“Charming company you keep.” Vero finished her own glass, then checked the sorceress’ carafe. It certainly smelled like a rich Velian red to her.

“May I?” she asked, and Pentarch nodded.

Vero emptied the remaining contents of the glass onto the table where, as expected, it became indistinguishable from normal beer. She placed the glass in one of the empty leather pouches on her belt, and dropped it onto the stone floor, where she crushed it under her boot. She ground it there with her heel until it consisted of a fine powder.

“Are you quite finished?” Pentarch asked.

Vero nodded, and returned the pouch of powdered glass to her belt. Then she served herself another helping of stew and beer.

“What did the Curia tell you?” he asked.

“Nothing, as far as I can tell.” Vero sunk her black bread in the stew, softening it enough to chew comfortably. “They took some blood and told me they would call me back to them once they’ve made a decision, whenever that may be.”

“Hm, probably not for a few months at least, I imagine.”

Vero checked for any sign of jesting in Pentarch’s face, and found none. “Gods, I hope not. I don’t think I could stand to be a prisoner here that long.”

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Are you certain? I’m not permitted to leave and you’ve taken all my things. What else would you call me?”

Pentarch grumbled something, and seemed to be holding an argument with himself before eventually speaking, choosing his words very carefully. “I, hope, that I can call you an apprentice. I wish the Curia had made their intentions more… clear. But I suppose they have their reasons.”

“I already served one slayer apprenticeship. I have no wish to serve another.”

“I’m familiar with ‘master’ Aquinas and his…” Pentarch actually looked embarrassed, which Vero had not expected him to be capable of. “…I’m familiar with him. We keep a close eye on all independent slayers when we’re able.”

“What about the charlatans?”

“You’re all charlatans from our perspective. That’s no insult though, charlatanism is one of the many skills a slayer must learn. Those of you who also display potential in the other necessary skills are considered for recruitment. Most, like Aquinas, are judged unfit and rejected. You’re a more promising candidate.”

“Who is it that decides who will and won’t be recruited?”

“In your case? It was me. I’m not certain who the master slayer was that dismissed Aquinas. I could look up the name on the original report in our records- if you wish to see it.”

“I don’t want anything to do with that bastard ever again. Are you the one in command here?”

“Yes and no. Our order is controlled by a council of all slayers who have risen to the rank of master. Those of us who still hunt, however, have a high mortality rate. The result being that the council is principally controlled by our oldest elven members. There are thirteen of them. And they’ve been in this tower for centuries before you and I were born.”

“Those were elves?”

“Not as you expected them?”

“I’ve met elves of the low castes before, and once- one of the high caste. None of them behaved like those creatures.”

“No, you’re right. The Curia are old even for elves. They’ve hidden in this tower while their contemporaries murdered each other and drank themselves to death. I doubt you could find an elf as old as any of them in the entire steppe. But while they continue to live on, they remain in ultimate command of the order. The Toad is our liaison to them.”

Vero presumed 'the Toad' referred to the vile little servant, it was an apt name.

“But contact with them must be strictly controlled,” Pentarch continued. “I’m one of four master slayers currently in residence here at the academy that may leave this tower without turning to dust and blowing away on the wind. And among us four, I hold command. If Konstantin or Demetrius return then I will relinquish that post to them, but that cannot be until spring at the soonest. And may not be at all, for a very long time.”

“All these fighting men are slayers?”

“No, besides the serving staff, there’s also a permeant garrison here. Emphasis on permanent. They’re all slayer’s bastards or runaways. They haven’t got the skills for real slayer work, but they already know too much to be allowed to leave. They’re more prisoners here than you are. The only time any of them get to leave the fortress is to resupply our food stores.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“What exactly do you teach here?”

“I could show you. If you’ve finished your meal, that is.”

“Very well.” Vero pushed away her trencher and stood up. “One more question first, did I strike my head when I lost consciousness, after my arrival?”

“Have you been experiencing headaches or dizziness?”

Vero nodded. “And nausea.”

“Ill effects caused by the daemon which is bound into and under the mountain. We’re protected inside the fortress. The symptoms should pass after a few days.”

Out in the yard they passed by the men still sparring- “We’ve only just eaten, so we’ll leave them for the moment.” -and Pentarch took them up a slick set of stairs, into one of the secondary towers built against the cliff face. “This tower holds the library.”

Inside the tower was a circular room with desks, chairs, and shelves stacked with books. It was a moderately sized room, but not very crowded.

Vero was not certain why he kept coming to her mind unbidden- but the Marquis de Fer kept a larger collection of books at his estate. “Is there any more?”

Pentarch nodded and pointed her towards a hatch and ladder leading down. “The sunroom up top is mostly for reading. These are just the new acquisitions and books in need of reshelving. Most of the academy is built into the mountain and connected by underground tunnels.”

