In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1)

by Steve M. Shoemake

  Carefully pushing his hand through the wall, he and his servants stumbled into the small home, which was dimly lit by a single low-burning candle at that hour.

  “So this is the monster that is sucking the life out of Ilbindale,” commented an aging True Mage with grey hair as he sent a fireball toward the zombies surrounding their master while Malenec was caught off guard by the burst of flame. “I don’t know what devil this man prays to, but see that even his silent prayers are silenced.”

  A large female warrior struck him on the back of the head from behind with the flat of her sword, and the soft light of the tiny candle began to flicker and dim as Malenec crumpled to the floor. The last thing he thought he saw was the oddly familiar crest on a nearby breastplate of an enormous eagle, wings spread over a five-peaked mountain.

  CHAPTER 14: THREATS AND PROPHECY

  Marik

  Marik sat quietly near the woods, wrapped in his heavy cloak to keep out the cold. He looked back over his shoulder to the guest house, where his students (if he could even call them that any longer) were preparing to head northeast, across Lake Calm toward Paragatha. He wanted to make sure nobody was close by, no prying eyes as he cast his spell to open a line of communication. Not with Serenity. He could care less at this point about the fate of his school, which had only been an elaborate front anyhow. He needed to speak with Xaro. Soon the shimmering image of his Master materialized in front of him.

  “Master,” he began. “The prophecy has been read to Magi. As you foresaw, he is going to climb the Staircase.” He paused and narrowed his eyes slightly. “However, the Elf revealed something that neither of us has foreseen. Apparently, Magi’s father is alive, and Magi is determined to travel to Paragatha, to find him.”

  Xaro’s image seemed to flicker at the news. “What did you say?” He asked, disturbed.

  “I said that Magi has set his mind to go to Paragatha to find the father who apparently lived through that fire. But that is not the worst of it…he is pulling away from my influence, Master. I can tell,” Marik said plainly.

  “Paragatha? To meet his father, who lives? You know we cannot allow that to happen.” Xaro stated.

  “No. We cannot,” agreed Marik, adding “but to tell you the truth—”

  Xaro cut him off. “You must accompany him and see that his father is unavailable to him. If he learns the truth, it would sever whatever tether you still have on the young man. He cannot find out the truth—for your sake, I would do my utmost to see that he doesn’t.” Xaro raised a shadowy arm and pointed directly at Marik.

  “For my sake? What are you implying? Master,” Marik began, slowly starting to feel his blood pressure rise. “On your orders did I take that boy. You were the one who saw his potential. You asked me to raise him. You decided I should run that silly school. For 20 years I’ve been serving, while you decided to play with swords and bathe in holy water. You commanded that the ancient scroll be read to him, and now my relationship strains as he grows increasingly focused on himself. This may shock you, but I have the least to lose with his discovery of the truth, since I am already losing whatever relationship I had with the boy. It is you and your cause that stand the most to lose. Consider that. Master.” He nearly spit out the last word.

  The image of Xaro laughed. “My sentimental Marik—how touching. I never knew you could be so caring. You actually feel for this boy.” He allowed his laughter to hang in the air a bit. “Let me correct a few things for you, just so we’re clear. The boy is destined to be a True Mage, and a follower of Kuth-Cergor at that. When I say you have the most to lose, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not talking about your relationship with Magi. I’m talking about your relationship with me, specifically your place on my council. The boy’s anger will rest squarely on you—he doesn’t know me. Yet. And by the time he does, he will serve me as well. The only question is how and when, so be mindful of your impertinence. You know that I expect two things from each person who serves on my council: fierce loyalty, and that they be the best in their Guild. After this conversation, I’m not sure we can say you meet either standard. Perhaps, after Magi’s eyes get whitened, I should get closer to him, if you find your influence on the young man waning. Do we now have a complete understanding of each other, Marik?” The edges of Xaro’s mouth just slightly curled, into a smile or a sneer Marik could not tell.

  “Oh, we understand one another perfectly. Master.” Marik ended the spell and headed back to the guest house to prepare to leave with Kyle and Magi.

