I considered those thoughts as we drank the strong Donland spirits deep into the night. They didn’t taste quite as sweet as I remembered them, but as Omar was wont to note, times did indeed change.

Eventually, the conversation turned back to the Margrave.

“Pavlick, The Margrave of Bardelaisch, came to me, on a bad night, a very bad night, laden with his tale of woe.” Omar confessed. “Stories of dying livestock, especially the cattle, failing crops, especially the barley, attacks of fell beasts on his foresters, especially the mud spiders. But the Cliff Ogres of the Kantatek were on the warpath. They had awoken an old rock wyrm, and their act had caused a cascading of events which had occupied me all season, Hot no less. He was one of a dozen I had to refuse. He claimed me he would wait for my return, but… was long gone by then.”

I nodded. The man’s notes and the words from his wife spoke of his desperation to secure an experienced and capable Wizard to restore the stones and forestall the doom that was befalling Bardelaisch. And I could appreciate Omar’s difficulties; it was not rare, even between the wars, for a simple rock fall to turn into a landslide. Truly, peace begets growth, and not only of humankind. The Thirteen’s borders were filled with all sorts which did not respond kindly to our spread into their territories.

After Omar retired, my thoughts returned to Arcory and his final gifts.

Regardless of my early insistence, none in Council believed any more the powers of Arcory would outlast the sum of the dark arcana that had been unleashed on the marches those decades ago. It was becoming more the common thought that I had, with my acts, only temporarily restored the lands. The argument went that Arcory must have been well weakened, had had lost much of his power, or he would have never committed himself to such an act of suicidal dispersal.

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By the suns, if he was still so strong, went the argument he could have easily stood against the first Council. But then, in the last days, what acts his madness would lead him too, was something none could ever predict, not even I. His greatest power had come from the Celestial. And the end of the conjunction had cost him all of that arcana.

Still, the marches turned out to be useful for king and Council alike, in their own way. It did not seem fair to allow them to be cast aside to wither and die.

“You refused his supplication,” I had finally gleaned from my former apprentice. “And had no expectation of him remaining.”

Omar nodded. He had drunk enough for complete honesty.

“I tell you, more come every year, with needs petty and great,” he admitted. “Even in spite of the ever breeding swamp trolls that fill the marshes surrounding my tower. You know, the local fisher folk have fashioned iron bottomed barges which aren’t threatened by the beasts in the waters, to help guide the supplicants and line their pockets.”

I nodded, returning in his wry grin.

“But like any of us, there is only so much we can do, that we are allowed to do, by Council,” he charged. “There have been times of quiet where I would have been happy to assist, would have been able. But even I would not be so foolish as to ignore the Tenets of Balance. Yes, we can increase the numbers of spell-casters tenfold, a hundred fold even, by the next conjunction. But Council dare not allow another Arcory, even if such a man would prove our savior. A fine experiment, I must say. We have, what, ten, maybe fifteen years to find out if what Council has built will actually work when faced with what – only he in the end – could truly stand against. And what can be said about that?”