In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1)

by Steve M. Shoemake

  Magi gave a sheepish smile. “Yes, I sure do understand that. But why do you stay, BJ? Don’t get me wrong, Brigg needs you. But you could do so much more in one of the cities.”

  The smitty shook his head. “Nah, I doubt it. The cities already have their metal smiths. Can’t pack up a forge and take it with me. I’ve got a family to think about, you know. We get by.” He nodded his head toward Marik, who had gotten a bit ahead with Kyle. “Maybe not as good as your Master, but we eat. Janie finds a way to pull veggies out of the hard ground we have behind our home, and Packard and Gains’ll trade with me when winter goes long.” He mopped the sweat off his brow with his forearm and shook Magi’s hand, grinning warmly. “Travel safe, son.”

  “Take care. That is one heckuva sword.” Magi smiled back at his friend and hustled to catch up with Kyle and Marik.

  Phillip Xavier Trenton the village Elder, found them as they neared the edge of Brigg. “Ah, going to visit your prophet. So much about magic that escapes me. A word, if I may, Magi?” He smiled pleasantly at Marik as he gently put his arm around Magi and led him away from the others. “I just wanted to encourage you on this important day. As you can see, everyone in our village is, well, curious to hear what is said about you. I think it would help our spirits a bit if could share a few tidbits, just a nugget or two, with a few important people in our little hamlet here. You see, people feel connected to you, Magi. You’re a bit of a celebrity, you know.” His smile always made Magi uncomfortable.

  “Elder, you know I can’t share my prophecy.” Magi was as tall as Phillip, and looked him straight in the eye.

  “Well, yes, of course. I know you mages have your secrets. But this would be just a nugget, a snippet—you know, the populace is just so interested. Think of how the right words might help us keep the villagers in good spirits, Magi. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?” He was still smiling at Magi. “I assure you, this would be just between you and I. Not everyone is cut out for leadership, my young friend.”

  “Thank you for your words, Elder. I will consider them.” He removed Phillip’s arm and walked back to Kyle and Marik. He seeks my approval, my favor. Magi was used to some attention from other villagers stemming from his magical exploits. And he was comfortable with most of it. But this was the first time Phillip sought something from him…politically. He was less comfortable with that.

  “So, the golden boy is having private words with our Elder now,” Kyle teased…but again with a slight edge that he tried to laugh off. “What did Phillip want with you?” he asked when Magi returned, sounding more direct than he probably intended. Magi looked up at him and then over at Marik, who returned his stare with those frightening eyes of his.

  “Information. He wanted to know if I would tell him about my prophecy when we get back.” Magi finally turned to look at Kyle while twisting his father’s ring.

  “Phillip is not to be trusted,” Marik said as he quickened their pace to avoid any further delays. The village gave way to fields that were owned by Packard and Gains, community farmers. It was a sprawling portion of land that was flat before yielding to nearby forests. They were travelling mostly east and slightly north. Past Melanie Goodwin’s small melon farm was about as far as Magi had gone in this direction. Of course, it had only been several weeks ago that he and Kyle had travelled to the West, all the way to the coastal city of Gaust to bring Marik the Scroll of Tralatus. They trudged on in silence for awhile, each presumably lost in their own thoughts.

  In the case of Magi, his own revolved around a certain illusionist, with stunning eyes and fragrant hair.

  Xaro

  Scattering the black dust high into the air, it settled into an outline no taller than five and one-half feet from the ground. Xaro finished his spell, and the shimmering outline began to fill in with details: a bright yellow shirt with tight brown cuffs, mismatched eyes, and a nest of red hair.

  “Hello, Trevor,” Xaro began. “You have been most highly recommended to me.”

  Trevor’s shade smiled politely. “Thank you. Your own exploits are…self-evident.” He was staring at Xaro’s normal-looking eyes. He is a quick observer of details, thought Xaro.

  “Yes, we all have our secrets. In fact, that is part of our discussion…secrets. Tell me Trevor, how did you find, enter, and leave the hidden city of the Elves with one of the most recognizable jewels lifted from their princess?”