  Veronica

  A soft glow illuminated the monstrous cavern deep within the bowels of the Crystal Mountains. There was a fairly wide stone bridge stretching across the chasm, which looked to be about 200 feet long and 10 feet wide. About every 20 feet or so was an archway with elaborate carvings and runes on both sides, crawling up the stone and glowing. How far down the chasm dropped was anyone’s guess—the light couldn’t even begin to penetrate the bottom. It was an engineering marvel to see this heavy, long, wide, and even ornate stone bridge that spanned the gap with nothing connecting it except both ends. But that did not command Veronica’s attention.

  Standing in front of the bridge was an odd-looking dwarf, short as usual and as stocky as they come. But he was bald and perhaps more surprisingly, clean-shaven, with the trademark white eyes of a True Mage. First a half-dwarf, now a Dwarven mage. Next I’ll find a sober Dwarf. Without knowing what to expect, Veronica kept her distance and simply said, “It appears I am at a disadvantage. How did you come to expect me?”

  “That is neither here nor there. I am the keeper of the bridge through the mines, and I always collect my toll.”

  “I see. So when the slaves came through here—”

  “I take 1/10th. A man cannot live on rocks and spiders and bats alone…not even a Dwarf.” He smiled wickedly. “You, unfortunately, do not have a tenth to give.”

  “A tenth of what?” Veronica asked, trying to sound naïve.

  “Your life, my dear. When the slave parties traversed this path, a hundred or more could be led through the mountains in 5 or 6 days. But you must cross this bridge, and no one may cross without my magic, for it sustains this beautiful bridge. Just who do you think built it? Some call me the Mystic under the Mountain. Others call me a prophet-troll, which is ridiculous—do I look like a Troll? At any rate, you may simply call me Zender.” He cocked his head, grabbed his tattered cloak, and bowed slightly. “One out of every ten must stay with me. Alas, you do not have nine friends with you, so I’m afraid you will not leave. Unless…” he paused.

  I’ll bite. “Unless what, Zender?” Veronica asked.

  “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen down here in ages—oh yes, I see through your pitiful disguise—so I am inclined to give you a sporting chance. You see, I am a prophet, but I am also a liar.” He flashed that same wicked grin. “So I shall do this: I will provide you with three prophecies. Two shall be false; only one will be true. If you can guess which one is true, I shall let you pass. Guess wrong, and I will have to kill you, for each life I take grants me the number of years left on that life, which is how I’ve lasted hundreds of years. And you look very young.” Zender, the Dwarven Mystic under the Mountain, rubbed his hands together greedily. “Are we agreed?”

  Veronica wasn’t quite sure how to deal with this impediment. She wasn’t quite frightened, but direct confrontation was not her specialty. Perhaps this game would afford her a diversion, or at least some time to think of one. “Yes, Zender. Your terms are most gracious,” she said with a wicked smile of her own and a slight nod.

  “Excellent! For I’ve seen so much about your future that is so interesting. So let us begin, shall we?

  “Prophecy #1: A Dark Mage will put an end to your murderous ways.

  “Prophecy #2: You will put an end to the greatest mage of our time.

  “Prophecy #3: God will favor you with a gift beyond measure.

  “Now then, as I said, two are false, but one will come
to pass. Guess which it is, and I shall let you go in peace. You have but one guess, however, so choose carefully, young Assassin.”

  Veronica thought about each. A Dark Mage will kill her—that could be Zender himself. If that was true and she guessed the others, both of which are false, then perhaps he would kill her and steal the rest of her years, fulfilling the prophecy.

  Therefore, she reasoned, if I guess Prophecy 1 and am wrong, perhaps if he kills me I will be favored in the afterlife by Kuth-Cergor for serving his servant Xaro. That would make Prophecy 3 true. That was also plausible. And if I am right and Prophecy 1 is true, I shall pass this bridge… But then I will need to watch my back with Dark Mages, something I do already. Take for instance Xaro and his pet, Marik. I could handle Marik, and frankly, fighting Xaro would be an exquisite challenge…

  She went back and forth in her mind for another five minutes or five hours; time had very little meaning deep below the mountains. In the end she decided. “Zender. I am ready to choose. Prophecy #1 is the true reading.”

