“Probably the same.”
“Oh please,” snapped Kyle, a bit louder than he intended. He lowered his voice again. “Magi, if you’re not worthy of the Staircase, no one is. Save the false modesty for someone who doesn’t know you as well.”
“You never know. Maybe I’m destined to become injured on the Staircase…what would I give up? I don’t know if I’d give up, say, an eye or a finger or something to reach the top. It’s not false modesty.”
“Or maybe you’re destined to be the most powerful True Mage in several generations. Good lord. Go to sleep, Magi.” Kyle turned his back to Magi, effectively ending the conversation.
“G’night.” He rolled back over, his mind still racing. What if Kyle was right? What if I am the most powerful True Mage in several generations?
Magi
Kyle and Magi awoke to find Marik nibbling on deer meat. “The flank is my favorite, and I found some wild berries growing to the South. Add that to some wild mushrooms, and a better breakfast you’ll not find,” he said.
The boys agreed as they filled their stomachs with roasted deer. They cleaned up their campsite and followed Marik as he crossed the fast-flowing brook and began walking along its northern edge. Soon they re-entered the forest, which grew thicker all around them. The trail here was barely marked, and might not have been anything more than the random meandering of small game. They left the reassuring confines of the water’s edge and plunged deeper and deeper into the forest. The ground began to rise steadily, and the three were soon sweating from the exertion as they were forced to climb.
“Master, how often have you visited the Ol’ Shakoor?” asked Kyle, who was enjoying the hike. He was always fit. “You seem to be picking your way with ease, yet when I look around, I can’t see anything resembling a proper path.”
Marik shrugged. “Once or twice a year. I thought it would be best if I came myself with you two.”
Kyle muttered under his breath, “No doubt because Magi is here…”
Marik and Magi ignored him. At the top of a ridge they heard the sound of rushing water in the distance. “There,” Marik pointed, “is where the Ol’ Shakoor lives. And she’s expecting you.”
She? Magi thought.
Magi
Kyle and Magi eagerly approached the small home of the Ol’ Shakoor, tucked into the foothills of the Crystal Mountain. Their pace quickened and Marik smiled, having seen dozens of similar reactions from other students throughout the years.
The dwelling was surrounded by thick woods and next to it, a brilliant waterfall cascaded down the face of Kraggentop, one of the largest peaks near the northern end of the range. Soon winter would come, and the water would slow to ice, forming one of the most spectacular formations of ice-knives one could hope to see.
But that was not on either of the boys’ minds. “Kyle,” Marik said. “I would like you to go first.”
“Yes, Master.” Kyle was tense with excitement and anticipation.
As they approached the home, the door opened and they saw a figure walking toward them. She was wrapped in cloth from head to toe, with an oversized cowl drawn up over her head. Unusual clothing for a relatively warm fall day, thought Magi. But what’s a prophetess supposed to wear?
She approached the three of them and nodded to Marik. “Good day, Marik.” He nodded back. She fixed her eyes on Kyle, her face still hidden in the folds of her robe. “Come, young Kyle. Come hear your destiny.”
Kyle looked back at Magi and tried to look cool, but Magi suspected his best friend was more nervous than the last chicken in a hungry town. Magi himself had a hard time swallowing, feeling like his tongue was coated and raw. He gave Kyle a thumbs up and watched him follow the woman into her house, the door closing behind them
“What happens in there, Master?” Magi asked. “How does she predict our future?”
“The prophetess has many ways, Magi. I don’t claim to be an expert in this branch of magic, and frankly it is more art than science, anyhow.” Marik grabbed a comfortable seat next to a wonderful smelling evergreen tree. He took out a spellbook that he brought with him. “Come here, Magi. Let me teach you another spell while we pass the time. This is one that will manipulate the wind…”
Magi wasn’t sure how long they studied, maybe an hour, maybe three. Late that afternoon Kyle emerged from the Ol’ Shakoor’s house. He had an odd look on his face. Magi looked at him and, without thinking, asked how it went. Kyle just looked at him and shrugged. Marik fixed his gaze on Kyle intently, but spoke to Magi. “I believe she is waiting for you, Magi.”
