A sliver of soft orange light drifted through the window as the sun set over the aptly named Sea of Stone. The sweeping mountainscape seemed to flow endlessly into the horizon. Its sandy-brown peaks dominated the skyline; some were thin and jagged, some broad and flat-topped. There was something unique in the beauty of its discordance. It was not natural, that much the Scholars of the Circle agreed upon; it was created by the Spark aeons ago. But for what purpose? That was the unanswered question.
The view from that window was probably the only redeeming quality of the room in which Rist sat. It was small and sparse with bare walls and stiff wooden chairs. Only four of those chairs were filled, though, by Neera, Tommin, Lena, and himself. Garramon had told him it was not common for initiates or apprentices to be schooled or trained outside the High Tower in Berona. But it did happen on occasion when the initiate was sponsored, as Garramon had sponsored him. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. Me… a mage. It still seemed far too much like one of the old bards' stories Calen loved so much – so far detached from the reality he had known. He had not gotten much of a chance to speak with the others yet, to ask them about the Circle. Garramon did not allow him much in the way of free time. That seemed to be a drawback of being sponsored by a Guide. A lot more was expected of you; their name was on the line.
A lectern stood at the very front of the room, and behind it perched a sour-faced man with narrowed eyes and a long grey robe that fell over his shoulders, stopping just past his knees. His grey robes marked him as a Lector, a member of the Scholars, and four ranks above initiate.
"Initiate… Initiate?"
It took a moment longer than it should have for Rist to realise the Lector was talking to him. "I'm sorry, Brother Pirnil, I—"
Rist sensed the man reaching for the Spark before he felt the searing pain shoot up his back. He clenched his jaw and dropped his hand under the table, twisting it into a fist as the blood trickled from the newly opened cut on his back. Rist bit his lip. It would be a while before the pain subsided. He should know. It would not be long before the cut healed and scarred over, taking its place beside its seven brothers and sisters – reminders that a mage could never lose focus or disobey their superiors.
"To lose your focus…" Brother Pirnil raised one eyebrow as he stepped out from behind the lectern and ambled towards Rist, all the while seeming to look down his nose at him. There was a pleased expression on the man's face when he noticed Rist's clenched fist. That seemed to be the only time Rist saw even a semblance of contentment on the man's stiff, rat-like face: when he saw pain.
"Is to lose your life," Rist continued, through gritted teeth.
"Good. Now, as I have already asked, in what year did the liberation of the free peoples of Epheria begin?
"In the year two-six-eight-two After Doom, sir."
"Good." Irritation flickered across Brother Pirnil's face at Rist's correct response. He couldn't inflict pain for a correct response. "And who was the leader of the traitors at that time?"
"I…" Rist closed his eyes and readied himself. He felt Pirnil reach for the Spark. What's one more? But the usual pain did not come.
"Alvira Serris, Brother Pirnil. She was the last tyrant to lay claim to the title of Archon, and she was slain by the venerable High Captain of the Dragonguard, Eltoar Daethana. The ruler of the Lorian Kingdom at the time was Eric Ubbein, defeated by the emperor himself. The elves in their hubris were pushed back into Lynalion, their cities destroyed. The stain of the Jotnar was cleaned from the land, and the Southern kingdoms were brought to heel, sir." Neera sat up straight, her spine pressed against the back of the stiff wooden chair, a smug grin on her face. She had probably seen a summer or two more than Rist, and brown apprentice robes were draped over her shoulders. She did not have a coloured trim on her robes, which marked her as a first-grade apprentice – an apprentice who had not yet earned their colour. If not strictly beautiful, she was certainly handsome, as loath as Rist was to admit it. Her eyes were a deep brown, almost black, matching her hair. If she didn't give off such an air of self-importance, Rist probably would have found her attractive – maybe.
Brother Pirnil nodded, giving an impressed upturn of his lip. "Quite right, apprentice."
All of a sudden, Neera let out a stifled screech, barely audible through gritted teeth, but Rist saw her fingernails sink into the wooden desk in front of her. He knew the pain well. Not all the Lectors seemed to relish pain in the way Brother Pirnil did. In that, he was unique. But none of them hesitated to utilise it as an educational tool.
