“Oh, yes. Quixaterlorish. Yes, of course I’ve heard of him.” Kari lied. This is where I’m supposed to get all the answers?
Elsa took a deep breath and called Tarsh in from the cold outside. After getting him something warm to drink, she sat back down. “Well—we may need a little history lesson. Since this doesn’t directly relate to Kari’s prophecy, I can tell you both, and frankly I would just assume tell this story once. As I’ve made clear, it is quite pointless to lie to a True Mage gifted in the Art of Prophecy. It would be like me trying to fool you with illusion, my dear. You would see the images differently, a lack of shadow, an unusual color combination—it would be pointless. So, let me ask both of you—have you ever heard of the Archmage Quixatalor?”
“No,” they answered, both looking at each other.
“Curious,” Elsa remarked. “In any event, let me fill in a little history for you both. Quixatalor was and is the greatest True Mage to have ever graced our realm. He was good and kind and wise. An advisor to Kings and Rulers. He served King Reginald the Third, his son Torbeth the First, and his son Absynth the Weak. After the great dwarven revolt, Karwin (who some called Karwin the Short) became the first Warlord. A century later, Karwin was overthrown by another Warlord, Roc-San. Through it all, Quixatalor advised. He lived more than 350 years, and I guarantee you, it’s not because he was Elven. He found a way to cheat Death. Whatever spell he designed to do this has been lost to antiquity.
“Quixatalor is known for three things: Number One—he established the tradition of young mages getting their fortunes told as a prerequisite to climbing the Staircase. My sect of the True Mages has certainly benefitted greatly from his faith in our prophetic abilities. Number Two—he was known for his long life. As I’ve said, no man and few Elves have ever lived longer. A quest to find his secrets continue to this very day. Number Three—and this is the most relevant for you both to know—Quixatalor possessed a wonderful staff. It was called the Staff of Insight. Oh, it was an effective weapon for striking by one trained in such things. But its power was not as a blunt instrument. You see this Staff granted its owner unmatched insight. It is said that the Staff allowed its owner to see things as they truly were. You could not lie to Quixatalor. You could not fool him. You could not cast an illusion or weave a falsehood. You could not hide your true motivations. Even if your opinion on a matter was true—if it wasn’t completely true, the Staff would know. Imagine the power to know every half-truth, to know when someone is motivated by selfish interests rather than the good of the village or the city or the kingdom? Imagine always knowing what your councilors really think? You can see why Quixatalor was invaluable as an advisor to the King or Warlord. Nobody could hide any truth from the King, and all opinions, even the unpopular ones, were always voiced whenever Quixatalor was around. Because he’d know if anyone disagreed. Not that some didn’t test him, of course. Rumors spread like wildfire after a few informants tried to pass the Warlord Karwin false information… and lost hands, feet, tongues—you name it—for their falsehoods. It is no secret that Quixatalor’s power helped the Dwarven king reign over men for a hundred years. It soon became clear that no man could lie or withhold information from any ruler in Quixatalor’s presence.”
Elsa took yet another long drink and saw their faces, rapt with attention. She smiled and continued. “That staff—the Staff of Insight—is one of Three Artifacts of the Ancients. Two others exist. The second is the Shield of Life, capable of warding off evil spells and dark prayers. It was first worn by the Great Windomere, a contemporary of Quixatalor. He was a True Cleric, and he served Absynthe the Weak during the Rebellion. We don’t know what happened to his Shield, but it was said that Quixatalor himself had a hand in creating it. The third artifact is the Blade of Justice, which is capable of killing anything. As long as the owner can lay eyes on their adversary, the blade may be thrown or used like a long dagger or very short sword. No armor can blunt the blade, and no magical spells can protect the victim. If thrown, it always will return, flying back to its owner’s hand. It does not miss, and it never goes missing. It is an instrument of killing, one life at a time. Another contemporary of Quixatalor wielded this blade—the Great True Warrior Ajax, who reportedly was a mercenary that served Karwin and helped overthrow Absynthe.