  “Ah, you guess well! But alas, you do not guess right.” The dwarf began to almost cackle. “Prophecy 1 is not right, and now I shall have my price.” He slid his hand inside his sleeve.

  Veronica was a little quicker, however. A small burst of flame exploded between Zender and her. An old Assassin’s trick—a tiny pinch of powder concealed in her own sleeve was all it took to create a distraction as she flung it into her torch. Smoke filled the cavern and she moved with the reflexes that had made her the Guild’s top murder-for-hire. She buried her blade deep into the Dwarf’s back before the smoke even began to clear—he was awestruck with the speed at which she moved. His eyes looked like perfect little white circles. He pitched forward, and Veronica withdrew her knife and held it to the dwarf’s throat.

  “Which prophecy is true, dwarf, and I will end this quick for you.” She didn’t even raise her voice.

  The dwarf was gurgling blood and smiling. “Young fool…you will never cross the bridge now…”

  “Which prophecy was true?” she repeated calmly.

  “Proph…prophecy….number….” and then he died.

  “Perhaps Prophecy 2 has already come true,” she whispered into his ear, secretly hoping the corpse would confirm it for her. Silence. Veronica slit his throat out of habit and sat down to clean her knife, waiting for the rest of the smoke to clear, plotting her next move.

  Kari

  “This is so refreshing!” Kari said as she caught herself almost chugging the pine-scented water that the Ol’ Shakoor had provided her. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was from the hike.

  Elsa laughed, her timeless face reflecting warmth and peace. Except her eyes; those were almost as unnerving as any True Mage’s, with their striking gold flecks. But she clearly wanted Kari to relax and feel at home.

  And what an interesting home it was. Marik and the Rangers he sometimes hired referred to it as a ‘hut,’ but Kari thought that was an understatement. Phillip, their village Elder, could not have lived more splendidly. Beautiful art, ornate shelves with books and vials and all sorts of instruments dotted the interior, but not in a cluttered way. The soft chairs and fragrant smells, with windows everywhere, gave the ‘hut’ a very open feeling. But more than anything it didn’t seem poor. It smelled fresh, and in contrast to Brigg—almost lavish. Scented water! From where she was sitting, Kari could see the enormous icicles forming as the water continued to freeze in various spots as it tumbled down Kraggentop. Cold sunshine would hit that ice and split into a dozen rainbows, splashing color everywhere. She continued to look around in amazement, sipping her water—more gently now—feeling more convinced than ever that she had to strike out from Brigg. And soon.

  “And so, my young illusionist, shall we begin? Simply cast a spell of your choosing, and I will prophesize off the fingerprints on your magic.” She smiled, and her eyes sparkled—nearly matching the honey color of her hair.

  That raised a question with Kari. “Mistress Elsa,” she began, “How did you come to look like that? Why aren’t your eyes white, like other True Mages?”

  The Ol’ Shakoor considered the question. “An observant young lady, you are. It is simple really. Vanity. I love the color of my eyes, so I choose to keep them. But that comes with a price, of course.”

  “What price?” Kari was curious.

  “There is always a price to be paid for getting what we want, Kari. There is always a sacrifice. Nothing is freely given, especially for those of us with the power to glimpse and interpret the likely future. But since you have asked…my case involves a need for me to stay neutral, despite my inclination to get involved in what I see. I may keep my eyes if I constrain myself to simply reading prophesies. Were I to try and involve myself in the outside affairs of men and women—to take my knowledge and use it to pursue my own goals or my own sense of righteousness—I would go blind. As long as I keep my words true and do not try to, shall we say, interfere, I may keep my original eye color, which as you’ve noticed is quite unique, don’t you think? So, you may decide for yourself whether my choice is a blessing or a curse: to know what is coming and do nothing or to know what is coming and do something, knowing that in so doing you shall be blinded?

  “So, I have taken the coward’s path, if we are to start off our conversation with honesty. But I am a vain woman, and I do love my eyes. Other prophets may ask for different…blessings. For me—I asked to keep my eyes.”

  Something nagged at Kari. “Elsa…who did you ask?”

