Ezekiel grinned and sipped from the goblet again. He didn’t want to be rude, not to mention that the finest drink in all of Irth called out to him. With the second swallow, he felt the warmth in his belly move up to his face. “Indeed, there is a time to drink for all of us.”
Julianne burst into laughter. “We mystics agree, but that time is always now. Granted, we have become experts at judging the extent of the effects of our little potion here, always mindful not to go too far. We have not forgotten the lessons of control you taught Selah, and that he passed down to us.”
She paused to stare at the fire. Ezekiel put his defenses on high alert, concerned that she might be trying to burrow in. Then Julianne continued, “There will be time to become better acquainted, but for now, may I inquire as to what brought you back to our humble home here in the Heights?”
“Of course. I wish I had come only for personal reasons, but I have been driven here by events which have occurred below.” Ezekiel’s speech was already bending to match the woman’s, a habit formed over years of moving among the various groups spread out over Irth.
Ezekiel went to some lengths to tell the story, as far as he knew it, of Adrien and his cruelty in Arcadia.
She listened intently while sipping from her goblet.
As Ezekiel’s tale ended, Julianne stepped in. “Yes, Selah had long been suspicious of your former student; a position I share. Word comes back from the mystics who travel to Arcadia and to the further reaches of Irth. And, from time to time, I jump to places to take in the scene myself.
“Adrien’s thirst for power has been well documented. It is, as far as we can tell, insatiable. But do not think that his obsession extends only within the walls of Arcadia. His desires go further, and these might be more troubling.”
“Magitech?”
She raised her glass to her lips slowly and drank, her eyes never leaving Ezekiel’s. “Yes. Our own determinations are that the tools he imbues with magical power are being created as test pieces. He is looking forward to things greater than magic-powered lamps and automatic doors. Something more global. Adrien desires to spread his philosophy of magic to every corner of Irth, and with it his power and influence.”
The old man nodded. “Your people still go on pilgrimage, even with the threat of Adrien’s power?”
Julianne placed her goblet on a table next to her chair, keeping her hand wrapped around the crystal. “Some do, but fewer and fewer. It is a difficult thing. Our magic is at its best when we make the pilgrimage, but there are risks involved from the lowlanders. Adrien has soiled their minds. He uses a man named Jedidiah—they call him the Prophet—to spread disinformation about the use of magic. It is a most clever deceit, as he does it in your name.” She gave him a sideways glance, which sent a chill up his spine.
Ezekiel remembered the old man in Capitol Park and how odd it was that the man was preaching about the Founder’s return only to pervert Ezekiel’s own position on the use of magic. Now it all made sense.
The Prophet was a plant—part of the narrative about magic and power that Adrien was trying to spread. The student had been brilliant years ago and now seemed to be something of a mastermind.
“The bigger problem for us,” Julianne continued, “is that pilgrimage is also a time for our people to look for others with the gift of the mystics—those with a propensity for the art of mental magic. In areas where Adrien’s influence has spread more rapidly, we are distrusted at best and attacked at worst. No one wants to join us in the Heights. Our number is dwindling, and soon the art could cease to exist.”
“Magical extinction.”
“Of the most severe kind,” she agreed.
Knowing that their time was nearly over for the evening, Ezekiel drank deeper of the liquor. He needed the alcohol to ease his heavy heart. “Julianne, this is why I have returned. Adrien is a threat to all of magic—to all of Irth—and he must be stopped. But I cannot do it alone, and the Matriarch knows I would muster little support from Arcadia. I need the aid of allies beyond its walls.”
“I understand your proposition. But you need to remember that mystics are not accustomed to the martial affairs of your world. We are a people of peace. We traffic in the merciful side of justice.”
The alcohol and the conversation swirled in the old man. He had heard the argument before; Selah was also committed to the peaceful life, a gospel that he preached to his fold. It was one of the reasons the mystics holed up in the Heights.
“Julianne, mercy has its time and place. And it is the appropriate companion to the sword of wrath. But grace without wrath is impotent. It is time for you to help me stop this threat to Irth. Cutting off the monster’s head will be an act of mercy for the oppressed beneath its heel.”
She nodded again, and he trusted she was taking in his arguments. But he needed more than passive assent. He decided to play his final card.
“There’s more,” he said. “I have a new student, someone special, who has a unique gift that may be able to help us reclaim this land.”
She raised a brow. “What is his name?”
“Not his, hers. Hannah. And she has been raised on the root of oppression, and it has left a despicable taste in her mouth. She is ready to do whatever it takes to overthrow Adrien’s growing empire and to restore Arcadia to what we first meant it to be. And if we dig up the root, we keep the tree from extending to the rest of the world. We can keep it out of the Heights.”
He finished his wine and placed the goblet on his side table. “But if you continue to ignore the threat, if you hole yourselves up in the mountain fortress, they will come. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but one day they will come, and it will be your end.”
18
Stellan, the Capitol guard, had absorbed about as much as he could take of the bitching from Dirk and Dietrich, the two young guards assigned to him. They were not much more than kids, as annoying as they were inexperienced. He had been commissioned by Doyle, the Chancellor’s lapdog, to journey to the Heights in a mission to gather information.