“Right. See you soon, Kyle. Master.” He turned and bowed his head to Marik as he approached the door to the Ol’ Shakoor’s home. He looked back and saw Kyle looking at him. He waved; Kyle gave him a short wave back and began talking to Marik.
“Enter, Magi. Young mage, this is a day I have been anticipating for a long, long time.”
“Uh, yes. Me, too.” Lame. He twisted his ring absentmindedly.
The Ol’ Shakoor motioned to a simple table with two very comfortable chairs next to it. “Sit. We will talk awhile.” The Ol’ Shakoor pulled back her cowl to reveal a woman of striking beauty. She had hair the color of honey, and it tumbled to her shoulders. Her eyes had flecks of gold in them as well, like a cat’s in the dark. She wore a pendant of silver with a single black pearl, tight to her neckline.
Magi could not help but suck in an audible breath. The Ol’ Shakoor laughed. “Am I so unpleasant to look at, young mage? Do I startle you?” There was a playfulness in her eyes that didn’t square with his vision of a prophetess. What did you expect, some wrinkled, dried-up battle-axe?
“No, not at all. Just been a long day.” He sat.
“Well. So it has. And it will be a bit longer still. Please take this drink and refresh yourself. I insist.” She passed him a pitcher of water.
Magi poured himself a glass, but did not drink immediately. Again, the Ol’ Shakoor laughed. “My sweet boy, how many of your schoolmates have you seen return from my home having had a portion of their fortunes revealed? If I wished to poison children, they would never return. It is water from the mountain stream, with crushed pine needles to provide a refreshing bite. Please, enjoy and relax. We have much to discuss.” She had a velvety, almost seductive voice.
Magi poured himself a glass and allowed himself to relax. The water was truly the best he could ever remember tasting. “So, how does this work?”
“You are direct. Good—you will find this of me as well. All I require is for you to cast a simple spell. Call forth your magic; it is the power within you that I must read, for that power contains the secrets of your future. Do not worry about harming me. You will find I am not easy to—harm.” She said with a smile that caused her golden eyes to sparkle.
“Very well. But what shall I call you? Master Marik calls you the Ol’ Shakoor, but I’m not sure that’s proper.” Magi looked at her and met her gaze.
“My name? How quaint, Magi. You may call me Elsa. Now cast your spell, mage.” Her smile slowly faded away into seriousness. Her face seemed ageless. Was she 20? 40? Older still?
Magi continued to look at the prophetess, and grabbed a pinch of sand, preparing for a sleep spell. He focused on her body, with the robe clinging to her curvy frame. He brought forth his magic and felt the familiar tingle as he began to sense things all around him. He saw a bead of sweat forming on the left side of Elsa’s forehead. He heard the crack of lighting from a storm on the far side of the Crystal Mountains. He heard the sound of Kyle’s voice as he spoke with Marik. A small bird abandoned in a nest a league away found itself to be dinner to a hungry puma. And the magic came forth.
The Ol’ Shakoor was shaking, visibly straining. Sweat poured from her head and her robe was disheveled. She fell out of her chair, pitching forward onto the floor. She was not asleep—but clearly exhausted.
“Water,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and weak.
Magi poured her a cup. He felt no
more drained than if he had lifted a feather. “Are you ok? I cast a simple sleep spell. Obviously it didn’t work.” He tried to be funny. Still lame.
Elsa drank deeply and extended her hand, asking for help to get up. She slowly made her way back to the comfortable chair by her table and tried to compose herself. “I did not anticipate this.”
“What is it?” Magi was intensely curious now.
“Your magic—your future—it is too heavy for me. This has never happened before.” She finished her water and asked for another cup, emptying the pitcher.
“What do you mean, ‘too heavy’?” Magi asked.
