused but thoughtfully studied what was happening. His eyes widened with enlightenment, and he smiled.
“Pagus,” Bilda spoke up, “you really should treat Master Iltar with more respect.”
“Please stop!” another acolyte shouted.
Soon, footfalls echoed into the foyer from the rear of the home. Two of Pagus’s servants dashed into the foyer, a maid and a chef. They had obviously heard the commotion.
“What’s going on here?” the chef demanded. He was a burly man who wielded a kitchen knife.
“That’s life-draining magic!” the maid cried, her face pale. “You’ll kill the royal heir!”
The chef readied his knife, edging forward.
“He won’t kill him,” Bilda retorted. “Master Iltar is just holding the bond in place. He only siphoned a smidgen. Isn’t that right, Master Iltar?” Iltar nodded.
The chef stopped his advance, but maid remained frantic. “We must alert the City Watch!” the maid blurted and ran for the door. “This is treason against Sarn!”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Iltar bellowed. The maid didn’t stop. She hurried to the door and turned the knob. What a fool, Iltar thought, and then cast another spell, mustering his own ensnaring magic. He couldn’t let this woman leave. She’d only cause more harm.
The maid dashed outside as Iltar finished his spell. A burst of green magic slithered after her, speeding from Iltar’s other hand. The tentacle whizzed around the corner and grabbed the maid, pulling her back into the foyer.
“Bilda, the doors,” Iltar commanded. The young boy complied quickly.
“Let me go!” the maid screamed, Iltar’s magic pulling her back into the foyer. “You necromancers are all alike, corrupt and evil! How dare you torture your pupils!” She continued ranting, but Iltar ignored her. The woman was ignorant.
“Master Iltar”—Pagus’s voice was raspy—“I am sorry. I yield.”
Iltar raised his brow, intrigued. Pagus had never apologized for his behavior. Finally, he’s learned his lesson. Iltar relinquished his life-draining magic, a stern expression on his face. Pagus coughed and rubbed his throat. The other acolytes were dumbfounded. They had obviously never seen one of their masters forgo punishment.
Iltar returned his attention to the maid. “If you go to the City Watch, you’ll only bring down wrath upon these boys. You obviously don’t know what they’ve done.”
“What have they done?” the chef asked, relaxing his knife-hand.
“Stolen forbidden tomes from the Necrotic Order,” Iltar said. “Mandatory punishment for such acts is expulsion from the Order. Although, Alacor would add something more violent and sinister to that punishment.” He let the thought sink in for a moment. “I can forgive such things, but my brethren will not.”
Iltar smiled. He held all the power here. He could just take the tomes, but the boys would probably steal them again. He had a better plan. “Well,” Iltar said, sighing, “these boys are determined. They want to learn things beyond their current curriculum. And I am interested in one of the tomes they’ve stolen. Seeing as ‘I’ have already checked it out, there’s no need for me to return them in haste.” The older acolytes looked at each other with uneasiness.
“I probably should hang onto them for a few days, so as not to arouse suspicion from the guards.” Iltar studied the acolytes, who seemed to relax a little. “Now, I was planning on resting and relaxing. But I suppose I can rest while studying that tome.”
“What about our training?” an acolyte asked.
“From Praxion Velon’s Repository?” Iltar asked. “That’s not happening. None of you are ready for those incantations.”
Some of the boys groaned, and several of them grumbled in frustration. They had apparently hoped to learn something new and hear a few grand tales. The miscreants seemed to have taken this rebellious act as an exciting excursion for knowledge. Disappointment showed on every face.
That made Iltar think. He was going to study The Codices of Soron Thahan. And though Iltar couldn’t let the acolytes learn from the Repository, he could come to a compromise. But there would be no rest and relaxation for him. Oh well…
Iltar cleared his throat. “I’ll make you all a deal,” he said. “I’ll read the contents of the Codices tome to you, and I’ll give you some special lessons to improve your magical prowess.”
The boys perked up. Although it wasn’t what they had initially wanted, it was better than nothing. And it was certainly better than being punished.
“But”—Iltar extended his forefinger—“you’ll have to be discreet about it. We’ll train here, at Pagus’s home. And every night, we’ll read from The Codices of Soron Thahan. How does that sound?”
Agen and Bilda yipped and cheered. Several of the other boys smiled and nodded in agreement. The older ones, particularly Tindil, weren’t amused.
“Do you have a problem?” Iltar asked the older boys.
“You’re going to take our coin,” Tindil grumbled.
“Actually, no.” Iltar grinned. “You’re going to give that back.” Tindil scowled at Iltar but the boy quickly quelled his emotions. Did he forget who he was dealing with? Iltar thought, but averted his gaze and continued talking to the others. “Why don’t you all eat, and then we can read this tome.”
The acolytes filed out of the parlor and moved past the chef. The maid was still bound, but she wasn’t shouting anymore. That was progress. “Pagus,” Iltar said, “you should have a word with her.”
