In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1)

by Steve M. Shoemake

  This idea energized him and kept his spirits up—a not-so-easy task as the wind blew stiff and cold across the cliffs, bringing snow flurries. But those five spires never faded from view, towering against the small mountain range, with peaks already blanketed in white. The Rookwood was truly the most fantastic structure he had ever seen. Kyle tightened his grip on his ragged cloak.

  After a week of berries, roots, and the last of his supplies, he came to the outer wall and presented himself to the guards. “Your Queen is done meeting with petitioners this day. Come back tomorrow, and early, and perhaps you will gain admittance.”

  Frustrated but not surprised, Kyle nodded and walked away. It was late in the afternoon, and the bright sunshine mocked him by casting light everywhere, but no warmth. Off to his right and some distance away from the outer wall were the tournament grounds. A willowy lady was bending her bow with practiced ease, punching arrows through a target some distance away. There was something oddly familiar about the woman’s profile, but Kyle couldn’t quite place it.

  If Magi was here, he’d love this. He used to love watching archers unleash their arrows. Back then we would laugh and cry at the memory of Lionel. Back then the world made sense—Marik was a Master, and Magi was a friend.

  Kyle shuddered from the cold and headed toward an inn. Though he had no money, he hoped he could use his magic to help clean the place in exchange for a meal and a bed. Otherwise, at least he could probably find a stable to sleep in.

  He walked out of earshot right before Rebecca shouted, “Now, Phillip—go fetch those arrows out of the target…I think I’ll have another go at it!”

  Tarsh

  “I just don’t think you’re ready, Tarsh.” Serenity counseled.

  Tarsh made no attempt to disguise his contempt. She tried to sound wise and thoughtful, but they were both acutely aware that she was quite young to be running a school. She was barely five years older than Tarsh, and only about three years removed from her own climb. He had known her when he was a young boy and her an adolescent…and he was never impressed. Still—she had climbed and had her eyes whitened like all mages must if they are to be recognized. A True Mage advances quite quickly, and he knew her talents and abilities far surpassed his own at this stage. But that didn’t always translate into authority and respect.

  She pushed her fingers through her red hair and sighed. Tarsh just scowled, seated across from her next to the fire in her quarters. After an awkward silence, he said softly, “I don’t believe you.” He wasn’t quite pouting, but he was defiant.

  “I don’t care whether you believe me, Tarsh,” she snapped back. “It is my decision. You need to master a few more advanced spells. Your—”

  “What I need to master is the spell that opens the Staircase. I have been patient, Serenity.” He pointedly refused to call her Master, or even Miss. “But when you gave the spell to that oversized punk—”

  “So this is about Ragor. I see…word travels fast. You are jealous.” She crossed her arms across her chest, staring at Tarsh.

  “Jealous? I am ready! It is not jealousy that drives me, Serenity. But I wonder what drives you? Tell me, did he trade you his soap for access to the Staircase? You can’t possibly think that he is more ready than the rest of us?” He narrowed his eyes as he looked at his teacher, his face both pleading and incredulous at the same time.

  Serenity cocked her head. “How dare you accuse me of bribery! You think you are ready, yet you lack even the most basic common sense, Tarsh. With the gold Marik has left me to run the school, I could bathe every night if I so desired, let alone the scents I can create with the most basic of illusions. At least if you are going to be thick enough to accuse me of selling one of my students a spell, don’t insult me doubly that I would do so for soap.”

  She sighed and stood up to walk over and sit down next to him. “Tarsh,” she began. “You are a gifted pupil, and I think you are close. But understand this: for some, the Staircase is a death sentence. For many, it is an everlasting heartache. Teaching that spell is not something I do lightly. I have no idea what your prophecy is, but you continue to progress and act as a man unafraid to Climb. And you will, Tarsh. Why do you continue to compare yourself to Ragor? Is it a hold-over from Marik’s Tournament? Personally I find his annual contest barbaric, but the villagers and most students seem to enjoy it. But regardless—let it go, Tarsh. Just let it go.”

  “As I said, you misunderstand my motivation. I’m not chasing Ragor, but I don’t view him as a superior mage, either.”