“This all dates back to the time when there were True Clerics, of course. None exist now that we know of. The worship of Dymetra or of that demon, Kuth-Cergor, fell out of favor long ago. And with the disappearance of True Clerics, nobody knows what ever happened to the Shield of Life, or the Blade of Justice, either. But like the Staff…people look for it. Oh, do they ever.”
She stood up. “And now, Tarsh, this is where I must ask you to leave. You may stay at my guest house, some distance further along the trail. I have more to discuss with young Kari here, but I’m afraid it relates to her Prophecy. We will have to do yours tomorrow; I suspect my discussions with Kari will stretch a bit further tonight…”
As soon as Tarsh left, Elsa sat down next to Kari. “You asked me what to do. I cannot tell you what to do. But I am not without some advice.”
Kari just looked at her, not wishing to interrupt. Elsa smiled and continued.
“I told you that story because the time is fast approaching when I see that these Artifacts must be found. To what purpose, and who finds them, is a different question.
“You, like all the others, come to seek guidance about the Staircase, and it is healthy for you to do so. In your case, I think you will have options—options to Climb…or not. I don’t sense failure, but it may not be your destiny, either. Your destiny is also caught up with the Artifacts, Kari.”
“And so is Magi’s?” she asked, a little curious, a little hopeful. The image of her and Magi on a quest for ancient objects was incredibly enticing.
“You know I can’t discuss another mage’s prophecy, but as you’ve gone to great pains this evening to point out—you wish to decouple your fate from his. I am here to say that while your paths are linked in some ways, it may not be in the way you imagine. Your calling, however, may be wholly different.”
Kari leaned closer, cocking her head slightly. “How so?”
Elsa smiled, and the gold in her eyes seemed to glow. “My advice to you, Kari, is to travel to Rookwood, to meet our Queen. For you will need her help.”
She leaned closer still. “Help with what?”
“Options, Kari. You seek to control your future. Very well—it appears you shall have quite the choice to make. You may choose to climb the Staircase…but you may also choose to become a True Cleric of Dymetra, Kari, one of the first new ones worshipping Her in hundreds of years. And please tell me that I don’t need to tell you who She is tonight as well.”
Magi
Lake Calm was aptly named. The shoreline butted up against the great Elven forest of Filestelas. The Crystal Mountains in the west also formed a boundary. Whatever the geological reason, it was just plain eerie. I wonder if anything lives in this water was Magi’s first thought when they emerged from the forest to stare across the lake’s vast expanse. It was a cloudy afternoon on the day they arrived at the water’s edge, and everything looked grey, which did nothing to improve his mood.
How is he alive—the question still plagued him. The more he thought about it, the less it made sense and the fouler he became, biting Kyle and Marik’s head off over the slightest thing. Soon they took the hint, and the three of them hiked in silence.
He kept turning over the Elf’s words, but could not unfurl much of anything besides the surprise that his father lived…and that he should Climb. Everything else was a mystery.
Whatever the story, I shall pursue the truth.
Staring out over the perfectly still water, it seemed almost sacrilegious to even float a leaf on the surface, let alone a boat. He stared down at the water, expecting to see his reflection. He was not disappointed. The grey water was opaque, and Magi could not see anything beneath the surface. All was reflected, and
a perfectly still picture of a young man with long flowing auburn-brown hair stared up at him. Nothing shimmered. Nothing moved. No wind blew. No birds chirped. No fish flopped. No sun shone.
Magi reached down and dunked his head into the cold water, spraying water behind him as he pulled himself up, wet hair flying behind him.
Dripping, he turned to Marik and Kyle. “Let’s start building a raft.”
Tarsh
Tarsh walked through the door to sit down in the Ol’ Shakoor’s home for the second time, early the next morning after hearing the story about the three Artifacts of the Ancients. He took an offered glass of water, and somewhat shyly sat down, trying to relax. Next to standing over Magi’s body in the tournament, this was the most excited he could ever remember being. He swallowed and just sat there.
“So Tarsh, I need you to cast a spell. I will read your prophecy from the images that I lift from your magic.”