The lower level was dark until Pentarch lit a lantern for them. The next floor was crowded with shelves so close that only one person could walk between them at a time. Vero noticed another hatch leading further down.

“How many floors are there?”

“Two more like this, and then our librarian, master slayer Iosephus keeps the restricted books in his own quarters on the bottom level.”

“Restricted books? Such as?”

Pentarch smiled sardonically in the flickering lantern light. “I don’t know. They’re restricted.”

“Well, I hope we shan’t have need for one of them. Since if we do, we won’t ever know we have it.”

“We’ll take the tunnels to the laboratory. Two floors down. Iosephus keeps odd hours and he’s probably asleep, so try not to wake him.”

They stayed silent until they reached the tunnel system. It ran in two directions, each slightly curved to turn inwards on each other. Pentarch led them down a path which Vero reckoned would take them away from the donjon.

After several seconds, presumably long enough to take them too far to disturb the librarian, Pentarch spoke again. “You were in disguise when you first introduced yourself to me. Would you prefer I call you Veronique or Virgil?”

“Vero is fine.”

They moved into an alchemy laboratory. There were several fine sets of alembics, retorts, and crucibles of many sizes, as well as anything else one could need for occult experimentation. An area was also partitioned to serve as an infirmary, and Vero saw the implements for surgery.

The only thing that seemed missing were reagents.

“Do you have storage nearby?” she asked.

“Cold storage isn’t far from here. Food and spell components are kept there. Our wards for trapping heat wane in that part of the fortress. We keep our dungeons there as well. How much do you know about slayer magic?”

“My master taught me a few spells. He pretended to know more, but I don’t think he did. Peasants call it blood magic, but it’s no different than any other kind I’ve ever seen or learned.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Blood is the universal reagent. Even the sloppiest spell can work with enough blood shed for it. That’s why they do so many animal sacrifices in the temples, besides the fact that priests need to eat. Scholarly wizards have the time and resources to minimize the use of blood in their rituals, but we don’t often have that luxury.”

“Do you know why blood holds these special qualities?”

“Vitae sangris, blood carries the essence of life.”

“Ah, but human blood has something more, which gives it greater properties than simply patching shoddy spellcasting. Hominine blood also contains azoth, the spark of consciousness. It’s azoth which allows us to think and reason. And mastery of azoth allows us access to powerful magics, which could never be achieved without the expenditure of one’s own blood. There are certain rituals passed down from antiquity that only we know.”

“Can I take this as an offer to teach me these secret magics?”

“If you apply yourself to your studies here, and excel in them, you will learn. I offer nothing more, or less.”

“Who should I speak to for poppy milk? I injured my leg in a hunt a few months ago and it still pains me from time to time.”

“Yes, I’ve heard. Medical supplies are strictly rationed here, we only use opium for surgery.”

“Very well then. I had a tincture with me when I arrived, at least return my own medicine to me.”

“When the time is right.”

He tried to pass by her, but Vero took him by the arm. “I need it, Pentarch.”

“No, you don’t. And that is precisely why it’s not being returned to you. Poppies are useful, but addictive. Every dependency you have is a weakness. We can’t accept anything that compromises our slayers that way.”

Pentarch forced his way past her and Vero followed, grinding her teeth. He took them down a long hallway in which the temperature noticeably dropped below freezing. They passed several turnoffs, and eventually the way grew marginally warmer. Then they came to a large door.

They entered a wide-open ritual chamber with a dais in the center. There was no connection to the upper levels, but by Vero’s reckoning from what she saw on the surface, there was a bell tower above them.

The raised dais bore the basic dimensions of a magic circle etched in stone on it. There were permanent runes, more than one of which Vero had never seen before, as well as space for temporary runes to be rendered in chalk.

“This is the chapel- which also serves as our ritual chamber. Your new friend Isolde has been scheming to try and find her way in here since she arrived.” Presumably to procure rubbings of the glyphs on the dais, although Pentarch left this unsaid.

“Access is restricted?” Vero asked.

“To outsiders, yes.” She guessed that Pentarch intended this to be a compliment.

On the wall, which Vero judged to be carved into the mountain itself, was a faded fresco depicting the pantheon. It covered one half of the circular chamber.

The other half of the room, opposite the mural, was hard to look at.

It was painted with lines and curves at unusual angles to one another, which made her head spin. They seemed to twist and dance as she moved. The wall was uneven on that side of the chamber, but even understanding that visual distortion, nothing she saw made sense.

Vero realized that the image must have been deliberately reckoned in all four spatial dimensions. Hence her eyes could see only three quarters of the rendering at any given location, all while the point of focus was constantly shifting for reasons which were, quite literally, beyond her.