"But as we speak of hubris," Brother Pirnil said, strolling towards the front of the room as if he had not just sliced a gash in Neera's flesh, "we must be sure to keep our own in check."
"Yes, Brother Pirnil. Thank you for your teachings." If Neera's words seemed submissive, the venom in her voice said otherwise. Her glare could have burned holes in the Lector's back as he made his way to the front of the room, and she did nothing to hide it. Trying to understand a woman was an exercise in futility. Instead of stilling her, the pain and open chastisement seemed only to stoke her boldness. Rist did not always understand Neera, but there was something in her that he admired, if only a bit.
Reaching the lectern, Brother Pirnil turned to face the room, a satisfied grin creeping onto his face when he noticed Neera glaring. "We are done for the day. For tomorrow, remember the pain we endure for repeating our mistakes is often tenfold the initial pain."
Before Brother Pirnil had even finished speaking, Neera leapt to her feet, swung her satchel over her shoulder, and strode from the room. Tommin and Lena were not far behind her, but there was notably less urgency in their movements. They each wore the plain brown robes of an apprentice. Rist was the only one of the four who had not yet earned his robes, though it didn't bother him much. They had been initiates for at least a year or so before they earned their robes; he had only been in the embassy a few weeks. There would be time yet. For now, though, Garramon had asked Rist to report to him at the end of the day.
The corridors of the embassy of the Circle of Magii were decorated much the same as Rist's room: pragmatically, to the point of austerity. The walls and floors were carved from solid stone. Windows were set into the stone at regular intervals, just enough so as to provide adequate light, but not so much as to allow an unnecessary amount. A solid wooden chair sat outside each door, as stiff and as hard as the day was long. Not all meetings or lessons finished within the allotted time, and a chair to wait on was simply the sensible thing. It was far from the intimate and homely way his mother decorated and much closer to his taste, and yet… He found himself missing the warm hearth, fur blankets, and mugs of Arlen root tea. Missing home.
As he made his way through the long, drab corridors, the only thing that seemed in any way flamboyant was the gilded black carpet that ran the length of every floor. It was inlaid with intricate patterns of red and gold that flowed into images of lions and dragons, nestled beneath trees or soaring over mountains. In truth, it was quite a fantastic piece of craftsmanship. No matter which corridor Rist found himself in, the carpet was there. The same images never seemed to repeat. Every few feet was a new story. There wasn't enough coin in all the villages to afford something so incredible.
Rist pulled his pensive gaze from a particularly elaborate scene of two golden dragons fighting as a man walked past him, a long green robe with silver markings draped over his shoulders. Green was the colour of the Consuls, the advisors and diplomats of the Circle of Magii. The silver markings, however, denoted his rank as a High Mage, or High Consul within the green affinity. The hierarchy of the Circle was one of the first things Brother Pirnil had taught him. 'It is important to know one's place,' Rist could hear the man saying.
Rist dropped his head into a deep bow, as was appropriate for someone of the High Consul's status. "High Consul."
Without stopping, the man gave a curt tilt of his head accompanied by an indecipherable grunt. That was all Rist had come to expect from anyone in the Circle embassy, except for Garramon. That being said, Rist had met but a handful of High Mages from the various affinities, and this was the first one who had even acknowledged he was alive. He was sure Dann would have a funny quip to make about that if he were here.
Rist was only an initiate. He had not yet earned even his brown robes, never mind his colours. Grey, black, white, green, yellow, and red, for the Scholars, the Battlemages, the Healers, the Consuls, the Craftsmages, and the Inquisition.
Rist stopped when he reached the door to Garramon's study, a sturdy oak door with the insignia of The Circle – two thin concentric circles with six smaller solid circles set into them at evenly spaced intervals – emblazoned across it in shimmering gold. He gave two solid knocks and took a step back.
"Enter."
Garramon's study was perhaps the most lavishly decorated room in the entire embassy, at least of the rooms Rist had seen. An enormous bookcase, made from a deep brown wood that Rist did not recognise, consumed the western wall, stocked to the brim with books and scrolls that looked twice as old as Rist, and then twice again. A large marble fireplace, the sides of which were carved into two roaring lions standing on their hind legs, was set into the wall opposite the bookcase. The fireplace was not lit, but the white marble on the inside was blackened from previous use. Two leather armchairs sat in front of the fireplace, and Garramon's desk was at the back of the room, about three feet out from the wall, a sturdy wooden chair on either side.
