Shadow's Rising - Chapter II

Chapter II
Carenath

“Ridiculous!” There was a thump as from someone hitting a table with his fist. This doesn’t bode well at all... But there was nothing for it. The message had to be delivered.
“S-Sir?” the apprentice looked around the rim of the half open door apprehensively. The Arcanor Derlen Lightweaver was known for subtletly, but not patience. Both were considered virtues of a wizard, but judging by the latter of the two there were few virtuous wizards indeed in the Tower of Carenath, or even in the Northern Kingdom. It was almost as if with growing power and experience came a growing impatience for the world around one; and Derlen Lightweaver was very powerful.
“Yes!” he snapped, taking his eyes off the parchment he had been studying. There was a seal at the bottom; a letter apparently. The apprentice could just make out the colors of the Royal insignia. Xarl’s Beard! If the king wants something from us, it certainly can’t be good.
“Is there trouble?” the apprentice could not stop herself from asking. And it was not even so far out of her place to ask: What concerned the Tower concerned them all; archmagi and apprentices alike, for they were all bound to the Order’s decisions and commands.
“Is there ever not?” Derlen retorted. He had been irritable as he read the letter, but now he betrayed a tired face that looked twice his age. And for an Arcanor, that was a whole lot. “The King requests our aid against the forces of Evil. The forces of Evil being whatever petty little lords in the southern provinces have currently decided to bugger his Majesty’s majestic hindquarters with their dreams of sovereignty. Why am I telling you this?” he asked irritably.
“Because I asked, Radiance.” In light of the somewhat reckless way she had approached his office and addressed him, it would probably be a good idea to use the honorary now, just in case.
“I’m not feeling radiant today, thank you. Call me Derlen, everyone does.” But none of the apprentices. He appears to have forgotten that. Was this just a lapse, or was he being congenial? If so, was there some really unfavorable task in the offing, just waiting for an unwary apprentice? She discarded that thought again; Derlen was subtle but a bad liar. If he was going out of his way to be nice, he would be more obvious.
“What was your name again?” In order to He was faking a weak memory loss as he was reputed to do on occasion. Ridiculous, really. If there was anything wrong with his mind he would not have made it to this position.
“Iola, R— Derlen. Third circle, from the Healing tier.”
“Are you just dropping by to enquire upon our relations with the Secular, or do you have some more pressing reason to visit me?” Derlen was actually smiling now. What a day.
“I have this, ah, message. As it were.” in spite of the Arcanor’s humorous mood, Iola held the parchment like a bomb. Judging by her terse facial expression, she would much rather put it on his desk with a 4-ped long pole and run. It bore the grey Raven seal, which was only used by one very singular man. And when he sent a missive to the tower, there was usually trouble. Bad trouble. Nonetheless, she handed it over and resisted the urge to step backwards. She added, unnecessarily, “It’s from… you know. Him.”

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He— that is to say, the one who sent this letter, had a name, of course. He was one of those whose name was not lightly spoken inside Carenath or anywhere else because spies could be everywhere. If the Academy could be called an independent regulating agency in Atharellia – and they certainly were, concerning the astral planes – then He was their undercover agent. Usually roaming the countryside and listening to rumors, His main responsibility was the tracking of illicit magic users.
Atharellia had learned the hard way, several times, how dangerous and devastating magic can be. The entire continent had almost been destroyed, its population decimated, in the legendary Breaking, the great war of the magi. For many centuries after that, all magic had been banned totally, without exception. A time when the word “magery” made people lock their doors and cover them with horseshoes, and the word “witch” made them bring out the firewood.
The story of what resulted is long, and should not be recounted now. Suffice it to say that the consequences made everyone reconsider, and magic was allowed an official place at the Court, and of course an agency to watch out for its use. The Academy of Carenath had been refounded, its ransacked towers repaired. And they took their task seriously: Teaching those gifted in the control of their powers, and keeping tabs on them when they graduated to become independent mages. The wizarding society of Atharellia was a close-knit bunch, and ruled over with strong authority by the Tower. Some would call it tyranny, but in these matters it was necessary: Those who dabble in the Crafts wield a great power, and with it must come great responsibility.
By now, Carenath must sound like a secret police, and He (let us call him Ted for now) like their High Inquisitor. Not so – the tower had had little to do for a long time, and Ted was busy investigating routine occurances, both at the capital Thara and in the roads where the King’s men traveled less often.

All that and more could be said about Ted, who was currently using the name Theodore Kyntall. He could hardly sign letters with “Him”, could he. So our wayward Raven has found something again, Derlen mused. Goodness knows he is on to something now... just remember the day he came barging into this office demanding an audience just months ago. He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment – at the same time dispelling the advanced encryption spell with hardly a conscious thought. It read,

To His Radiance the Arcanor Derlen Lightweaver, Archmagus of the Seventh, The Academy of Carenath, from Theodore Kyntall, Magistrate, Greetings.

I hope this letter finds you well. You will remember our meeting three fortnights past. Alas, it now appears I have even worse news, which will be disquieting to you. The astromoers of the South have found the pattern, and determined the cycle – it corresponds almost exactly with my own calculations based on the stories. The loremasters of the chapter concerned have been able to confirm my suspicions. All signs are suggesting that the Night is upon us. If we have been able to foresee this, so will someone else, almost certainly. My theory holds water, the loremasters have judged. I suggest you send someone to guard the place at least for the next few months.
Nae rân talyrte, a vazhin ta féhmonte.

Theodore Kyntall

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Just great. Derlen was so sunken in thought that he jumped a little when he heard a small cough. He looked up.
“Iola, you are still here?”
Iola shrugged. “I was just about to go, Derlen. That letter, though – you read it as if it announces the apocalypse next week! Not wanting to be inquisitive...” but being it, she silently admonished herself. This was quite enough; she was lucky so far and on another day to cross one of the Archmagi in an irritable mood could have brought with it a reprimand, or even a discipline.
“You are not; it is a matter that concerns us all. But I cannot tell you yet, nor anyone but the Elders. This is alarming beyond mention, and shall demand utmost secrecy. The very fate of our institution could hinge on it. And the world, he added.
And the world, I’ll bet, she thought. A moment passed.
“Well, then, I guess, we mortals will only learn of it once the apocalypse truly is at hand.”
“Canæ grant that none except the Elders will ever need to learn of it,” he responded as Iola turned to leave. He motioned for her to wait.
“Oh, and could you take this note down to Tarla down at the relations office please?”
She took the parchment that he seemed to have hastily scribbled a few words on just before she left.
“All right. Have a nice day.”
Derlen muttered something that was probably a reply. He appeared to have started another letter, this one in an intricate, graceful script. The address to the Elders, probably. Iola left.
Out of the door, she looked at the parchment she was holding – he had not bother to seal or even bespell it with an encryptment. A low-level order. She grinned as she deciphered the quick scrawl...
“Tarla, the moogs from the capital have been bitching again. Deal with them. We can’t bother with court problems now, much less save their asses with our power. Tell them that, please. —Derlen”

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