Chapter 23

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They were late.

Another month, just one measly month, and the Academy would have been saved. Not by intrigue - not so much influence of the risens or of the mages excommunicated from the court to change the decision made at the top. There would not be enough power to win a direct confrontation, steel on steel. But within a month, the wizards had promised to prepare the most valuable books and records for evacuation, to get their families out of the city, to hide the designs, and gradually send them to the home estates of their students. To preserve the Tradition and its Bearers, the information, and those capable of interpreting it.

Not in time. The priests and servants of the Son of the Sea, who hated the "stronghold of wicked schemes," had struck earlier. As a result, it was now necessary to finish the preparations for escape in a wild rush, hoping to save at least the most important things before the assault began.

In the old days, the very idea that a mob of semi-literate paupers would dare to storm the city mages' abode, a repository of wisdom and a symbol of power, seemed insane. The Academy, formerly the High Taleya University, was guarded not only and not so much by enchantments. The safety of noble students - and no one else was here - was monitored by city guards, Guard units, and army units stationed in the city, not to mention spider agents.

No one came to the aid of the wizards today.

As Calderan had predicted, the troops loyal to the old aristocracy were withdrawn from the city or given strict orders not to interfere. There was no one to stop the temples in their quest to wipe out the rival stronghold. Thousands of ragamuffins swarmed into the Golden City, entering through the helpfully opened gates. The priests, leading the throng, ignored the houses of the nobility and the wealthy, anxious to move swiftly toward their intended goal. Though occasional packs of marauders jumped over the fences of the estates and tried to loot. In some places they were repulsed, in others, the defenders were overwhelmed.

Inside the Academy itself, there was organized panic. Students and teachers scurried through the building, hurriedly hauling the most valuable books and items into the cellars, where they would await their time in enchanted vaults. Celeste shook her head in doubt - it would take more than twenty-four hours to remove the entire library. And then there were the archives, the secret annals, the teachers' private libraries.

An island of calm, an organizing force in all this chaos, were the four highest mages. The leaders of the Academy were busily and purposefully scribbling crooked squiggles on the slabs of the central hall, personally doing the work of the journeymen. From time to time they quarreled in quiet voices, arguing about some gradients and possible setbacks but on the whole, the work progressed smoothly. From time to time they diverted to listen to a report or give orders to their many assistants, and then returned to their previous activities, while their subordinates began to bustle about with renewed vigor.

Celeste and Hustin were circled by the fleeing mortals. The warlock was still listed as a teacher, and the frail little figure in the simple white dress walking beside him reeked of frozen dead power from a dozen yards away. She wasn't hiding her nature today.

"For a twice-dead woman, you look incredibly alive."

Tyran looked at the vampiress without much surprise. He was more interested in the blueprint that was appearing. The apprentice and his mistress were no longer the focus of his attention. Celeste smiled with one lip in response to the dubious compliment:

"The unity of opposites, isn't it?"

"Indeed," the rector nodded. Then he pointed toward the balcony. "I wish you could enjoy the spectacle. Well, the priests were uncommonly unanimous these days."

The Night Mistress of Taleya looked thoughtfully at her interlocutor and glanced at the other mages. Without a word, she turned and, without a moment's hesitation, walked swiftly out of the shadows. Right into the sun.

Down below, beyond the fence, a sea of people raged. The mortals were still wary of approaching the barrier that protected the citadel of mages. The bodies of foolish men piled up along the barrier stimulated rational thinking, but the priests' robes, looming up and down, were slowly preparing the flock for the breakthrough. Celeste stepped closer to the railing, ignoring the pressing rays of the sun, and peered at the group of high-ranking priests in the distance. The leaders of the various churches had temporarily set aside their confessional differences and stood side by side. Not together, but side by side.

"What are they doing?"

Tyran, who followed behind, cast a fleeting glance at the enemy leaders:

"They're getting ready to break the spells that protect us. Someone gave them the keys to the defense, so I think it will be a successful attempt. Then again, their artifacts are curious." I could tell by his tone that he wasn't interested in the subject. "Can I congratulate you on your transition?"