Garramon stood in front of his desk, conversing with a man in a black hooded cloak. He was of Garramon's affinity, a Battlemage. The silver markings on his cloak meant he was also the same rank as Garramon: a High Mage, or Exarch among the Battlemages. He was solidly built, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. In any other circumstance, Rist thought the cloaked man would have dominated the room, but in this case, he seemed almost… meek. Despite the fact that he and Garramon were of the same rank, the man's shoulders were drooped, and he shuffled his feet as if eager to leave. The entire scene was… odd.
Garramon's lips were pursed as if he were contemplating something, and the creases along his brow let Rist know that whatever news he was receiving was not to his liking. Neither man acknowledged Rist as he entered, nor did they cease their conversation.
"And they are increasing in frequency?"
"Yes, my—" the man's eyes flitted to Rist and then back to Garramon. "Yes. We receive new reports each day. The Uraks grow bolder as we get closer to the Blood Moon. Many towns along the base of Lodhar and Mar Dorul are attacked weekly, daily in some cases. In the South they can barely—"
"We should discuss this later. We will need to inform the Grand Council and the emperor." There was a tone of finality in Garramon's words. The man bowed, a little more deeply than Rist would have expected from an equal, and then strode past Rist without a word.
A warm smile spread across Garramon's face as he turned to acknowledge Rist. "My apologies. There are some troubling events occurring across the continent. Please, take a seat." Garramon made his way around to the other side of the desk and dropped himself gracefully into his seat. "How goes your history class with Brother Pirnil? He is stern, but there is a lot to learn from him."
"Yes, good," Rist lied as he sat down in the wooden chair, ignoring the sharp pain that ran the length of his back from Brother Pirnil's history lesson. "He is very wise. Brother Garramon?"
"Yes, initiate?"
"I… em, I've been meaning to ask you. I know I've brought it up a few times but… have you heard back from any of the messages that were sent to my family?"
With a smile, Garramon reached inside his long black cloak, producing a small cream envelope held shut with a beeswax seal that Rist immediately recognised. It was all Rist could do to not snatch it straight from Garramon's hands.
"My parents!" Rist said, louder than he had intended.
"Indeed." Garramon handed the letter over to Rist, the soft smile never leaving his face. "Go ahead. You can open it."
Rist didn't need a second invitation. He peeled open the beeswax seal, taking care not to rip the envelope. His heart could have stopped when his eyes fell on his mother's handwriting. A strange tingling filled his stomach, like butterflies flapping their wings. He was nervous. He had felt more alive in the past few weeks than he ever had before. Touching the Spark had lit a fire in him. In his mind, the mundane life of the Glade threatened that feeling, for some reason. He didn't want to go home. But he missed his mother and father more than anything.
Our dearest son,
I can't put into words how relieved we were to receive your letter. When you left, we were terrified. With everything that happened… We're just happy you're all right.
We are doing well here. The soldiers have protected us from the Uraks and the bandits. There have been more bandits on the roads since that man started calling himself a Draleid, stirring up trouble. I'm not sure what we'll do if things get worse. Hopefully, the soldiers stay. We received word from High Lord Castor Kai in Argona. He says that he will send soldiers himself, to fend off the bandits and the Uraks. But we're not holding out hope.
We hope they are treating you all right up there. A mage? Your father had to read that part of your letter to me four times before I stopped calling him a liar. We are both so very proud of you, but the North is not safe. Promise us you will be careful. If we had the coin, we would come to you straight away. We promise we will try our best. Please keep writing. Tell us everything that goes on in your days.
Dann's parents have written him a letter as well. It's in the envelope. We hope Calen is all right. We pray to Varyn and Heraya for him each night.
All our love,
Mam and Dad.
There was an apologetic look on Garramon's face. "We have not received any other letters. Our officers were unable to find any of your friends, and the hawk we sent to Belduar did not return, I'm afraid. But unfortunately, that is to be expected."
Calen and Dann. The thought of his friends sent Rist's stomach lurching. They would think him lost, or worse. He needed to let them know he was all right, but how?
