The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  Her mother waved her hand, illuminating more than fifty torch sconces with magical flame all up and down the four towers of her academy, causing sounds of awe and admiration from the onlookers below. Gwenne knew that was her cue. She breathed in deeply, concentrating on her sense of the magical energies around her and in the lake. Gwenne could see in her mind the auras of the arcane enchantments with her skills and years of practice, she felt the wands, the staves, trinkets and rings of the professors, and most importantly, the nine hundred sixty one crystals in Lake Pellicram. Her mind clear as she floated above the water in the chill night sky, Gwenneth Lazlette spoke the words of illumination, lighting the stones beneath the water, every one of them coming to life in a myriad of tones and hues.

  With both hands raised in front of her, palms out, not even looking at the waters below, Gwenne raised the gems out and above the lake. Gently floating and circling in a slow orbit, drawing hushed “oohs” and “aaahs” from the crowd, the beauty of the show of light entranced them. The other students, over a hundred in all, watched as well from balconies, windows of dormitory rooms, and other bridges. The High Wizard’s daughter opened her eyes, concentrating on maintaining the revolution of the hand sized crystals around the lake, her green eyes calm and sensing auras now well over a thousand feet away in every direction.

  Despite the repetition of this long and tedious ceremony year after year, Gwenneth did enjoy the attention and awe she received from almost every student and citizen in Vallakazz. They had told her years ago that she could join the other professors in the ritual of stones, and she had decided to do what had previously taken seven to perform, and do it all herself. That was seven years past now, and no one questioned it, not once.

  “Welcome graduating students of Lazlette Semanarium Arcanum. It is the year three hundred forty four, and those that have come before you, each and every one, have completed nine years of study here with us. It is a dark time for our art and has been since the migration from Altestan to Agara so many millenia ago. Many of you will serve great lords, some mighty wizards, a few will be counsel in the halls of kings, and some still will stay here and teach our craft to others. We have a proud and honorable reputation here in Vallakazz, and our curriculum does not ever lower the standards set down by my ancestors and the other founders of this Academy.” Aelaine Lazlette spoke clear and loud so that all could hear, and their full attention was hers.

  “Regardless of your destinations, your stone of ceremonial passage will join the other nine hundred sixty one before you, a test of the skills you have mastered here with us. You have all passed the written and laboratorial examinations here and tonight we will test your control of the arcane powers you have learned. Remember always, that our art, our practitioners, and our teachers, are hunted relentlessly by those agents of the Altestan Empires. Their belief that the secrets of the arcane must be guarded and controlled was the reason we fled south, the reason many wizards have perished, and the reason and undeniable truth that you must pass on what you have learned. Professor Linnel Traelsidian.” Aelaine waved her hand, sending faint white light over the top of the old gray bearded man with a sagging brimmed hat.

  Gwenne tried to listen, but her senses of arcane energies were pulled, something powerful, four things powerful, more so than any concentration she had ever seen. One was moving slowly closer to the city from the west, she had no means to really see it, or the area, only her senses of arcane sight told her that it was there, powerful and old. The other three were moving faster, moving away from Vallakazz, heading north, all together very close, going past the city, miles away. Gwenne could not tell exactly, but her senses had improved more than she had ever imagined since she still held the glowing crystals in orbit, was levitating above the water, and could see the arcane in two different directions well outside the city.

  She glanced over at Middir who was staring at her, she looked back, both of them with concern on their faces. The old professor nodded and opened his eyes wide, suggesting she keep her focus on the here and now, also that he was aware of what she was seeing. Gwenne assumed he was seeing the same thing and by the quick glance of her mother to them both, it was the three of them alone that had noticed the auras from this distance. None of them paid much attention to professor Linnel’s speech on the use of telekinetic forces of the arcane to assist in everyday life, they had heard it many times before. Gwenne was interested more in the things her mother and Middir were seeing with her.

  “….It has been my pleasure to instruct you on the uses of the existing energies, unseen and ancient, that a wizard may make use of in the world. I commend you all.” Linnel finished, removing his hat and swooping low while levitating over the swirl of glowing crystals and the lake, revealing he had more hair in his gray beard stretching to his chest than on his head.

  “Professor Damoval Traelsidian.” Aelaine waved her hand again, moving the white light without a glance to the younger of the two brothers.

  The wind picked up, fluttering the robes of the elder wizards floating above the lake. Damoval levitated forward a bit, his black and gray hair braided, his short beard groomed perfectly above his rotund belly.

  “Dear class of three hundred forty four, your capabilities at defending yourself and your art, perhaps your assigned noble court even, lies in the areas I have taught you over the last nine years. The existing elements in place, such as the cold, fire and heat, smoke or fog that can be manipulated to your controls easily, as they are seen and touched, require little on your part. To the drawn elements not so readily available such as electricity from the sky and magnetisms of the earth and stone, you have worked hard. And finally the summoned and conjured, deadly powerful forms of elemental mastery that lie in lightning, storm-like winds, intense incendiary heats from the deep of the world, I caution you. Much responsibility and care I have taught you over the years in using these studies and arts. A wizard cannot fool themself about the dangers invoked within them, and in days…….”