  Xaro was dressed impressively this morning, wearing high black boots polished to a fine shine, black trousers and a matching black tunic with silver trim. He wanted to make sure his wealth—and hence his ability to pay for success—was blatant. He made a sweeping gesture and took a seat, ready to hear the tale.

  Trevor took the amulet out that was tucked into his yellow tunic. Even the shadow of it a continent away was magnificent. He held it up as he went through his account: the fooling of the Elves to get them to invite him in, preying on their hospitality, his disguises, the calculated risks he took that the guards would be called, and his escape through the trees, right down to using their own thorn bushes against them. Xaro expected it to be boastful; what he heard was a simple, dispassionate recitation of events like one might relay a recipe for leavened bread.

  “And what will you do with this gem, now that it’s yours?” Xaro inquired.

  “Keep it for a couple years. Let it be lost to the world for some time. I will sell it then on the black market. I hope to not have to break it into smaller jewels in order to do so…it is a beautiful amulet. I should think its top price will be as it is, but we shall see.” Trevor tucked it back inside his yellow tunic.

  “I am surprised Nathaniel let you keep it for yourself. Surely the Guild would like to retain such a prize?”

  “Actually, it is better for them that I have it. Why make themselves a target of the Elves? They expect to receive their cut when I sell the gem. Until then, better in my hands as far as they’re concerned.”

  This little man has certainly mastered his emotions, and is patient to boot. “Most thieves would have sold that by now. You have not—why is that?” Xaro pressed.

  Trevor shook his head slowly. “Most thieves would be satisfied with the story and the gold they could not store. So, they would spend it all in a few months. If I wasn’t a target of the Elves before, surely I would be if I sold it so quickly. Someone would connect it back to the seller so soon after it was taken. As we speak, I am sure Rookwood will put a bounty out as well, given how close the kingdom is to the Elves. I have time before I need to move the gem. Besides, the value of having it isn’t really the gold that I can exchange it for. The value is that I am having this conversation with you, which over my life may dwarf the value of this gem. Would we be talking had I not already proven myself in this manner?”

  Practical. Direct. I have my man. Xaro began to laugh, slowly, but building to a warm, hearty chuckle. “Indeed, Trevor—we would not.” He shook his head and let a pause hang in the air. “Just one more question. Why did you want to become a thief in the first place?”

  Trevor thought about the question for a few seconds, as if deciding how to answer. He finally shrugged his shoulders and said, “When you look at me, what do you see? A small man with few assets. Well, as a Master Thief, I shall have more than a few assets, and the world will look upon me far differently than it does today. I see how people of wealth are treated in this wretched land. They’re shown respect. Even adoration. I can work on contracts arranged by the Guild, or I can work for you, but one thing I shall have is the respect that wealth brings. So if you want to know why I steal—that is the reason. Respect from everyone. Elders seek your favor. Kings grant you titles. Slaves beg to work your land simply for food and protection. And women line up for a chance to be seen with you. Is there more to seek in a Dark World in one lifetime than this?”

  An honest answer from a thief—I never thought I’d hear that. “Yes, Trevor, there is more to seek, and in time I will show you. But for now I am convinced you are t
he man to join my council. You have demonstrated the daring and the skill required to take a rare object from a person without seriously harming them. Which is good, for that is exactly the first task I am assigning you, Trevor Blink.”

  Magi

  “Magi! Watch where you step!” barked Kyle as Magi walked on his heels for the third time. Blinking, Magi shook his head and mumbled a distracted apology. They kept walking.

  “So…Master.” Kyle began. “About our prophecy. Can you tell us anything about the Ol’ Shakoor? I feel so unprepared for this—and you always stress preparation. Surely there is something you can share with us about it?”

  Marik cocked his head back at the boys and smiled. Without the benefit of “normal” eyes, it always looked a little creepy when a smile slowly spread across his face. Kyle grinned back, but Magi shook his head—like trying to butter up a block of stone. On they hiked.