Without saying a word, Tarsh stood up and cast the first spell he thought of—the electrifying hands that ended Magi’s run in the Tournament. He did not, of course, try to shock the Ol’ Shakoor. Instead he just stood there, his hands crackling.
Soon the room was filled with images of Marik, and a city by the sea. And pain. Lots and lots of pain.
Elsa closed her eyes. Before she begun, Tarsh spoke to her for the first time that morning. “Are your prophecies for certain?”
The Ol’ Shakoor shook her head slowly. “No, Tarsh. They only reflect what is most likely. It is not for me to tell a student of magic whether they should climb or not. I simply reveal what is likely to happen. In your case, I see great pain for you, if you pursue that course.”
“But it doesn’t mean I’ll fail?” Tarsh looked up. He had taken his ponytail out today, and his long hair ran thick to his shoulders, waves of deep brown mixed with black. Without thinking, he saw that his hands had tensed and he was digging his nails into the arm of the chair he was sitting on. He stood up and started pacing, pushing his hand through his hair. “I didn’t see failure in the images.”
Elsa just looked at Tarsh, who stopped pacing to focus on her. “Tarsh, the Staircase is a magical test. It explores your strengths, it probes your weaknesses. Not all who fail die, and not all who summit succeed…unscathed. All are changed, of course, starting with the eyes. But your path on the Staircase is marked by pain, Tarsh. It is up to you to decide what to do with this foreknowledge.”
“But you said it’s only most likely…not ‘certain.’ There’s still time for me to improve. Through study, practice, discipline—”
“You will find it difficult to avoid the likely outcome of Fate. He seems to move events toward the path he’s put his mind to, with few exceptions.”
If I can beat Magi, I can climb that Staircase. Whatever I work at, I have achieved. I lost weight. I grew in skill. I grew in power. I can do this. For me. Maybe for Kari…she deserves a True Mage.
“We’ll see. Thank you for the imagery.” He turned to leave, his hand on the door.
“Tarsh,” Elsa said. “There is no shame in using your skills in a village, or a city. But I will tell you the same thing I’ve told countless students facing a difficult decision: there is always a price to be paid. Don’t assume it’s always worth it.”
It will be for me. He nodded curtly and left, without saying another word.
Malenec
A shocking splash of cold water on his face caused Malenec to open his eyes. He blinked several times, trying to adjust himself to his surroundings. The last few weeks had been one hazy episode after another. He vaguely remembered laying siege to Ilbindale, picking off hundreds of citizens each night, stealing their lives and animating their corpses. The prayers to Kuth-Cergor had required focus, concentration, and deep faith. Each day he slept to rejuvenate himself, and each night his undead army swelled.
And then he saw a huge burst of flame and felt a terrible blow to the back of his head. From that point forward, everything was fuzzy. He vaguely remembered commanding his undead army to scatter into the surrounding hills, but perhaps that was dream? The water he drank had a funny taste, and it made him dizzy. He thought he had eaten something, but couldn’t be sure. He was dirty, and smelled, but he could live with that; his army certainly didn’t smell like spring roses. His head still ached, and so did his wrists, which were bound behind him. He noticed dried blood on his clothes, which were certainly not his own. He was in a grey robe that had holes everywhere. He was quite cold. And a foul, wet rag was stuck deep into his mouth. He tried to gather his thoughts for a simple prayer, but his head seemed to be perpetually groggy and he couldn’t focus his energy on anything.
Blinking, he began to look around and tried to get his bearings. He saw people. Several armored warriors. A couple of torches burned quite brightly, almost hurting his eyes. The room he was in was all stone and rock, about six feet by six feet—just barely big enough to lie down in and that was about it. There were some rats scrounging through a waste pot a few feet away in the corner.
In front of him was a woman. She was plain-looking, with narrow, brown eyes and flat, listless hair that hung past her shoulders. But she had a fierceness about her. “Can you stand?”