Pagus nodded. He was actually obeying! The rebellious youth walked over to his maid and explained the situation in further detail. Pagus told her the ramifications of involving the City Watch and went into detail about the consequences he’d face from Alacor. Her patriotic nature seemed to kick in; she was not going to allow her liege to face a fate far worse than a minuscule siphon from a life-draining spell.
Once everyone dispersed, Iltar picked up the off-white tome written by Soron Thahan. Its craftsmanship was exquisite. Iltar had never seen such a tome. He flipped it open and found pages made of a semi-glossy substance, but there was no glare when reading the pages. How odd… And it looked pristine! It was as if it had been crafted yesterday. And what were these pages made of? They didn’t feel like any tome or book he’d handled. Bizarre…
Iltar flipped through the pages once again. He paused to read several passages. A couple of them sounded like riddles. Still curious, Iltar turned to the beginning of the tome. There was a date written beneath the title page. “The Year of Our Lord, Seven Thousand Three Hundred and Thirty-Three.”
Seventy-three hundred years? Iltar’s eyes widened. If this was written by one of Soroth’s founders, it should be dated nearly nine hundred years ago. The date should be closer to fifty-five hundred Coridai Delnasium, often abbreviated as C.D. on written dates. Scholars weren’t certain what Coridai Delnasium meant, but the name dated back well beyond a thousand years and was the only known calendar system on Kalda.
The date only made the tome more intriguing. Iltar gently closed it and then exited the parlor. His stomach was growling. He’d best get some food.
“Elynia had some strange views. She preferred the company of humans over her own kind. When she ran away, she was a child, but for a human that would have been well into adulthood. She wanted to see the world, all of it. She didn’t want to be like the others, wasting away in Ul’goth’sinsa’uminar, absorbed in scholarship. She yearned to explore Kalda.”
- From Origins and Oaths of the Keepers, preface
While the acolytes ate their dinner, Iltar and Pagus stood in a nearby hallway, conversing.
“You realize I can have you expelled for this, don’t you?” Iltar asked, his tone stern.
“Would you?” Pagus asked, wrinkling his brow.
“Yes.” Iltar’s answer was sincere. Pagus had violated a code of conduct he had vowed to obey. “I would if it was just you,” Iltar continued, “but with the others involved, I’m hesitant. Perhaps if we had different leadership... But Alacor is too brutal, too barbaric. He’ll destroy the Order if he’s not careful.”
“So what are you going to do?” Pagus asked. The boy seemed genuinely interested in Iltar’s decision.
“I don’t know yet,” Iltar narrowed his gaze at the boys. They were all crowded around the long dining table, talking cheerfully. He remembered days like this with his friends when they’d gather at the old Aramien Estate in the forest. Those were the days before the adventures. Iltar’s adventuring band could be traced back to then. Those were good times.
“Why are you smiling?” Pagus asked.
“Just reminiscing,” Iltar answered.
Amid his strolling through rosy memories, Iltar remembered his horse. “Why don’t you return to the Necrotic Order,” he said, looking Pagus squarely in the eyes. “I need my horse.”
“In this weather?” Pagus asked. “I’m just barely dry now.”
Iltar smiled. “Yeah.”
“Can I just send a servant?”
Iltar shrugged. “Just make sure my horse is in your stables before we retire tonight.” Pagus nodded and disappeared down the hall.
Iltar remained near the dining room, eyeing the boys. He had eaten quickly and then taken the opportunity to speak with his rebellious apprentice. Iltar watched the boys finish their meal. The chef served them a cake for dessert, and they devoured their slices quickly.
“Let’s retire to the hearth room,” Iltar suggested. “We need to warm ourselves, since we all got wet.”
The boys followed him down the hall to a keeping room at the rear of the home. It had a large fireplace and several couches. Outside the windows, lightning streaked across the sky.
“Get comfortable,” Iltar said, and walked to a plump chair on the wall beside the hearth. There weren’t many lamps in the room, and he needed the light of the fire to illuminate the pages to The Codices of Soron Thahan.
As the boys settled into their spots around the keeping room, Pagus’s maid arrived with blankets. The younger boys grasped them. Bilda and his brother shared a blanket, but everyone else had their own, except Odinal, Kreely, and Tindil. There weren’t enough blankets for them.
“Where’s Pagus?” one of the boys asked.
“Fetching my horse,” Iltar said, opening the off-white tome. “We’ll start without him. I intend to have him transcribe this tome for me while I teach the lot of you. He won’t be missing anything.”
Iltar flipped past the title page and the preface. He glanced at the table of contents. The chapters had interesting titles: Nature of the Chosen, The Role of Tevisrals, Signs of Our Lord’s Advent, to name a few. Some of them were prophetic sounding; others had a philosophical tone to them. All in all, the contents of the tome were intriguing.