  Gwenne tried to take in the speech, but the sense that many smaller items of enchantment followed at quick pace behind the three powerful ones overrode her attention to professor Damoval. It seemed that the set of three books of High Elven Magic, she recalled from her concealed eavesdropping, were being chased by something well equipped with many enchanted auras on their person. Her head nearly turned as the aura from the west came closer, perhaps hours from the city now. A quick thought of her father, who she vaguely had an impression of to start, ran through her senses from the aura on an item carried. From the west, it seemed very near the powerful whatever it was, that approached Vallakazz. Confused, intrigued, the hundreds of circling crystals in brilliant colors flickered for a moment, dropping an inch, and then continuing as Gwenneth realized her loss of focus. A slow turn from the head of her mother and a smiling glare, reminded Gwenne of her purpose this night.

  “…from the small lights you infuse into torches, candles, and other objects for convenience, to warding off enemies of your kingdoms with searing lines of flame and lightning from the storms above, the elemental forces in any form, shall be yours to command. It has been most rewarding instructing you, and best of luck to you all.” Damoval bowed his head slightly, floating back in line with the other professors.

  The Lady of Lazlette motioned to her right, past her daughter, to the tall aging man, his black hair pulled tight and straight in a tail, and speckled beard neatly trimmed. Brellmond Graniff stood a hand above any man in the academy, being of Chazzrynnian blood, which from history was eastern Altestani mixed with Shanadorian and lost native tribes found here in the south many, many, centuries ago. He glided forward, white light marking his turn to address the graduating class. Brellmond's voice was deep and pure, his words spoken slowly with purpose.

  “You will be asked by those you serve and those that serve you in the future, what the study of the arcane arts means. You will be asked to teach and train others, some of you, many others. Our history is vast, troubled,
and hidden throughout the ages and continents, however much of the most basic truths remain. We wizards, practice the arts of manipulating existing powers and forces into different variables. The mountain kingdom of Boraduum produces steel armor from a mixture of hard work, mining ore, smelting, forging, pounding, and a bit of artistic creativity. Just so do we take that which is there, call upon it, invoke it, move it through and around us, mix it with word and actions, and produce effects most would call grand. You have learned much of the rudimentary magicks, from glyphs, to potions, the use of staff and wand, and arcane focus and meditations. I challenge you all, to remember your basic principles and morals of using what you have learned and passing it as taught to you.”

  “I see so many that leave here, destined in their mind to be the next archmage of somewhere, driven by power and the search for more of it. I see many as well, that let those they serve under push them into countless years of creating gifts and enchanting an arsenal, living meagerly in their alchemical labs and studies. You are artists, creators and composers of great magicks, trained in the most acclaimed school known on Agara. I have trained students from twelve different countries and one problem has plagued them the most. Conflict causes strife, especially when the basic steps and beliefs of the arcane arts cease, and something or someone else takes priority. If I had the power to wish you all something, it would be to always remember your lessons here and let nothing compromise what you have been taught. May the light of Megos guide you and protect you all.” Tall, serious, and testing in every word, Brellmond bowed and opened his hands. It was the ancient traditional blessing of Megos the father of magic, father of Alden, and a deity that faded from worship by all but a few, over a millennia ago.

  His tales and teachings taught more in the Aldane churches and temples than anywhere else, yet Brellmond was a believer that Megos still ruled the Carician Gods from his citadel “Marthentine” on Carice, the white moon. His classes would gossip from time to time of his references to the dead religion, to the point Gwenne’s mother had to have a talk with him about his curriculum, several times over the years.

  Aelaine waved her hand next, the light moving from one professor to the next, Enira D’Fallow, the quiet one-eyed witch of Caberra they called her. Homely, heavy-set, long frizzy brown hair with streaks of gray, her right eye was deep brown and penetrating. The left one had gone mostly cloudy gray from a recent incident that many had ideas about, but none knew the truth. Not even Gwenneth, yet she suspected Dasius was involved.

  “Professor Enira D’Fallow.”

  “You all know what it is I teach and most of you would say my classes were the least of your favorites. The feeling, at times, was mutual. Who cares to learn the history of the fey, the elven myths, and the origins of magic blended with emotion and drawing energies from them? Who came here to study the arts of seduction, of sensing what is in the heart of another, or tales of bending another’s mind to agree with your own? Few, I would guess, in comparison to the classes that invoke lightning from your fingers or hurl lines of flame from your palms, or cause spectacular displays and illusion. Yet a time will come for each of you, when oppressed, when suspect of treachery, or wondering if those you serve may be influenced by the magicks of another. Whether a rival wizard, an elven trickster of the heart, or an ancient dragon scheming from afar, you all know full well how to detect, identify, or break those that could be held sway by another. When the arcane touches the emotions or mind of someone, you would be well to recall my classes. I bid you farewell.” Enira floated back in line, even faced, showing little more than a stare from her intimidating eyes.