"Yes. It's about time, don't you think?" They grinned understandingly. "But this wasn't about me. I met surprisingly few students on my way here."

"During the past six months, some of the families withdrew their descendants from Taleya."

The rector was silent, not seeing the need to explain anything else. Indeed, what was there to talk about? The nobles who conspired were unwilling to risk their heirs and had returned them home just before the events began. Only the teachers and students from hostile families remained at the Academy, and no one was going to spare them.

"Do you need help from my servants?"

Tyran was silent, making up his mind. Mistress waited, enjoying the kisses of the safe sun for the first time in years.

"We hope to slam the door loudly before we escape, to discourage Irrhan from pursuing the students. If your servants will agree to serve as guides..."

"Absolutely," Celesta nodded. "The servants of the Dark One and the smugglers have already been warned and are waiting, the letters to Zonna have been sent. And by the way, I intend to send Medea to negotiate with Prince Kono."

"Blessed One will quickly accept your sister," Tyran agreed. "Many of my students are descendants of his vassals. They will not forget the help they have received."

Elder gestured for them to leave the balcony. The vampiress looked at the crowd, the priests finishing their preparations before the ritual, and returned to the hall. The priests, she estimated, would break through in two hours after the prayers began. She knew temple magic poorly and very well at the same time. Poorly - because of the lack of information and reluctance of priests to share knowledge with the "dark brat". And most of what she learned could not be checked because of the differences in energy. At the same time, most parts of its sources monitored the temples' actions one way or another, and in the turbid stream of mixed information, one could find very curious observations from time to time. The individual pieces from which, like a mosaic, the whole picture of rituals, ceremonies, teaching methods, and other internal foundations of the school could be assembled.

Hastin, who had been standing in the darkness of the room the entire conversation, was about to say something at the sight of his mistress, but he changed his mind. He simply nodded with a grim face at the nearly completed drawing on the floor. Celesta stepped closer to the freshly-colored marks, felt the familiar current of power radiating from them, and recalled where and when she had seen something similar. She'd seen it a long time ago. She asked the rector in a secular tone:

"Blessed Maestro, how old are you?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't have much left, that's all that matters." The old mage looked around at his comrades-in-arms. "Isn't it better to leave on your own? At least my students remain alive and continue my work."

"You sacrifice your soul nor body."

"I'll take my chances after all."

The risen did not comment on what she thought was foolishness. Tyran is old, experienced, and powerful. He's probably the strongest mage alive. He knows what he's doing. Or thinks he does. Not that he can be dissuaded - the old man has always been monstrously stubborn. It is because of him that the Academy is now being stormed: if the Tyran had been a little more flexible, he would have been able to find a compromise with the temples.

After an hour, the wizards finally realized that most of their belongings would have to be left behind, and they slowly began to descend to the lower floors. There they were met by Hustin, grouped in groups of ten or fifteen, then introduced them to their guides, and reminded them of the dangers that awaited them underground, demanding unquestioning obedience. He exaggerated only slightly. Despite the pre-cleared routes and the subterranean creatures' habit of obeying the undead, the last level of the catacombs was still a place not meant for walking.

Unlike the Elder Sorcerer, Celesta spent the rest of her time in the hall, trying to remember as accurately as possible the intertwining of the intricate pattern on the floor and not hesitating to ask questions. She guessed roughly what the rector had in mind, admired his genius, and was horrified by it. People did not answer her very willingly - masters could not distract themselves from preparing for the most complicated ritual, and their younger colleagues did not have the necessary knowledge and were not versed in the subject. In addition, students and teachers gradually began to guess who exactly had visited the doomed abode of knowledge under the arm of a vampire teacher and quite freely communicate with the head of the Academy, distracting him from important matters. As a consequence, people tried to stay away from the teenage girl in a simple white dress. Latham, with an unflappable face, took a place behind his Mistress. He was the one who looked extremely organic in the luxurious interiors, though he tried not to enter the bright spots near the windows.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The mages, group after group, left the complex. They abandoned the laboratories and libraries, left the expensive ingredients to rot, and killed the beasts, and mutated mortals before they left. At last, not more than half a dozen or so survivors remained in the vast plot of land bounded by a fence that continued to resist the prayers of the priests. The rector, his two closest assistants, old and determined to share his mentor's fate, the deans of the faculties, and a select few students who helped out on minor matters. Here, too, stood the two dead, or, more correctly, undead.