Iltar flipped to the first chapter and began reading. “Before I tell you of the past, I must direct your mind forward. There will be a time when our ancient world will be restored. The glorious ways of old will return, and so will our gods. But the Harbinger must prepare the way for Our Lord’s Advent.
“I must needs suppose that at some future time, our people will become lost, foreigners to the truth. They will forsake the Chosen and the Grand Oracle. I fear that day. I bemoan it! Oh that I could prevent it, but alas I cannot. It was foretold and so must occur.
“The Harbinger, however, will rectify all of that. He will be led by the Messenger of the Promise. The Messenger will come to the Harbinger, clothed in red. He will light his mind like a flame, showing him the past, the present, and the future. With his assistance, Our Lord’s Harbinger will gather the remnants of the Chosen and return the gods.”
Iltar paused after reading the passage. It sounded an awful lot like Reflection’s behest.
“Wow,” one of the boys muttered, “do you think that’ll really happen?”
“Master Jalel seems to think so,” Tindil replied.
The boys debated the subject while Iltar retreated into his mind. Soron Thahan’s words were a lot like Reflection’s rhetoric. They both spoke of restoring Kalda to its ancient ways, whatever that meant. Iltar hadn’t the slightest idea.
“Are you going to keep reading, Master Iltar?” Agen asked. He leaned forward, studying his master. Iltar nodded. He continued reading for a while but paused again when Pagus entered the hearth room.
The boy was wet. He actually had fetched the horse himself. That surprised Iltar. Was Pagus genuinely repentant? Or was this a ruse to satisfy him? Either way, Iltar wasn’t going to let his guard down. He’d be watching Pagus closely from now on.
“I implore you to watch for the Harbinger’s coming,” Iltar continued. “I will explain more of the signs as I recount the important events of the past. It is key to understand the past in order to have a keen eye for the future.”
The rest of the chapter consisted of vague or cryptic descriptions of the ancient past. It was as if Soron Thahan was referencing things that they should know. It read like a commentary and companion volume to a vast library of forgotten knowledge.
After Iltar finished reading the chapter, he relaxed in his chair. The fire was dying, and the boys were yawning.
“Wasn’t I right?” Bilda asked generally. “Master Iltar is quite pleasant. And he’s a good storyteller.”
Agen nodded with a smile.
“He’s not like the others,” one of the boys said, looking at Iltar. “Maybe I could transfer under your tutelage?” Iltar asked, chuckling.
“I think everyone would want to study under Master Iltar,” Pagus said. He was sitting on the raised hearth, rubbing his arms.
“You should rub your chest, Pagus,” Iltar suggested. “You’ll warm quicker.” Pagus cocked his head, but heeded the suggestion.
“Why aren’t you like the others?” Tindil asked. He was leaning back, arms over his head. “You don’t seem harsh, like Master Jalel and his brother.”
“Because I had a better teacher than they did,” Iltar answered frankly. “They had poor examples.”
“Are you saying Grandmaster Cordis was inferior to his brother?” Tindil asked.
Iltar laughed and shook his head. “I don’t credit Rovin for my demeanor or my high standards in the arts. That’s my father’s doing.”
“Who was your father?” Agen asked. “I’ve
never heard you speak of him.” Sorrow flooded Iltar. That question dredged up unwanted memories. He felt a fit coming on.
No!
Not here!
The scent of flame tingled his nostrils.
An eruption of magic sounded in the distance.
His mother’s screams followed.
Iltar shut his eyes, taking in a deep breath.
No!
A small hand touched his knee, snapping him back to reality. Little Bilda knelt in front of him, smiling. “What was his name? Your dad…”
“Adrin,” Iltar said in a whisper. He hadn’t spoken his father’s name in ages, and it felt odd to say it aloud.
“Like the Hero of the West?” one of the boys asked. “Wasn’t he that grand mage who liberated the Western Sovereignty from the Mindolarn Empire?”
The acolytes discussed the matter, repeating facts they had learned about the history of the last fifty years.
“My father had a high standard for wielding magic,” Iltar spoke up, interrupting the boys. They quieted, intently listening to Iltar. “That’s why I’m so hard on you, Pagus.” He glanced to his apprentice, who was no longer shivering. “My father was hard on me, always pushing me to do more, be greater than I was.”
If Adrin were training Pagus, he’d be pushing him to hurl spells in more than three directions. The boy wouldn’t last long as his father’s pupil.
“I don’t remember that name in the annals of the Order,” Odinal said. “What type of mage was he?”
“A grand mage,” Iltar answered. The boys gasped, looking at each other.
“Aren’t those Alathian mages?” an acolyte asked. “They’re supposed to be the most powerful, I’ve heard.”
“I heard a grand mage slew the Mindolarn emperor last year,” another chimed. “During some celebration. My parents were whispering about it.”
That piqued Iltar’s interest. He hadn’t heard much of the emperor’s death, only that it had occurred seven months ago.