“Mirielle, Gregory, give us the room, if you please. Ensure that first aid kits are complete and blood cleansers have been distributed to our fighters,” Lazarus ordered, “Once you’ve done so, then you may take a moment to yourselves, but for the moment, wagon seven is off limits.”

Mirielle nodded, slipping out the door with a small smile thrown Talia’s way and a respectful nod for the delvemaster. Gregory, on the other hand—the dwarven apprentice who had greeted Talia when she woke from her coma—opened his mouth to protest, but the elf cut him off.

“I will keep an eye on the distillation, Gregory, do not worry,” he said, “Now out.”

The dwarven’s lad’s mouth snapped shut, and he skulked out of the cabin with a chagrined expression on his face, leaving the dizzying array of glassware and bubbling vials for his master to look over.

Talia didn’t dwell on him, her attention drawn to a square partition around one of the cots. Once the apprentices had left, she stalked forward, swinging open the partition to reveal a slumbering Zaric. He looked…awful.

Someone had stripped him of his robes, leaving his modesty covered only by a thin blanket, and revealing protruding ribs heaving intermittently with shuddering breaths. His customarily bald head had the beginnings of greyish stubble soaked with sweat. He didn’t toss or turn, but his skin had taken on an unhealthy ashen complexion that made him seem like he was a few steps away from being one with the stone himself.

Talia held in a gasp of shock, but Osra was not so reserved, letting out a whimper that trailed off into a squeak of concern before stumbling to her master’s side. The psion looked to Lazarus and Torval, an undecipherable expression on her face as worry, fear and pity fought for dominance in her mind.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

Lazarus sighed, settling in on a chair Torval dragged over from the corner of the room. Talia followed suit, fighting to keep her eyes from flickering toward the mage—her friend.

“My working hypothesis is that we may have gotten quite lucky,” Lazarus admitted.

Talia’s eyes narrowed and Osra let out a choked sob.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the psion croaked.

The elf contorted his neck uncomfortably, turning to look at the delvemaster for support, but Torval’s eyes were fixed on Zaric’s still form. His fingers tapped a rapid tattoo against the wood of his chair, seeming lost in his thoughts. Seeing this, Lazarus sighed and looked Talia in the eye.

“Well, mage-madness has a connotation, as I’m sure you know. The most common symptoms are a loss of empathy, paranoia and paranoid delusions, and inexplicable fits of violence. It is exceedingly rare, from what we’ve observed, for none of these symptoms to be present,” the elf explained, his drawn face making him seem truly old for the first time since Talia had met him.

I’m a fucking idiot. Once this battle is over, the first thing I’m doing is reading that damn book. I put it off long enough. Stupid!

“And? He hasn’t shown any of that, has he? By the stone, how could he? He’s been in a coma for a days!” Talia prompted, stuttering out of her thoughts when the healer stopped talking.

Lazarus nodded slowly, as if humouring a child.

“Yes, but—”

Talia cut him off, a streak of heat rising in her throat, the hair at the back of her neck standing on end. In her chest, the box buckled, stirring like a slumbering titan stuck with a sharp stick.

“But what? He doesn’t wake up, so you all assume he’s gone mad? He saved our asses back there! If it weren’t for him, none of us would be here debating whether or not we need to kill him! ‘Cause that’s what this is, isn’t it? You need me to check if he’s lost it so you can—”

“Peace, Arcanist. Control yourself!” Torval snapped, “You aren’t the only one with a friend on the line. Reign in your temper and allow Lazarus to explain, or we will make the decision without you, certainty or no.”

Talia’s teeth clicked. She recoiled. The only time Torval had ever snapped like that was when she and Hanmul had begun slinging insults at each other during a meeting. She’d been partially at fault then, and she realized that she was more than partially at fault now.

“I-I’m sorry—I—”

Lazarus shook his head, and Talia didn’t miss the flicker of worry in his eyes as he glanced between her and the delvemaster.

“It is quite alright. I understand that this must not be easy, but as Torval has said, you are not the only one who stands to lose someone. For now, all we are doing is laying out the facts. As it so happens, our course of action will depend on what you find, so it is in everyone’s best interest for you to listen closely.”

The was a moment of pause as tempers cooled, broken only by the compulsive tapping of the delvemaster’s fingers and a rhythmic muttering from Osra’s hunched form. It took Talia a moment before it clicked that the girl was praying. The realization almost sent her tipping off kilter again—she wanted to shut the girl up.