  Marik said nothing for a minute, and then startled the boys. “The Tournament is my own tradition for our school in Brigg. When I was learning the Art, my Master had a Tournament as well, and I always thought it was a great opportunity to put your skills to the test. The Prophecy, however, has a wonderful history. It is not, as some have hypothesized, a cabal between us teachers and charlatans trying to scratch out some coins.” He paused, turning to look at Magi, but said nothing.

  “A long time ago, 700 years at least, there was an Archmage named Quixatalor. He was the most powerful magic user the world had ever known, and probably has ever known. Yet magic was hardly his greatest gift. He possessed great wisdom, and counseled Kings. Kings and Warlords, actually. Three Kings and two Warlords, to be specific. He was advisor to Reginald the Third, his son Torbeth the First, and his son Absynth the Weak, as they called him. Absynth was overthrown in revolt, and the Warlord Karwin the Short rose to power, though at the time few ever referred to him by the title history has hung on him. He was a Dwarf who sought to rule men and beast. His tenuous reign lasted 100 years, though—not bad for a fearsome Dwarf, I’d say. The Warlord known as Roc-San filled the void left by Karwin after several years of fighting, uniting everyone under the threat of his terrible war hammer. Through the peaceful reign of kings and the tenuous fear of those warlords, spanning more than 350 years—Quixatalor was a force of power and a voice of reason throughout the land. He had some Elven blood, of that I have no doubt. Yet his long life had more to do with the Art than his bloodline. It is long believed that he found ways to extend his life through his magic.”

  “Did he write those spells down, do you think?” Kyle asked. “And how did he eventually die?”

  “His spellbooks would be a prize indeed. Who knows what he put to paper?” There was a tinge of wistfulness in Marik’s voice. “His death is legendary, but that is a tale for another day. You asked about the Prophecy.

  “During the reign of Torbeth the First, there was a resurgence in the study of magic. This is not a surprise, given the fame Quixatalor achieved during Torbeth’s father’s reign. People from all the continents heard of his exploits, and no doubt as word travelled, so the grandeur of his exploits expanded. When he helped Reginald defeat an army of Trolls, you would have thought he singlehandedly walked onto the battlefield, said a few words, and scattered the army of 20,000 in time for dinner. That is what the people of his day thought of Quixatalor. He could do no wrong. And the fact that he never seemed to age only added to his mythology and the allure of magic to people everywhere.

  “As more and more people sought out magic as a profession, many during Torbeth’s time tried to join the ranks of True Mages by climbing the Staircase. This is not tradition—it is required of all would-be serious magic-users to climb. Those who reach the top shall be accepted and transformed; you see my eyes as the Mark of my accomplishment, and as a signpost to all who meet me that they may know the power at my disposal.”

  Magi was completely enthralled by the story.

  “Quixatalor did not see the pursuit of magic by so many as a good thing. Quite the contrary. Those who fail to climb the Staircase are always ravaged. Some go mad; some are physically disabled. Many are killed in the attempt. Fate weeds out those unfit for serious spellcasting. This is nothing new to either of you. We have discussed this.”

  Magi was twisting his ring again with nervous energy. Kyle had his head down and kept listening, not wanting to interrupt. Both knew eventually they would have a choice to make.

  “So he established a tradition—a prophetic tradition. Let every would-be magic-user receive a prophecy within a year or two of climbing the Staircase. It was brilliant, actually. He knew he could never outlaw the practice of magic, nor could he put a “test” in place—the Staircase was the test, and a very effective one at that. Yet if people caught a glimpse of their future, and saw death, pain, failure, anguish, suffering, or other tragedies, he knew many would opt out of a doomed life-choice. Many could earn their bread with the simple magic they had learned by keeping a smitty’s forge hot or by serving as a village healer with basic spells. Or they could entertain people with rudimentary illusions as part of a travelling fair. But to progress in the Art, one must climb the Staircase, and that was a daunting proposition that had the potential to turn the entire population against magic-users if enough families were torn apart by failed ascents. So the prophecy served its purpose, and serves that same purpose today. The Ol’ Shakoor is one of the best, and the way is not far. You will learn a little about your future, and it will be up to you to interpret what you’ve learned, and apply it to your life choices. Once you leave the Ol’ Shakoor’s hut, you will find it impossible to share your prophecy. Though I remember it like yesterday, I cannot physically tell you mine from many moons ago, even if I desired to. So, too, will it be with both of you.”