People came up to the rector one by one, said a few words, took his parting blessing, and, unable to hide their tears, walked toward the underground passage. Celeste understood them, she herself felt uneasy. The old man seemed eternal to her. With Tyran's death, an entire era would end. She said nothing to him in parting, only a nod from afar, and he didn't seem to expect any tenderness - as wolves get older, they lose teeth, but not character. Hustin was the one who had to wait. For him, Tyran was a once-in-a-lifetime teacher, and that was if he was very lucky, so the vampire took a long time to say goodbye. And when he left, he kept looking back.

It didn't take them long to realize the cost of their delay. At first, there was a cracking sensation from above as if the wood had cracked. The burden of light magic was heavy on their shoulders. Even weakened by the thick earth and stone, it blinded the rebels briefly, forcing them to halt. Almost immediately, however, the paralysis passed. The priests paid dearly for breaking the spells that surrounded the Academy, and they were unwilling to strain their already shattered powers. Looking at the frozen vampires and sensing the success of their attackers as well, the humans stopped dead in their tracks. They couldn't hear the muffled roar of the bursting crowd and the clang of breaking expensive glass, but their gut feelings, sharpened by grief, told them this was it. It was over. The house was gone.

And when hordes of intoxicated ragamuffins burst into the vaults of the stately halls; when tired priests celebrated their victory, beginning to think how to further weaken the competition; when messengers rushed to the Royal Palace with news of a seemingly impossible event - then the magicians struck back. The walls did not tremble, nor did an eerie howl spread through the dark corridors. Just the last group of mortals and the undead, fleeing from the desecrated citadel of wizards, sensed something sixth sense: It began. It was as if an icy wind was blowing at the back of their necks. And then the wave of magic caught up with the fugitives.

"They started too soon," Hustin whispered anxiously. "If I calculate correctly, we won't make it out of range of the curse."

"Apparently the priests broke the barrier faster than we thought," Celesta answered just as quietly. Then she added in a loud voice for all to hear: "Hurry up, gentlemen. We don't have much time left."

The mages, who had come to their senses, switched from a quick step to a light run, but their speed increased only slightly. The tight spring of the ritual behind their backs unwound more and more, and the thickened air was filled with a foreboding sense of tension. Shadows crawled across the walls, impenetrable even to the sight of the risens, sometimes softly inviting whispers or moans could be heard from them. The people's breathing quickened, and they were already running as fast as they could.

"We still won't make it," Hustin whispered again. "They're too slow."

Celesta was thinking the same thing. If we leave people behind, then...

"We might not make it in time either. And I promised the old man I'd get them out. Draw a circle."

"He's not likely to help," Hustin warned, stopping.

"I know. Draw."

Despite his objections, the warlock began his work with evident relief. He did not want to leave his colleagues to their certain death.

Meanwhile, the mages, urged on by Latham, crowded fearfully into the tunnel. A vampire was keeping them from the front, and an alien, frightening power was pressing in behind them.

"Listen to me," Celesta added a bit of power to her voice, drawing attention to herself and amplifying the effect of her words. "The wave is catching up, and you can't escape. So you'll have to stay protected for a while."

"There's no defense against it!" Came a hysterical voice from someone.

"Don't interrupt!" The voice hit like a whip. "Either do as I say or get ready to die! Remember, you must not look outside the circle. Understand?! Sit in the center and do not look outside! Hustin?!"