He’s not fucking dead yet.

But none of that was rational. It didn’t take a genius to realize that she was reacting…poorly, and snapping at Osra for the second time in as many hours was definitely inappropriate, no matter her feelings.

If it makes her feel better then fine. But he’s not crazy. He can’t be…

Talia took a deep breath, slamming all of her will onto the cover of that blasted box and shoving it deeper into the dark corners of her mind. Her exhale came out as a rattling sigh.

“Tell me,” Talia said.

Lazarus held her gaze a little longer than necessary—gauging her emotional state no doubt. She’d seen that look enough during their talks.

“When Zaric saved us, he gave himself the worst manaburn I have ever seen. I am frankly shocked he survived it. So, we sedated him. And kept him sedated, in an induced coma, so that he would not have to suffer that kind of pain unnecessarily.”

Talia waved her hand, gesturing for him to get to the point.

“The first onset of mage-madness is as I told you. A loss of reason that at first may appear innocuous but that quickly devolves into a complete loss of higher functioning and competency, leaving the afflicted as little more than rabid animals. The first case is generally episodic, fading quickly, but once the first bout of madness sets in, the timepiece is ticking. Eventually, it becomes less like episodes of madness, but sudden fits of sanity in a sea of lost reason.”

Talia shuddered, imagining what it would feel like to watch from within herself as she lost her mind. Would she be aware of it? Or would it creep in slowly? Like an old friend greeting her with a gentle embrace?

The elven healer took a deep breath before continuing.

“Now, as you can imagine, most cases of the affliction end in death not from the disease itself, but from the fact that maddened mages have to be put down,” he said, pulling a frown from Talia, “What this means is that knowledge of the later stages of the illness is not widespread.”

Talia raised an eyebrow and kept her tone carefully neutral.

“You’re dancing around the point, Lazarus,” she said.

Wouldn’t matter if you’d just read the stupid book, would it, Tals? But nooo—the big bad crazy book was too scary. It was a tomorrow problem.

Talia told the whiny little voice in the back of her head to shut up as Lazarus let out a heavy breath.

“Complete neurological breakdown is, in most studied cases, the final stage of mage-madness,” he revealed. Now, obviously, the sample size for such research is small, given the inherent—”

Torval interrupted.

“Enough, Neverin. She’s right; you’re dancing around the point,” the delvemaster chided gently, locking eyes with Talia, “We’re worried that sedating him masked the early signs of madness and now he’s gone straight into the coma phase. We need your talents to verify if that’s the case. It’s entirely possible that we’re wrong, and that he’s caught the wasting, or hit his head too hard, but we need to know for sure.”

“You want me to go rooting around in his head,” Talia concluded numbly.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Lazarus and Torval shared a look.

“Yes,” the healer answered, “From my understanding, the signs should be self-evident. Disjointed or erratic thoughts, irrational anger, delusions…Even sedated as he is, the signs should still be there.”

Talia nodded slowly, absently noting that Osra’s muttered prayers had ceased. She glanced over at her friend with vacant eyes, wondering what was going through the girl’s head, but unwilling to use her psionics to find out.

“Why now?” she asked instead, “Why not after the fight, when things settle?”

A high-pitched whine emitted from the bubbling beakers on the workbench behind Torval, prompting Lazarus to get up and switch around some mixtures while he spoke.

“If we sedate him further, then we risk killing him anyway. Not to mention painkillers may soon be in high demand. It has to be now, otherwise we risk leaving a maddened mage at our backs when all our efforts are required to defend ourselves.”

“But you have the…kill switch, don’t you?” Talia hedged, turning to the delvemaster, “Can’t we just wait and see?”

Torval shook his head sadly.

“If we're wrong, if he wakes up once the sedatives wear off, well...We can’t afford to risk the damage that he has the potential to cause if he wakes up during our fight,” the delvemaster said, “There’s no guarantee that I will be able to use it in time to prevent him from doing irreparable harm.”

Talia sank into herself, unable to deny the pair’s logic. Deep down, she knew it was what Zaric would’ve wanted as well. She remembered the vehemence with which he had defended the use of mage collars, back when they’d first met.

Seeing the look on Torval’s face, Talia was scared to ask what the recourse was if she refused. She had a feeling she wouldn’t like the answer. That, more than anything, made her decision for her.

“I’ll do it,” she said, “Tell me what to look for.”

Lazarus and Torval shared a relieved glance, and the latter clapped her on the shoulder before heading to the exit.

