* * * * *
That afternoon, Iltar rides his steed through the edge of the woodland, dressed in his typical black garb of a tunic and breeches. Sight of Soroth’s walls reaches the newly ascended guild leader as he races toward the city; seeing the towering buildings of his new order brings a smile to his face.
Once inside the city gates, Iltar travels south for several minutes and then west to Igan’s home. The gait of his horse is quick and steady as Iltar moves along roads filled with estates similar to Cornar’s; city manors with high walls and homes nestled back from the street.
The necromancer stops and dismounts at a gray gate made of metal and prindelin, a type of tree found on Soroth with gray inner bark. Taking his horse by the reigns, Iltar uses his other hand to open the gate.
To the right of the gateway is a stone peg, about the height of an average man’s waist, buried partway in the ground. Iltar casually ties the reigns of the horse around the two stone rails that branch out at the top of the peg.
With his horse bound, he turns back to close the gate, then walks around the front of his horse and toward the home.
Like the walls outside, the home is made of the same gray stone. The front part of the home is a single story, with an upper level covering the rear half of the dwelling.
An archway, several phineals deep, covers the porch leading to the main entry way of the house.
As Iltar walks up the first of two steps to the covered landing, the door quickly opens and a matured woman stands in the doorway, Baekal. She is shorter than average height, but of a slender build. Her face is thin, with high cheek bones and a pointed chin. Creases mark her face between the edge of her long pointed nose and her thin lips. Long locks of light brown hair rest on her shoulders and part way down her chest. Her dark brown eyes glare at Iltar as he steps closer.
“Get in here!” Baekal scowls in a rumble under her breath.
Without acknowledging her anger, Iltar steps past her into the home’s foyer.
The foyer is an average height for a single story home in Soroth, rising eight phineals tall. In front of Iltar is another hall leading to the back of the home. Midway down that hall and to the right are stairs leading to the upper level.
With her right hand on the edge of the open door, Baekal points to a parlor to Iltar’s right, “There, now!”
Casually nodding his head, Iltar moves toward the parlor; it’s one step below the entry hall with several bookcases adorning the wall opposite of the street-side exterior. Two plain yet elegant ivory-hued sofas line the outer walls, with a low table in front of them.
Once inside, Iltar silently moves to the long seat nearest him and sits; all the while, he listens as Baekal slam the door and walk behind him into the parlor, her silk clothing softly rustle as he takes her seat across from him.
“Where is Igan?” Baekal, her voice trembles. “What happened to my husband, Iltar? I heard that you and the others returned yesterday, why wasn’t he with you?”
“I’m sorry, Baekal…” Iltar pauses as he takes a deep breath, feeling remorse. “Igan was killed on an island the council secretly sent us to. A large beast took him, a dragon we think.”
“Don’t jest with me Iltar,” Baekal’s eyes flare with anger. “You know as well as I those things are just legend!”
“No, I do not jest. Listen to me…” Iltar recounts the false story about the hidden charge him and Cornar were given to discover the Dragon’s Isle and the subsequent need to deal with the council fatally.
After hearing the tale, Baekal sits with her legs crossed on the cushions of the sofa.
Distracted, she repeats, “You’re telling me my husband saved everyone? It sounds like him…” the words trail off as she looks out the window to the walls of her estate. “I hope you made them suffer for sending him to his death.”
“Oh, I did,” Iltar says with a perverse tone. “But I am also here for another reason Baekal. With the council reduced to only myself, I am tasked with rebuilding our Order at the core. You are an accomplished wizard, with powers that exceeds any of those dead fools. Your expertise in the magical arts of arcane and elemental destructive powers is what our Order need.”
Jarred from the thoughts of her husband’s demise, Baekal abruptly turns her head to face Iltar; an expression of focus mixed with sadness over her husband’s loss fills her visage. Tears brim her eyes as she thinks over what Iltar is eluding, and what he had said about her beloved Igan.
“I want you to occupy a seat on the council, Baekal.”
“Why me?” tears stream down Baekal’s face, and she wipes them away as she looks at the necromancer.
“Because you are the wife of one of my dearest friends. I trust you… to an extent. Like I said before, your skill is vital to rebuilding the Order.”
“Who else?” Baekal asks as she looks down at the floor and sniffles slightly.
“Arintil has already accepted. He will oversee the conjuration arts,” Iltar’s eyes squint as he looks out the window to his right. “As for the other seats, I don’t know yet. I will be paying everyone a visit that was recorded as a student and awarded the mark of completion.”
“I’ll do it,” Baekal swallows, looking at Iltar with tear-soaked eyes.
“Good. I have other business to attend to in the city. Within the next several days we will convene as a council,” Iltar rises from the seat and says the next with a strained tone of feigned sympathy. “I know you are mourning, but please try to make it to the meeting. Your presence is needed.”
With that said, Iltar swiftly walks toward the door, opening it and stepping through, leaving Baekal to weep over the loss of her husband.
The Dragons' Legacy Page 33