  “He is ready; he has command of more spells.”

  “He is not as powerful.”

  “As I said, he is ready, and I will rely on my own judgment on this matter, considering I’m the only mage in the entire village that’s even successfully Climbed.” She stood up from the couch and walked over to pour herself a lightly colored wine from a beautiful glass vase.

  “Very well, Serenity. I will continue with my studies. Good evening.” Tarsh stood and left her quarters, slamming the door behind him a little harder than he intended. He had heard this for the last thirty minutes, and was not interested in hearing it any longer. She would not teach him the spell that granted access to the fabled Staircase. And every day that passed was another delay in him becoming a True Mage. Until he reached that point, he would never be capable of teleporting. And if he was unable to teleport, he might never reach Kari to tell her…well, to talk to her again.

  Kari

  “Send her in,” Belara Kassar said from the next room.

  Kari Quinlan entered the private chambers of the True Mage. Her chamber was finely decorated, with brightly colored glass vases on several shelves. One wall was covered with an enormous tapestry depicting two men, one in blue, the other in white, fighting a terrible-looking serpent. A pleasant smell of roses, vanilla, and other spices filled the room as Belara sat in front of her fireplace, warming herself next to the blue everflame. Though it was late, she was still dressed in her trademark cape and cowl, this one black against her olive skin and in stark contrast to her pure-white eyes. “You asked to see me, Mistress?”

  “I did. Call me Lady Belara. Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked, pouring herself a goblet of mead from a nearby pitcher.

  “Thank you, Mis—Lady Belara.” Kari blushed a bit and stood up to get the pitcher, feeling awkward that she should be served by such an accomplished mage.

  “Relax, child. I am served and flattered all day by those at court, save the Queen. Sit down. My arm won’t break lifting a pitcher. She handed Kari a glass. “I bet you’re wondering why I summoned you.” She took a sip. Though she looked only a few years older than her current teacher, Serenity, Belara conveyed a sense of power and mystique that belied her youth.

  “Yes, indeed I am.” She swirled the honey-colored liquid in her glass and smelled it. Strong. She gingerly took a sip herself, more out of politeness than thirst.

  “I understand you have studied illusions. It is a branch of magic that I myself have studied extensively. But I bet you knew that.” She gave Kari a half smile.

  “I guessed, Lady Belara. You have created a wonderful scent for yourself. I have only been here a few days, and I can tell you that everyone recognizes it.”

  “Yes, I know.” She grinned wickedly at Kari as if they were sharing a juicy secret. “But enough about me. I wish to know why you would turn your back on your gift to set out on this voyage. Do you know how many would die to have your magical talent? It seems a waste to put that aside to chase fables and myths.”

  Kari thought carefully before answering. “You do not believe in the One True God?”

  “I believe in many gods. I believe in our magical talent. I believe that strength wins over weakness.” She stood up and walked over to the large tapestry, smoothing over one of the men in the battle scene. “And yes…I do believe at one time there was a God some called Dymetra. I know that the greatest Archmage of our Guild, Quixatalor, believed in Her, too.”
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  “Isn’t that good enough for you?” Kari asked. Her cheeks were beginning to feel flush from the mead.

  Belara laughed loudly. “Good enough for me? Child, just because a mage who lived hundreds of years ago believed something, what does that have to do with me? But you have yet to answer my question. Why in truth would you give this life up? Why not stay here and train with me? I will gladly take you in and help you prepare for the Staircase. The Art of Illusion is such a powerful track, Kari. The greatest mages who reach the pinnacle of our craft can not only shape the five senses—they can create feelings and manipulate thoughts in the minds of others! A single Master Illusionist can topple entire kingdoms, Kari. We can interpret dreams. We can create dreams. Endless bliss or endless torment is ours to command, all within the prison of one’s own mind.

  “I have heard that the ancient True Clerics were powerful. I do not mean to dismiss them, but I cannot fathom a power greater than what I’ve described. I can help you, Kari. Whatever your prophecy said, you know it’s only one path out of any number of possibilities that you can take. Furthermore, you also must know that it’s meant to serve as a warning against the wrong path, not as a guide post for the right one. Will you consider staying?”