“I knew we could count on you to do the right thing. Keep me apprised,” was all Torval said before stepping through the curtain.

The man’s tone was clinical, his shoulders tensed. His nervous tic hadn’t subsided throughout their whole discussion. When Talia considered that it would come down to Torval to put Zaric out of his misery, she understood the seeming callousness.

If I was in his position…could I do it?

Talia hoped to never find out.

----------------------------------------

It only took Lazarus fifteen minutes to walk her through what to look for, pulling out a book Talia recognized the title of if not the specific volume: APOTHECARIVM VOL. 9. Her father had the first six volumes on a shelf in his workshop, their brown leather covers worn black and their pages stained with tinctures and poultices of every kind.

Apparently, the latest volume held a number of articles pertaining to mages, manaburn and mage-madness. The body of knowledge around magic was larger than Talia thought, and for a second she wondered why Orvall had never acquired the later volumes of the healer’s encyclopedia.

There’ll be time for idle curiosity later though.

Under Lazarus’ watchful gaze, Talia approached the comatose mage, placing her hand on his forehead. It wasn’t necessary but made her feel better anyway.

Odd how the little gestures are so comforting.

Settling cross-legged next Zaric’s cot, Talia spun her mind into the now familiar imagery for her psionics, preparing to dive deeper into his mind than she’d ever gone—if she discounted her own brain.

From one breath to the next, the world around her disappeared, flickering to a jumbled mess of colours and memories before settling on something surprisingly coherent.

That’s promising…

Talia looked around, orienting herself. According to Lazarus, one of the biggest signs of madness would be an incoherent mindscape. The elf had said the words as if quoting them, but the young psion, thinking back to her previous experiences, had understood immediately.

Wherever she was, nothing she saw could be considered particularly…odd. Just unfamiliar. All around her stretched etched and filigreed walls of smooth stone adorned with colourful paintings and tapestries interspersed with softly glowing manalamps. Corridors broke off into yet more branching corridors, with finely worked drearwood doors along either side. Under her bare feet, the floor was covered by a lush red carpet that tickled the soles of her feet.

Talia walked through the empty passageways, following her intuition, until she came to a bright hall with a row of windows across one side. That was where she found Zaric.

His form…blurred, alternating between that of a young boy, fighting tears, his knotted hair in a wild halo on his head, and that of the bald, jovial man she had come to know. A fine set of well-tailored clothing with brown and orange trim melded with the practical black, leather-reinforced delver robes she’d always seen him in. He stood at the window, looking down into a courtyard full of well-tended plants, tears running down his adolescent face.

Talia frowned as she noticed the abnormality, wondering if the oddity was a sign of madness or just an element of the man’s mindscape. She didn’t so much approach him as she did bend with the space crossing the intervening metres with a single step.

The younger Zaric gave no indication that he noticed her, his gaze fixed on a commotion in the courtyard. It didn’t take long for Talia to recognize the crimson cloaks of mage-hunters. A young woman, about Talia’s age, knelt between the two men, her hands fitted with runed manacles and her body still with shock. She looked just like Zaric, sharing his soft features and dusky skin, her thick, frizzy hair tied back.

“My sister,” Zaric said.

Shocked, Talia turned to look at the boy, now back in the shape of the man she knew.

“She awakened when I was ten years old. My parents were devastated. Imagine, a century ago, having a mage in the family was something to be celebrated, and yet now, it brought us only misery.”

He turned back to the window, watching as the mage-hunters walked the young woman away and into the hazy street beyond the courtyard.

“The Gift skipped two generations in our family. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. But when I awoke too, eight years later, I think it broke something in my parents. Now, House Zaric is no more. My sister and I are the last.”

In the background, Talia heard the faintest sounds of a two people shouting and creak of a rope snapping taught.

Talia opened her mouth, feeling like she was violating something sacred. Here lay Zaric’s last memories of his family, laid bare. She felt dirty, like she was an intruder in his inner sanctum.

“Zaric, you have to wake up—” she started, only for the man to turn, a crooked smile on his face as his appearance turned back into that of a child, even younger now.

“Feyan!” a girl’s voice called from behind them, “Feyan where are you? Come and play!”

Young Zaric ran off through the corridors, chasing the little girl who would become the young woman the mage-hunters had taken away. Talia followed, noting how the corridors blurred, but the theme remained consistent. There were no tears or gashes in the walls, nor any of the obvious signs of madness she’d been told to look out for.