“I mean it is too heavy for me to lift. As a prophetess, we ‘lift’ your future from the power within you. All mages have a certain depth to their power. The deeper the well, the more innately powerful the mage. The more of yourself you can pour into a single spell, or the more stamina you will have for more spell casting without rest. Normally I can easily lift this energy and read the portion that pertains to your future, picking up images, feelings, and events. But in your case—I could not. It felt like I was trying to pull an anchor up from the depths of the Whirlpool. It was all I could do to resist your sleep spell, and I have the benefit of charms to make it nearly impossible for me to succumb to magic.” She fingered her necklace without thinking. “Yet succumb I nearly did anyhow.”
Magi’s mind was racing, and he asked the obvious question. “What does that mean for my prophecy?”
“It means I cannot read it. It humbles me greatly to admit that you are beyond my abilities to read—no other mage has ever been too heavy. You must go to the Elven prophet Pilanthas the Old, in Shith, on the outskirts of the great forest, Filestalas. Pilanthas is the oldest, and strongest amongst our order—he will lift your prophecy. Your fate can be read by him or no one.”
Magi looked at Elsa, the Ol’ Shakoor. She was drained and looked to have aged in front of his eyes. A wisp of smoke curled up from the black pearl about her neck. “Is there nothing you can share with me, Lady Elsa?”
She wearily raised her head to look Magi in the eyes. “No. Alas, I cannot. Seek Pilanthas for the answers you pursue. Now I must rest.”
Magi thanked her, and turned to leave. He never saw Elsa look up at him one last time, shudder, and collapse into deep sleep. From the strength of his spell or the exhaustion of her efforts, who could tell?
Magi
It was a strange thing, seeing the look of surprise on the face of a True Mage. Magi was spinning his ring when he reflected on Master Marik’s facial expression. Everything looks creepier without proper eyes. Is this my destiny?
Marik quickly regained his nondescript countenance and set his jaw. “Very well. We shall head back to Brigg, restock our supplies, and acquire mounts to travel overland to Shith. It is no small journey. I will need to make arrangements for the school.”
Magi looked at his Master. “You think we should still go? You can’t leave the school for that long, can you?”
“If the Ol’ Shakoor says to see Pilanthas, we shall go visit the ancient Elf. Given the unusual nature of your prophecy, I think it is important that I accompany you. Though I will ask one of our Rangers to accompany us. The terrain south of the Three Fingers is not well known to me, and the forests around Fostler, and especially Briz, can be treacherous.”
“May I come too, Master?” Kyle asked in a soft voice. “I have an interest in Magi’s prophecy, too.”
Magi looked at Kyle. His friend seemed much more serious than normal. “I would love to have Kyle join us, Master.”
Marik considered. “Very well. But we shall not dawdle in Brigg long. Be prepared to leave the next morning upon our return.”
With that, the three of them retraced their journey back to the village. There was an unmistakable sense of urgency that hovered over them as they walked.
“It appears we have another adventure on our hands, Kyle.” Magi had fallen into step next to him as they walked briskly behind Marik.
“Yes. It does,” he said with uncharacteristic seriousness. I wonder what he saw in there?
Xaro
Perspiring slightly, Xaro had arranged for a pitcher of cool water flavored by the juice of imported Mikenese melons to be brought in when he clapped his hands. The days were always hot in Sands End, and Xaro had been outside supervising the drills for some of the men left behind by his General. He returned to his private quarters for an important appointment—another one halfway around the world that required his spellcasting.
As the black dust settled into the outline of the Head of the Assassin’s Guild, Xaro plopped down into a seat opposite the shimmering image of Silverfist. He called for his water to brought, and grabbed a nearby towel to blot his forehead.
Silverfist, too, was seated, and looked to be in a far more comfortable climate. Wearing a light brown shirt paired with fine blue trousers, his legs were crossed as he sipped light-colored wine with small pieces of fruit floating in the bottom of his rather large glass.
“Xaro, your spellcasting is punctual as ever. You look warm.” Silverfist began informally.
“Yes, all afternoon in the sun will do that. You look as comfortable as ever. Clearly business is good.” Xaro poured himself a glass and took a nice, long gulp, putting aside any pretentiousness whatsoever. The melons don’t taste quite ripe.
Silverfist laughed lightly. “My guild’s business always does well, Xaro. There is never a time when our business suffers.” He had a long toothpick in one hand that he slowly inserted into one of the pieces of fruit in his wine glass, pulling it out to eat delicately.