  Kari was torn. She looked at the black hood that fit tight to Belara’s head, the triangular peak forming a point just above her white eyes in the middle of her forehead. She stared at those eyes and saw the blue flames from her fireplace reflecting off them. “I don’t know what to say, Lady Belara. Your offer is most gracious.”

  “Then say nothing for now. Take the next few weeks while Niku prepares for the trip and join me in court while I serve our Queen. Let me introduce you to others, and let me teach you some advanced spells that I believe you will enjoy learning. In the end, you may still choose to leave. Then again…perhaps you will reconsider when you get to learn the ways of Rookwood better…and the ways of an illusionist. I know the Queen is looking forward to sending you and your friends, but really, Niku and his team will be more than sufficient. If there are relics or remnants to be found, he will find them.”

  “Thank you, Lady Belara. Tomorrow I will join you at first light!” She finished her mead and went to leave.

  “And Kari…I would stick to one scent. Make it your trademark. Personally, I think the evergreen and hibiscus suits you best.” She smiled fondly at Kari, nodding slightly as she, too, finished her wine.

  Malenec

  Malenec had made his preparations. His face and body completely healed of all blemishes, he stood on the bow of one of the ships he had raised from the bottom of the harbor and renamed Godsail. His undead army, now 30,000 in number, had repaired the hole he’d made to originally sink it. Fortified with enough food for dozens of people, he alone needed food and air and water to live. In the end, he decided to kill even his servants, raising them as zombies as well, so that it was just him and his god.

  The city of Ilbindale was deserted, and no boats approached the harbor as sailors had found it blocked and the inhabitants missing. Word had spread from port to port that Ilbindale was cursed. Malenec smiled at the thought.

  “And now, Genevieve, it is time for our long journey. Tell my children to release the ropes and begin their swim. To Sands End!”

  Several of his undead minions lifted ropes from the moorings and then jumped into the water. Others followed. Then more. Soon hundreds, then thousands piled on top of one another in the harbor, each putting a hand on some part of the hull and pushing while they swam. Others swam under the boat and grabbed little handholds that Malenec had fashioned and pulled under water. The zombies formed a gruesome current, an engine of sorts that easily carried Malenec’s ship out to sea, heading west.

  Magi

  It was a complex spell. Not beyond his skill, but it definitely required a bit of study. After reading the spell for the second time, Magi closed the book. “Father, what can I expect?”

  Tomas turned toward his son’s voice. “Everyone is different, Magi. There will be tests on different steps. I’ve been told that some are illusion and some are real, but all can harm you. The spell will open the door and to complete it, you must shut the door behind you. The stairs will lead upward as long as you keep heading up. As soon as you begin to descend, the stairs above will fade away and become impassable. When you descend, you quit, and the spell will begin to break apart. I cannot tell you what awaits you at the top, nor how long of a climb it is, nor how you return. As I said, I never made it past my first challenge.”

  “Why did you never try again?” Magi asked. As a True Mage, perhaps you could have healed your eyes.”

  His father sighed. “A mage may only cast this spell once. Even if I wanted to try again, and believe me—I did—it would not have mattered. Even if I had come back as a whole man, able to read and see—it would not have mattered. The words of this spell would be gibberish to me, and would sound like such if I tried to re-open the door. A mage has one chance and one chance only to climb.” He paused and swished the last of his muddy wine around in his cup, then poured it into his mouth and chewed as he swallowed. “As for healing my eyes, you’ve got the wrong Guild.”

  Magi looked at his father and cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  Tomas stood up clumsily, and walked to where Magi was sitting with his father’s old spellbook. As he got close he stopped and smiled, revealing a decrepit mouthful of teeth. He flailed his arm to steady himself, looking to grasp a table as the wine seemed to finally be affecting him. Magi sat silently, arms crossed. Tomas banged his hand against the back of an old chair, the rough wood breaking his skin as he stumbled. But he had strength enough to keep from falling, and he stood in front of his son, shaking, with blood running down his hand.