  Magi stopped fiddling with his ring and jammed his hands into his pockets, picking up the pace slightly. He was anxious to hear what the Ol’ Shakoor would say.

  CHAPTER 8: AN UNKNOWN FUTURE

  Magi

  The next day, the landscape began to change. The mountains, always visible in the distance, grew larger and the terrain became far hillier. They were following a path through the woods that grew thick around the foothills of the Crystal Mountains. Marik appeared to be following an old game trail; the path was not easy to follow, and several branches required many choices that did not appear to lead in any one, consistent direction. Yet Marik never hesitated—he clearly knew where they were headed.

  They paused late in the morning near a small clearing. Large shafts of sunlight penetrated the forest canopy to spectacular effect, glinting off the wet rocks in a nearby brook. “Magi, I need to study. I’ll be lost in my spellwork for a few hours. There is fresh water here, so there is bound to be game nearby. You and Kyle go hunt us something—I think fresh meat the day before we see the Ol’ Shakoor will do you both good.” He began building a fire on the other side of a large tree. “And please do not disturb me.”

  Magi and Kyle obviously knew better than that. One day Kyle had interrupted Nugget in mid-spell, causing their roommate to lose his concentration. A wave of his summoned energy, no longer bound by the spell, tore down one of the walls in their home. Marik was furious, and the boys never interrupted one another again. And they certainly wouldn’t be interrupting their Master.

  Kyle headed down to the brook while Magi began stringing his bow. Though he had only learned to shoot a few weeks ago on their trip to Gaust, Magi enjoyed it immensely. And he was competent. Most magic users never took the time to learn how to shoot, but Magi found it a welcome diversion. In fact, if his Art didn’t take up so much time, Magi fancied that he could become quite a good shot with even more practice. He could bring a boar or elk down with his magic missiles for sure, but he just preferred the physicality of the bow.

  Kyle watched him put the bow across his back and shook his head. “You look for all the world like a proper Ranger. Like Lionel.”

  “Like Lionel,” Magi repeated. He taught me to shoot.

/>   Later that night, as the deer meat crackled over the fire, Marik ate one of the fresh steaks approvingly. “Wants for salt, but otherwise a fine piece of meat. You’re sure Kyle didn’t slow it down for you just a tad, Magi?” he teased. Even though Magi was a natural with the bow, it still amused his Master that he preferred to hunt without the benefits his magical gifts would so clearly provide. “Not even a wee freeze spell to give a Ranger-wannabe a leg up?”

  Magi just smiled as he gnawed on a chewy piece. It did need salt. “No Master. Kyle was there, got it on the run. One shot.” Lionel would have been proud.

  They ate and drank from the fast flowing brook before settling down for the night. “Sleep well, boys. You meet your destiny on the morrow.”

  As Magi lay wrapped in his heavy cloak, he tried to imagine what his prophecy would be. After tossing and turning for several minutes, he rolled over and whispered to Kyle, “Are you excited? I can’t sleep.”

  “Yeah, me either. I would suggest we get up and go for a walk,” Kyle whispered back with that mischievous grin of his, “But I remember the last time you and I ran around on an adventure by ourselves. Didn’t turn out so well.”

  Magi flashed his own smirk back with a quiet chuckle. “Yeah…found a little trouble, didn’t we?” He straightened his face and turned serious. “I miss Lionel, Kyle. Sindar, too, in his own way. What do you think your prophecy will be?”

  “I…I don’t know, Magi. I just hope I’m not discouraged from climbing the Staircase. I can’t imagine getting to this point only to find out that some prophet doesn’t think I’m good enough before I’ve even tried. That would be…beyond disappointing. I think I can deal with just about anything besides that. You?”