Apparently the leaders of Arcadia had suspicions that the mystics might be involved in subversive activities, and his task was to ask some questions. It would be an easy in-and-out. The mystics had their heads in the clouds and were an odd bunch, but at the end of the day they made the best beverage in all of Irth, so he certainly didn’t mind spending a night in the mountain temple.
At this point he’d need some of the strong elixir to get him through the journey with the numbnuts who had been sent along with him.
Dirk, the younger of the two guards accompanying Stellan, bitched, “How much farther is it? My feet are bloody killing me.”
“If you keep complaining, it won’t be your feet killing you,” Stellan replied without looking back.
He’d climbed the mountain enough times to know they were close, but the elevation only got steeper from here. Looking over the cliff that fell away just feet to their right, he considered for a moment how easy it would be for the younger guards to have an accident.
“Stellan,” Dietrich asked, “what exactly are we doing with these mind freaks?”
“We aren’t doing anything. You’re along for the ride, kid.” He glanced back at both of them. “So, keep your damned mouths shut. Chancellor Adrien wants some intel about whether or not the people of the Heights are working with anyone who might be a threat to Arcadia.”
Dirk spoke up again. “Who would be a threat to Arcadia? I mean, we’re the most powerful city in all of Irth, right?”
“Yeah,” the leader said. “And we want to keep it that way. One city working alone couldn’t breach our walls, that’s for sure. But I think that the Chancellor and Governor are worried about something a little more insidious. An attack from within. Not to mention that these people you guys call the ‘mind freaks’ are powerful. Their discipline is strong. They’re not to be underestimated.”
Stellan shook his head and realized just how big of a mistake it was to have the two
men along with him. His time in the Capitol Guard had given him enough experience to know that the mystics could pick apart a man’s mind faster than a drunk can down a pint.
And they could, if they wanted to, do some serious damage once in there. He’d shared too much with the men, and the mystics could extract it all if they wanted. But he’d assumed the Chancellor was just being overly cautious, maybe even paranoid.
The mystics were pacifists and more interested in the life of the mind than foreign affairs. It would be an easy job. Go in, ask some questions, get out, after having plenty to drink, of course.
Rounding the last bend, Stellan finally saw their destination—the mystics’ temple. He stopped and looked at the men. “Remember, keep your damn mouths shut. And you know about mental magic, right?” The two nodded in unison. “Good. Someone will try to get in your heads. It isn’t an attack, it’s just what they do. For them, stepping into another person’s mind is just like shaking hands. Keep your mental defenses up, just like they taught you in the Academy.”
They nodded their heads again like a pair of idiots. Stellan knew his advice would mean next to nothing. Even if they had learned to defend themselves, it was likely they had forgotten everything about it. The Academy was strict on who they let into their fold, but they became much laxer once students were inside. And unfortunately, the bottom tier of the graduating class was often assigned to the Guard.
The force was mostly for show in Arcadia. Standing at the city gate was the most grueling assignment most of them had, and it didn’t take a Master Magician to let loads of potatoes in through the walls.
Stellan’s team was different.
They were the Guard no one knew about—the ones who actually kicked ass and took out true threats to Arcadia. But Doyle was adamant about things going quietly, so instead of a fully armed force, he was stuck with the imbecile twins. Luckily, Stellan himself was more than capable of handling whatever threat was waiting for him beyond the Arcadian walls.
Belly full and head on the edge of intoxication, Ezekiel sat back with a feeling of deep contentment. The mystics were good at many things, but hospitality was the greatest of these.
Julianne had ended their meeting and decided to introduce Ezekiel to the rest of their little community. He was a legend, after all. Now that dinner was finished, the conversations of pairs of people swirled around him. His journey back to Arcadia had been a bitter homecoming, so a night like this in the Heights was precisely what he needed. It was balm for his weary heart, and a reminder that there was goodness in the world of magic.
His eyes cut to Julianne, who was gazing back at him. She gave a subtle nod, an indication that his words were still on her mind. Ezekiel could only hope that their conversation would not be lost on her.
Amidst such a happy community, it could be hard to think of war. But Ezekiel could tell that Julianne would do what it took to protect this group. They were her family.
He only hoped that her desire for peace would lead them into the fight and not away from it.
After the plates were cleared, a young mystic woman with the face of an angel stood at the head of the table. The room quieted and awaited the evening story. Ezekiel knew the tradition well. Stories were a key part of their community, and the people made sure they would not lose the oral tradition by ritually including a tale told by a different member each night after a meal.
The girl smiled and closed her eyes to gather her thoughts. When she opened them again, all color had drained from her pupils. She stared out at the crowd from eyes like white marbles.
Ezekiel knew the sign of magic.
While a physical magic user’s eyes turned black as night, this mystic’s eyes shined like stars. As she began her tale, cloudy images of what she was saying appeared on the table in front of her, acting out her words like a play.
“A long time ago, before the Age of Madness and even before the World’s Worst Day Ever, there was a time of peace—at least, relative peace. But a young freckle-faced boy named Clark wouldn’t have agreed.”