  Gwenneth had always liked Enira’s teachings and thought to herself how many times she practiced on the new arrivals, getting them to do strange things in class. It was a secret the two of them kept to themselves and Gwenne was sure Enira was fond of her as well, yet neither would ever speak of it aloud.

  “Professor Dasius of Caberra.” Lady Aelaine, graying hair beginning to wisp in the cold wind and snow from the eastern breeze, moved her hand to the left again, placing light above the shaved head of the tan and smooth faced man. Despite Gwenne’s distaste for him, most women found his grace and charm, mixed with his swift Caberran accent, to be quite alluring, even in his old age.

  “For those that seek adventures, I wish you well and safe journey. To those that serve mighty kings and queens, my hopes go with you to whatever grand realm you travel. But a special place in my heart exists for those that have a love of the past and seek the answers to tomorrow’s questions by understanding all that has come and gone before us. The first practitioners of the arcane were little more than gifted warlock chieftains from savage tribes, with natural gifts for sensing and using simple spells. Most were killed outright when discovered. In the ancient times, almost ten thousand years ago, several coteries or covens of sorcerers in the holy land of Altestan to the far north were recorded, some of their number rising in the hundreds. Megos, the bringer and keeper of magic believed in those times, was the son of a greater spiritual being that was said to be always oppressing the use of magic by mortals. So you see, our paths of the arcane and divine were crossed long before the first academy or order of mages were ever formed or dreamed of.”

  “In the age of the fall of Alden, the great floods, and the pilgrimage to the south, most think it was for religious freedoms, slavery, senseless wars of conquest from the Altestani that drove our ancestors here. They are only partially correct. The Soteth Sorcerers, still organized today, regulated the magicks and sorcerous traditions that were taught, and forced those of talent to follow their course of study. For many centuries, the arcane that was taught had no books available, no scrolls or writing were allowed. This insured the great northern sorcerers of what any arcane disciple could possibly know and the Soteth sought out and destroyed the ancient tomes, as well as those that preserved them. Not until the first pilgrimage by a group of rebellious and secretive archmages began, did our art and knowledge have a chance to…”

  Gwenneth sensed change again. The path that the powerful tomes to the east were on began to glow, faintly, but still noticeable to a well trained wizard that would be watching the area at the moment. The small footsteps glowed for a second or two, and then the faint glamor was gone. Another set of glowing tracks headed west, toward Vallakazz, as the real steps that the books were on were magically covered up. Suddenly, two glowing figures, an elf and a satyr, appeared to be walking the tracks toward her city, yet Gwenneth could tell that they were created illusionary doubles by the way they moved and the tracks guided them, as opposed to them leaving the tracks from their steps. Even a glow from a leather pack, three glows precisely, all magically orchestrated, all an illusion meant to lead someone or something away from the north and the real relics, and leading them here instead.

  To an untrained eye, the figures from a distance would have prints to follow in the snow, and look and appear real and alive. To a skilled wizard it would still be difficult to tell, yet multiple identical auras would cause suspicion. Only a powerful student of the arcane arts would be able to tell exactly what this was and keep a trail on the real beings. From what Gwenneth had heard of this Salah-Cam, he would most likely see through it. Yet how could he get word soon enough to his hunter, even with all the enchanted tools of a highly paid mercenary? The prodigal child of the High Wizard smiled at her mother who was paying no attention whatever. Gwenne looked again at the professors, spotting Middir whispering under his beard, silently, yet concentrating on something. Certainly it was he that was meddling with the pursuit of these elven artifacts. She frowned, maintaining concentration all the while, but realizing that he had just assured their escape and that she would not be able to take part or see the Elven books of High Magic. Nor was she asked to help with the task of assisting the elves, and her blood began to rise in hurt pride and anger.

  “…which means, my young wizards, that you have the weight of thousands of years of tradition and history to fill wit
h those robes you wear tonight. May the truth find you in your research, and may your research always find you the truth. All my best wishes go with thee, farewell students.” Dasius, gaining a little applause from his poetic verses of arcane history, bowed deeply, close to the floor, had there been one floating this high above Lake Pellicram.

  “Professor Middir of Kivanis.” Aelaine stared a bit longer, making eye contact with the wizened elder, his white beard and hair braided in several places. The eye contact was met with a wink and a smile which seemed to fulfill whatever Aelaine was searching for as she turned forward, smiling as well.

  Most anyone would think it was from the applause and cheers that announcing Middir always produced, but Gwenneth knew better. She now knew that her mother, too, was part of the diversion, and had not mentioned a word to her own daughter who had asked to help. A devoted wizard and daughter of the academy, she was paid little mind to in any matter more serious than that of a student needing more direct tutelage in order to keep up with the rest of the class. Her face was burning with anger and the crystals, now under her guidance in illumination, rotation, and levitation, flashed brightly for a second, luckily fitting in with the cheering crowds’ enthusiasm and no one noticing, except her mother.

  “Class of three hundred forty four, good evening.” Middir had to wait again, claps and applause from thousands, including the students, then it slowly withered to a dull commotion. Middir was the favorite professor here due to his caring nature, his friendliness, and magnetic persona. His students would often keep in contact with him from afar for many years after leaving the Semanarium.