Garramon's words floated through Rist's head, taking a moment to register. "Why is it to be expected that the hawk wouldn't return from Belduar?"
Garramon's expression reminded Rist that his level of informality was not common.
"Why is it to be expected, Brother Garramon?" he corrected himself.
"There is a lot of unrest across Epheria. Uraks are appearing in large numbers, attacking villages and murdering travellers on the roads near to the mountains. But in the South, things are worse. War has broken out between our great nation and the kingdom of Belduar."
Rist couldn't hide the look of shock that spread across his face. News was hard to come by. He still hadn't been allowed to roam the streets of the city, and the guards and mages in the embassy were hardly known for their gossip. The news that Belduar and Loria were at war was among the last things Rist had wanted to hear. Belduar was where Aeson had been bringing the others before they got separated.
"Don't worry, my child. War is a generous term. The city has fallen, and the kingdom has been brought to heel. It is just a matter of time before the soldiers root out the new child king."
A coil of dread twisted in Rist's stomach, and a wave of anguish swept over him. He was not a true believer in the gods, but right then and there he prayed to all six that Calen, Dann, and the others had never made it to Belduar.
"The more troublesome news," Garramon continued, "is of the man who calls himself a Draleid."
"Draleid?" Rist's mind instantly flitted back to Therin's stories, particularly the one he had told during the Moon Market that spring. "The ones from the stories?"
"Traitors to Epheria." Garramon scowled, his eyes becoming cold and hard. The man took a breath, his face softening. "When controlled properly, as in the case of the Dragonguard, dragons and the ones bound to them can be of great use. But when they are bound to someone like this man, they are a danger to us all. Even now, the dragon is not even half grown, and it has cost thousands of lives. Many more will be lost until it is brought under control or stopped."
There was so much to process. Rist slowed the thoughts in his mind, pushing away those that were unimportant. Questions were all well and good, but unless you asked the right ones, you would never get the answers you were looking for.
"But how did they get a dragon egg? And how did it hatch? From the stories I know, an egg hasn't hatched since… well, since The Fall."
Garramon gave a short tssk. Rist saw a touch of impatience in the man's eyes.
He would have to be careful. Where he grew up, the empire was not exactly… loved. He didn't always share the same sentiments as those in the villages. The empire had done nothing in particular to him, and his father's inn had always done well, but sometimes he didn't realise how his upbringing steered his way of thinking. He often forgot where he now stood: in Al'Nasla, the capital city of the Lorian Empire. He had to learn to conceal his initial thoughts. To pick his words carefully. He knew well that he was a sheep nestled snugly inside a den of wolves. "I mean, since the Liberation."
A smile touched the edge of Garramon's lips at Rist's words, his early impatience pushed to the back of his mind. "These are questions we are currently searching for the answers to, my child. But more pressingly, I have something for you."
"You do?" Rist needed to be cautious. At first, he had been swept up in it all. Magic. The empire. A whole new world of possibilities. But the more time he had to think, the more his common sense started to creep through. Keep asking questions. If he is telling lies, questions are his worst enemy. "I do."
Garramon bent down under his desk, shuffling a few things around. When he emerged, he held a brown bundle of folded clothing in his arms. Garramon set the bundle down on the desk. He didn't say a word. He just looked at Rist, expectancy on his face.
That can't be. "My robes?"
Garramon nodded slowly, his mouth spreading into a subdued grin of pride.
"I…" Rist didn't know what to say. Those robes were the first real step. They were the first tangible thing bringing him into the Circle. He was now an apprentice. "But why? I have only been here a matter of weeks."
"With war on the horizon, we do not have the time that we would usually give to new initiates. Needs must." Garramon said, rising to his feet. The man stepped out from behind his desk and placed a hand on Rist's shoulder. "I am proud of you, Rist. You have come a long way in a short time. And I believe that with dedication, you will wear the black with pride. I am proud to be your Guide. Now, shall we try on those robes?"
Rist's heart stopped. "Black? But I haven't decided my affinity. How could I—"
Garramon's laugh cut through Rist's words.
"Calm yourself, apprentice. It is not the apprentice who chooses his acolyteship. It is the Guide, for you can never truly see yourself. But I see you, and I see what you can become – a Battlemage.