  “Son, look at me. Do you think I would not have sought magic to heal my eyes? This—” he held up his bruised and cut hand. “—I could have healed. Any mage could. You probably can right now, if you had a mind to do it.” He paused to see what his son would say. Magi remained silent.

  “But a debilitating disease, loss of hearing or sight or limb—no mage, not even the Queen’s own council—can heal these ailments. That is the work of a True Cleric, and the world has been without True Clerics since time everlasting. Such skill does not exist within our Art. Believe me—I have searched.”

  “Like you searched for your son?” Magi regarded him coldly.

  Tomas smiled and exhaled deeply, the stench of rot and sour wine on his breath. “I have already explained that. Would you have me walk around Elvidor blind, calling your name? I don’t expect your pity, or your gratitude. I don’t even expect your understanding. Whatever bitterness is at the root of your soul, know that it is only a shadow of the bitterness that haunts mine. You waste your insults on me.” He rubbed the blood from his battered hand on his filthy tunic, then trudged back to the small fire Magi had conjured, careful not to get any closer than he dared. Despite the wine, he easily made his way around the ramshackle hovel he had called home these last fifteen or so years. He settled back down and looked toward his son. “We live in a Dark World, Magi. Whatever Gods used to look after us, they don’t any longer. And they took the True Clerics with them, if they ever existed to begin with. What I wouldn’t give to see you clearly, even if only to see the contempt in your face. I have wronged you, and I have failed you—both you and your mother. Can you ever forgive me, my son?” He stretched out his hands from across the room.

  Magi considered his father’s wish. “You seek forgiveness from the wrong man. I have nothing to offer you. But I have been told that True Clerics do exist. Keep searching for one, and seek their forgiveness. You’ll get none from me.”

  He grabbed the book and walked out, ignoring to the gentle sobs from across the room. The last thing he saw when he looked back was the light blue flames he had conjured begin to diminish as he exited, as if he was taking the heat with him. Magi pulled his cloak close as the sky had just barely started to lighten in the East, harke
ning a new, cold morning. The snow was thick on the ground, and Magi wanted nothing more than real warmth and sleep and solitude before he focused on the spell that would open the door to the Staircase.

  Veronica

  “So you see, the True Clerics disappeared—not because God turned away from Tenebrae—but because Tenebrae turned away from God. What good are clerics ministering to a faithless people?” Strongiron had built his tale to a crescendo, captivating the room with his booming baritone voice.

  “Where is your proof?” a voice in the crowd asked. Many people began to mutter under their breath and to each other, and nodded or shook their heads.

  Strongiron smiled and raised his hands to calm the suddenly restless throng. “Yes—I am a skeptical man myself. I would not have been convinced had it not been for two events, one of which I witnessed personally. The first was the council of Pilanthas—”

  At this point the crowd within the common room of The Royal Steed erupted again with cries, “Elvish Fool!—”

  “—Demigod!—”

  “—Charlatan!—”

  “—He speaks the Truth!” On this went for about a minute. Strongiron remained silent the whole time, smiling, before reining the crowd in with a piercing whistle and raised hands.

  “As I was saying—Pilanthas, whom our Queen considers a wise councilor—warned us that True Clerics have returned, worshipping an ancient foe. Those of you who are learned will recognize the name of Kuth-Cergor.”

  An eerie hush fell over the crowd. Veronica managed to not beam with pride at the name of her Master’s Master.

  “Which brings me to my second proof. I have met one such True Cleric and have seen the power of his faith with my own eyes. This man was captured after having enslaved the souls of an entire city. Before he could be killed, however, he uttered a prayer and disappeared from our midst. I have seen mages teleport many times, and this did not have the trappings of a spell. He uttered a request of his god…and disappeared, apparently rescued. I saw no artifact, no scroll, no gestures. He simply bowed his head and asked to be saved from the Queen’s wrath…and he was. Right in front of my eyes, and my sword arm will attest to this truth should any here doubt my word.” He waited and scanned the common room to see if any would step forward and challenge the truthfulness of his words. None did.