  Elsa smiled warmly. “Aren’t you full of questions today? For now let me say simply that we all answer to someone, whether we acknowledge it or not.”

  “I see,” Kari said, frowning slightly. She wanted more answers.

  “No, you don’t. But you will. Cast your spell, let us begin.”

  Kari cast a simple illusion that a brightly colored bird had flown in from the outside and landed gracefully on her shoulder. As illusions go, this was a minor spell. It was more than sufficient for Elsa to work her magic.

  As she had done hundreds and hundreds of times before, she “lifted” her prophecy from a cacophony of images that began to flood the room between the two women. She saw three Elves, dressed in white, approaching her with a marvelous tower behind them. She saw an enormous warrior with honest, intensely blue eyes staring at her. She saw an exotic-looking female True Mage, weaving a complex spell in front of her. She saw three symbols, floating in mid-air. And then all images faded into a single face, a familiar face. Handsome, with auburn hair, only his eyes were now pure white, and he was smiling confidently at her, his face filling the room between her and the Ol’ Shakoor. Finally his face began to fade, and the image of the bird did, too.

  “He affects your future too, I see.” Elsa said after a few moments passed. She poured herself a glass of water from a large, narrow pitcher and drank deeply.

  I own my future, not him or anyone else. “What does it mean?” Kari asked, trying not to sound annoyed.

  “Magi is a fulcrum in our Dark World. Your path depends greatly on the choices he would make.” She sipped her water thoughtfully and stared at the illusionist.

  Kari shifted and crossed her arms across her chest. “You really have no idea how much it irks me when you say Magi’s path matters to mine. We saw his white eyes, so he climbed the Staircase. What has that to do with me?”

  “Kari, I’m sure you would like to think your future is fully yours to control. You are not the first mage I’ve seen who thinks they can control everything—it is a curse of your talent that you think you can bend circumstances to fit your interest the same way you can bend light, sound, smell, taste, and touch to create illusions all around you. I find this particularly difficult for many would-be Illusionists to accept, because you shape everything in your mind. But believe me when I tell you that in the final analysis, we all control precious little, and the choices of others affect us greatly. And yes, it appears as if Magi will indeed climb the St
aircase. But that choice of his may not be the one that affects your path, either.” Elsa did not elaborate.

  Kari guessed she knew exactly what Elsa was implying. Her eyes flashed and she stood up. “Elsa, I like Magi. Who wouldn’t, ok? But it’s not like he defines me or anyone else. I don’t need him. What I need is to get out of Brigg—I want to see the world! This is the farthest away from the village that I’ve ever been. If you’re telling me to sit around and wait for him to get back from Shith to see what he wants—”

  Elsa rescued her, interrupting. “First of all, I never said anything about waiting. And second of all, your destiny is not the only one tied to this man’s choices. As I said—it would be foolish to think that your future is completely unrelated to the choices others make. Much of our destinies are outside our own control, Kari. But third and most importantly, take heart when I tell you that you are destined for much more than just Magi’s companionship.”

  Hearing it out loud…companionship with Magi…there was something attractive about that path as well, however, if I’m being totally honest. “Elsa, just tell me what I should do about the Staircase.” Kari sighed, pushing her hand through her thick hair like she always did when she felt exasperated.

  Elsa smiled. She tried to look comforting, but it was impossible to look comforting or matronly or motherly with her face and features. It was a just a smile. Still, she tried, and said, “Kari, what has your Master told you of the three Artifacts of the Ancients?”

  Huh? “Mistress? What did you say? Artifacts? Nothing—should he have?” Kari asked

  “The three Artifacts of the Ancients. We saw symbols representing them during your prophetic vision—I wondered if you knew anything about them. Apparently not.” She refilled her glass.

  “So. Let me share with you the story. It has been said that Quixatalor had two friends—a True Warrior named Ajax and a True Cleric named Windomere. You’ve heard of Quixatalor, of course?” Elsa paused when she saw the blank look on Kari’s face. “Surely Marik told you about Quixatalor? The greatest of our order who ever lived? The man who found a way to even keep Death waiting himself?”