“So it would seem. And perhaps your business will improve even moreso based on our discussion. As we have briefly discussed in the past…I am in need of an assassin. Your best—top of the Guild.” Xaro set his glass down and looked into the eyes of the image he had conjured. “You said you had someone in mind.”
Perhaps it was simply due to the shimmering nature of the image, but Xaro thought there was a gleam in Silverfist’s eye. “Well, the top spot in our Guild can be a fleeting position. One is only as good as your last kill, to some extent. But if you want my advice, I would recommend a young Master Assassin who has demonstrated a natural talent that belies her relative youth. She is whom I had in mind. I tell you—she is special, Xaro.”
Xaro had known Silverfist for years. Though he never had need for an assassin until recently, he had heard the man speak fondly of the Guild, but never of individual assassins. At one point, he recalled him going so far as to say that they were ‘interchangeable.’
“Very well; tell me old friend, what makes this young assassin so special? I am not looking for your newest Master; I am looking for your best. You yourself have told me that the strength of the Black Guild is the consistency among your members, so strong is your training. Yet you would have me trust in a young female. Share with me your logic.” He leaned back, grabbed his somewhat bitter drink, and listened.
“I will tell you. She has already more than thirty kills, and has been training for six years. Her technique is flawless because her gifts are so natural. I have been training Assassins for forty years, Xaro, and very few Masters pass the Moral Test, Technique Test, and Selectivity Test flawlessly. The Masters who do pass often fail one or more Tests, and reattempt later, ultimately passing. Not her. She is in the peak of her physical fitness, a combination of strength, agility, and guile that no man can match. She has shown the ability to both plan meticulously and adapt cleverly when circumstances change. Most recently, she killed the bodyguards of a pair of mages travelling to Gaust, eliminating a skilled Ranger and a skilled Warrior, both of whom were in the presence of others at the time. She is like a gho—”
“What did you just say?” Xaro interrupted.
Silverfist cocked his head and his image leaned forward. “I said she killed in the presence of others. She’s like a ghost, Xaro.”
“No, who did she kill? A Ranger and Warrior travelling to Gaust?” Xaro
put his drink down and stood up suddenly, approaching the image. “Who-did-she-kill?” he repeated forcefully.
“Well, I don’t know their names. Our agents simply verified that the assignment was properly executed, which it was. The test was to kill the bodyguards and leave the lads untouched. I mean, killing the boys would hardly have been a test for a Master Assassin? Now, an established Ranger and a True Warrior, both in public…that is something entirely different. And as I said, both were flawless. She killed the Ranger in a Library, Xaro, and the man never made a sound until his body thumped to the ground. She was back outside the building before those silly boys knew that one of their protectors had been slain. And the Warrior was felled by poison that she herself brewed. The man fell face down into his stew while she lazily drank a glass of wine, departing casually when people began making an uproar. But why do you care? We devised the test based on information we had gathered. Were either the Ranger or Warrior friends of yours? If so, I am sorry but we do live in a Dark World, Xaro. You know this better than most.”
Silverfist ran a hand through his nearly all-black hair, just beginning to become streaked with grey.
Xaro just stood there and said nothing. If you knew how close you came to destroying my plans…plans more than 18 years in the making…may Kuth-Cergor have mercy on your bones, because that is all that would have been left. He took a deep breath and sighed before walking back to his chair. “It is nothing. I have a fondness for cultivating our Art. I am glad your Assassin wasn’t tasked with killing the young mages, that is all.
“So this Assassin—I would speak with her. If I like her, then I will hire her from you. What is her name and what is your price?”
Silverfist just smiled. “Veronica is her name, and she doesn’t work for me, Xaro. Every Master Assassin works for themself. I may help procure some contracts, but every Assassin negotiates their own rates. They pay the Guild 10% on every successful contract.”
“If I like her, the only contract she’ll have is with me. If you are sure she’ll pay you, fine. That makes no difference to me and is between you and her. But she will only be killing for me.”
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 19