As her words and magic painted the story of Clark and his exploits at school, the young mystic had the community leaning closer and hanging on every detail. The audience was drawn in by Clark’s survival of what she called Middle School, a time that sounded worse than the Age of Madness itself.
Dodging bullies and teachers, the kid had to learn to survive. The story must have gone on for an hour, but to the enraptured crowd it felt more like minutes. She had them eating out of her hand. Then she got to the part about the gift.
“In those days, the days before Madness, and before our esteemed guest walked Irth,” she smiled and nodded to Ezekiel “magicians were few and far between. But there were creatures called genies, or at least some believed they existed. Clark discovered one when he dug an old glass bottle out of the ground on a beach on what was called Lake Ee-Ree. The boy placed the glass bottle between his legs and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed.”
“Sounds like Mathias on a cold and lonely night,” a drunken mystic said from the back of the room.
The room burst into laughter.
The girl flushed, but continued her story. “Finally, in a puff of smoke,”—at that point a puff of smoke appeared in front of the listeners, and several jumped in surprise—“the genie emerged from the bottle. ‘You have one wish, Clark,’ the being from beyond said in a deep and majestic voice. Now the boy had a hard decision to make, as any of us would.
“Clark walked the beach, trying to come up with the thing that might serve him for the rest of his days. Money was fleeting. And he was too young to understand true love. So finally, after pacing a hundred miles on the beach, the boy knew what to ask for.”
The image of Clark walking on the table stopped, and there was a pregnant pause.
The girl was good. Everyone in the room held their breath.
“Come on, then. What was it?” the same voice called out.
“There was only one thing Clark could ask for. He looked the genie in the eye and asked that he be granted the ability to perform magic. With a nod of his head the genie granted the gift, then left the boy alone with the power to shape the entire world.”
Ezekiel scanned the room. All the eyes were still on her, waiting for more. It was as if she had slid a delicious dessert across the table, only to take it back.
“Well, what the hell did he do?” the man in the back of the room yelled out again.
“He did what any boy who knew the world wasn’t quite right would do. First, he righted the wrongs of his school, then his city.” As she told this part of the story, her images began to darken. “But after he had conquered all evil, when all the wrongs were righted, Clark used his power to take over the world. The same thing that any of us would do if we were left alone with unchecked power.”
The wispy picture of Clark disappeared as the storyteller sat. The room applauded tentatively.
The other mystics were uncertain about the story, but Ezekiel understood it all too well. It was a morality tale about magic and the current state of Arcadia. While Clark and his genie were only a fiction, the warnings about the dangers of power were far too true. The young mystic was very good at mental magic.
After drink and food, Ezekiel had dropped his mental defenses, and he knew that the girl had made her way into his mind. She was clever, and her magic was strong. She told the exact story Ezekiel needed them to hear. The girl had sown the seeds, encouraging her community to come to the aid of Arcadia, to the aid of all Irth.
Your turn, the young mystic’s voice rang in his mind. He gave her a smile and a subtle wink.
Julianne rose and thanked the girl for her story, though her words were measured. Turning to Ezekiel, she asked, “Would you be so kind, Master Magician, as to share a tale with us? There is nothing like foreign stories to invigorate our craft.”
Ezekiel knew an invitation to share a story was not something that could be denied. He decided to follow the young mystic’s
lead and put his story to good use. He smoothed his beard as he stood. “Of course, Julianne. I’d be more than happy.” He looked up at the ceiling, searching for the right one to tell at this moment. “First, let me say thank you to—”
“Zoe,” the girl said.
“Zoe, yes. It means life, in an older tongue. Might your lovely and timely tale give us life? Gifts, the best of them, can be both a beautiful and sometimes a dangerous thing. It does not, of course, mean that we should stop giving them.”
The group of mystics nodded in unison, and he knew that they were all walking through his mind.
“You will need to excuse me, as I am not a master of storytelling, but I will share a tale about a boy as well. Not one of fiction, but of autobiography. As many of you know, I was not born nor raised here, but rather, my roots are in a place that was, before the Age of Madness, called Archangelsk.
“It was a desolate land, and the people reflected their landscape. My mother was hardened by the terrain, but my father, he was a different sort. A man of great dreams and visions, he inspired me to believe that the world could be different, that Madness could one day end, and that we, the human race, could flourish once more. But my story today is not about flourishing, but about fear. The man who raised me knew no fear, but my mother instilled in me the importance of self-preservation.”
Ezekiel scanned the room. The eyes of the mystics were glassy from the effects of their strong ale, but they were all attentive nevertheless. They seldom heard the stories of an outsider in the great hall, and Ezekiel hoped to give them something to feast on.
His story was not only for entertainment, but like Zoe’s, was meant to move them.
“When I was a child, my family wandered through the wilderness from town to town, fleeing the Mad. In those days there was never a moment of rest. Those who took a chance, who settled in, their days were always numbered. So it was my mother, of course, who kept us on the move. She believed that if we ever settled down, or even rested, the Mad would catch up with us and we would be lost.”
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