Malenec wasn’t sure what to make of this person, but given the number of warriors gathered, he thought it wise to give it a shot. He tried to stand and stumbled forward, pitching over awkwardly at the woman’s feet. He couldn’t break his fall with his hands, and his face hit the stone floor hard enough to make him grunt with the pain.
“Sit then,” the woman sighed. “Let us start simply. Who are you?” She motioned to a Warrior to remove the rag from his mouth. “And if you try to cast something, know that I will have you cut in half before you complete the spell.” Several True Warriors drew their swords. “Niku, remove the rag from this man’s mouth.”
Another man, presumably this Niku, stepped forward and yanked the wet rag from the Cleric’s mouth. The man who cast a fireball at my zombies. A True Mage. I must have missed one when I sought to purge the city. “Thank you,” was the first thing that Malenec thought to say as he took a breath through his mouth, wishing he could rub his jaw. “May I have a small cup of water?” The request gave him a little more time to gauge his surroundings. He concluded the following:
A group of men had been waiting for him.
He had been captured, beaten, half-starved, and almost assuredly drugged with some mind-altering poison.
He was alone.
This woman was in charge.
Malenec wanted to smile, but he kept his emotions to himself as he faced this woman. They have no idea who they are dealing with here. Favored of Kuth-Cergor, they will surely pay for their actions as soon as my head clears.
“Who are you?” the woman repeated.
Malenec had no fear whatsoever of the truth. Indeed, if there was one man alive who knew the truth, it was him. “I am Malenec,” he replied.
“My men tell me you are a Dark Cleric. Is this so?” The woman asked.
“Dark? I am a True Cleric, and I worship the ancient Lord of this realm, Kuth-Cergor. Darkness and light depend entirely on one’s perspective. There are still places where the truth of the Gods exists and is taught. You should not have treated me so.” He met the woman’s steely gaze with his own.
“We live in a Dark World, Malenec. And I am left to wonder if it grows darker by the day. Still, you claim to be a True Cleric, no? Many Clerics roam the land, professing their faith in one god or another. All have tricks and signs they can perform, and my experience is that their end game is no holier than begging for that night’s meal and drink. Why should we believe that you are a True Cleric? That guild ceased to hold a standard of any kind long ago.”
Malenec’s eyes grew wide. If there was one thing nobody could question, it was his faith. “Give me the life of one of your men this very instant, and you shall see soon enough what a True Cleric is capable of. Rather, you shall see what my God can accomplish through me. If you don�
��t believe me, ask your men what they saw back in Ilbindale. An army of 25,000 undead warriors await my command. Show me a charlatan cleric that can do that!” He turned to the True Mage in the room. “Or the mage—True or not—for that matter. I am curious, however. I thought I had struck down all the mages in that city. How did you survive my lightning strike, old man?”
The mage’s jaw tensed. “You give us Mages far too little credit.”
“No, I suspect I give you exactly the meager credit you deserve. Let me guess, shield spell? Lessened the blow from a kill-strike, but I imagine weakened you terribly? Your lap dog warriors carry you away to mend, taking turns watching your body so none of my animations paid you a visit? All while I continued to turn Ilbindale into a living boneyard while you recuperated from one simple little prayer of mine. Close to the mark, no? My, but Kuth-Cergor does work in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?”
The mage stepped forward to cuff Malenec before the woman held up her hand.
She studied the cleric. She smiled in a way that added no beauty to her face. “My men tell me as much. So you can call lighting forth from a dry sky and raise the dead. It would appear that all I must do is kill you to provide peace to the souls you so cruelly stole. Tell me, will your God animate you when I’ve ordered your life ended?”
Malenec allowed himself a smile. He said nothing for a long awkward pause, giving him time clear his head to focus his faith and complete a single thought—and a prayer. “If Kuth-Cergor would have me serve him as a corpse, it is his right and my honor. My power flows from him, and it is my prayer that he save me from this fate, which he can do if he so chooses.”
He closed his eyes and bowed his head…and awoke in his campsite just outside Ilbindale, surrounded by 25,000 undead, hidden underground, undersea, and in the trees, waiting for further direction.
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 33