She followed Zaric through youthful games with his sister and classes with his tutors. She listened to the stern voice of his father and the whipcrack of a leather belt that hung in the imposing man’s closet like a trophy. She sat enraptured as his mother, soft and floral smelling told bedtime stories.

Time stuttered and started in that odd way that memories had of warping moments into days and years. The further she went, the more she felt relief. She found none of the signs Lazarus had told her to watch for, only the nostalgia-tinged remembrance of a fond childhood ruined by harsh reality. An awakening that tore the filigree from the stone walls and tore that upraised leather belt into strips of scrap.

Finally, Talia found herself in another place, standing before a familiar door into a partition of Zaric’s mind. She knew that if she stepped through, she would find those cancerous growths of red and orange, those weeping sores on his psyche that demonstrated the damage his power had done to his mind.

Cracks spiderwebbed across the doorway, but it nonetheless held firm. For now.

For a moment, she convinced herself that she didn’t need to see. That what she’d witnessed was enough for her to leave and tell Lazarus that her friend was fine—just trapped in a dream of his own making.

The final step she took was equal parts curiosity and need to be sure, but she nonetheless paused at the threshold, turning to look at the mage, his omnipresent collar strapped around his neck even here, in the safety of his own mind.

“I’m going to check through here. Is that okay?” she asked.

There was no flicker between man and boy this time, just Zaric, as she knew him, sporting that crooked grin, mirth in his eyes like he was laughing at a joke only he knew. He shrugged.

“Be my guest,” he said.

Talia nodded gravely, unsure how much he grasped the gravity of the situation.

“A-Are you…alright?” she asked, one foot hovering above the doorway.

His crooked grin faded somewhat.

“I think so, but who can say for sure?”

“Why—Why don’t you wake up? We could use you, you know?”

Zaric looked behind them, to the corridors of his childhood home and the memories they held. A flicker of sorrow crossed his features.

“I’m not sure. I guess sometimes, the stories we tell ourselves are a little more comforting than reality, don’t you think? Not to mention the manaburn. Oh gods I must be so manaburned. Heh. That’d be hell.”

His mother’s voice, melodic and lilting, floated to their ears.

Talia nodded, surprised at how lucid he seemed. With one last look at Zaric’s childhood, she stepped fully into that other place. The space around her darkened and flickered, the lush colours fading into darkness speckled with orange and red.

At first, Talia was horrified. The back of Zaric’s mind, his sanctum of power, was decayed. The walls were coming apart in great big rivulets, dripping toward the ceiling in clouds of red runic. All around her, gashes looked out into an angry, empty void.

I was all she could do not to try and fix the damage. Not to reach out with her magic and coax the runes back into their proper shape. Talia reminded herself of the Matriarch’s words, instinctively knowing that she’d do more harm than good if she tried to fix anything.

Then she noticed the purple. It peeked out from beneath the blankest of magmatic shades, a lattice of healthy runescript encasing the space and holding everything together. There were cracks, yes, and gashes and tears, but for now, Zaric’s mind was hanging in there. By a thread, but still there.

Buoyed with relief, Talia traced the purple lines with an errant finger, marvelling at the patterns and shapes they created, the tenacity with which they supported the older mage’s mind.

With one final look, Talia committed what she saw to memory. She might not be able to save Zaric from the inevitable, but that inevitable had not yet arrived. Who knew? Maybe studying the patterns would reveal something eventually, something she could use to help both herself and others.

Talia faded out of Zaric’s mindspace, a smile already on her lips, ready to announce what she’d found to Osra and Lazarus.

Instead, she returned to find Zaric’s apprentice gone, and Lazarus bustling about hurriedly, setting out cots and preparing bandages and supplies.

“What—where did—”

The healer jolted.

“Good, you are back,” he sighed, “I was afraid you might not wake in time. The Aberrant are on their way, Delvemaster Torval told me to send you to the walls when you woke up.”

Talia froze. His words didn’t register.

How long was I gone?! Why didn’t anyone…I don’t know, shake me or something!?

“Well, Arcanist? What are you waiting for? Go!”

The elf’s words shocked her into action, and Talia bolted to the door, only stopping at the last second to look back at him and allow some relief to light up her face.

“He’s fine by the way. Just taking a long nap, the bastard,” she called, jumping out the door before he could answer.

The metallic, screech of the Aberrant greeted her as she emerged, stoking both fear and determination in her. Zaric would live, but now it was time to make sure they all did.