"Done, Mistress," replied the mage.

"What are you waiting for?!" The vampiress snarled. She could literally feel the precious time running out. "In the circle, I said!"

Frightened by the outburst of fury and the sight of white fangs bared, the men obeyed her command. A worried Latham sat on the floor beside them, anxiously catching his Mistress's gaze. Last of all, having drawn the remaining symbols with his blood, Hustin entered the circle.

Celesta herself stood on the border - not outside, but not inside. It seemed right to her. She wasn't sure of her assumption, and at first, the thought seemed crazy, but she saw no other way here and now. Sometimes you have to take risks, she thought. The one who doesn't risk doesn't drink champagne. She hardly remembered what champagne was. Her memory was less and less likely to throw up memories of the time when she was alive and happy and living in a world that knew no magic. It was probably for the best.

Now she would have to trust the crumbs of knowledge wrested from fate, dark instinct, and the memory of a mistake made long ago. The once foolish and inexperienced rebel had made a bad joke. She had cried out to the darkness, not expecting a response. But she should have known by then that the great powers had a mind of their own as to whether or not she should answer her prayers. The fanatics who had served her had died that day, Celesta herself had also nearly died, and Medea and Hustin had finally recognized her as the leader.

No matter how many years or centuries had passed, she could not forget those moments when an alien cold mind indifferently and mercilessly dissected her personality into pieces. It looked for something of its own, compared what it saw to the right criteria, or simply dissected it, like a scientist dissecting with a scalpel a new specimen of a simple organism in its hands. She felt no fear or pain, but there, in the world where her soul had found itself, everything was completely different. Then she was lucky. For some unknown reason, the creature, or entity, or something that inhabited that strange place let her go and even left a piece of herself behind. Hardly consciously - just the slightest touch of that power was enough to change her forever.

Just now Tyran consciously repeated what Celesta had once done out of ignorance.

Taleya's strongest undead was more aware than anyone else of the powers the great mage had summoned. This knowledge prevented her from even thinking about confronting the impending barrage of darkness. For such an attempt would be akin to wishing for a drop of water to extinguish a volcano. But perhaps they would not want to kill her? Consider a little of her own? See a kinship? If not for her recent fight with Carlon, Celestф would not have dared to act, but now... she had communicated with that demon, and they understood each other. So maybe now she could beg them not to hurt her companions?

Especially since the entity doesn't seem to kill rebels without a good reason. And her conscience is clear before mortals. She'd already kept her word to Tyran. By the very fact of her attempt.

The vampiress grinned dryly - some experiments are very dangerous - and spread her arms crosswise, preparing to take the first touch of the approaching dark wave.

I, unworthy, am too stupid and ignorant to interpret the will of the gods and the deeds of their earthly servants. Therefore you will not know my name. But I can no longer keep silent, for the event I witnessed is too awesome and far beyond human comprehension.

On the day that the Academy of High Magic in ancient Taleya fell, I was one of the last to flee the majestic and beautiful abode, so mercilessly desecrated by stupid ignoramuses. We were unaware of the blessed Tyran's intentions - in his great wisdom, he had communicated the ritual to a select few who were sworn to secrecy - but we knew that we would never see our beloved mentor again. For the Dark Lord Morvan always charges those who seek his help.

Wishing to show respect for her tutor and saddened at the sight of the desolation being wrought, Messena Celesta, also called the Night Mistress, or Mistress of the Night ordered her servants to assist in the escape from the doomed Academy. Students and teachers and a few guests descended into the darkness to walk through the sun-beaten tunnels to a place where they were safe. The undead showed us the way. It was only because of them that we escaped the monstrous creatures of the plague that lurk beneath the ground; that we were not lost in the labyrinths of countless passages; that we were not the victims of desperate madmen who swore an oath to the Lord of Darkness and therefore refused to go to the surface, lest they defile themselves by the touch of light.

My companions and I were the last to leave when the damned priests had already breached the first protective barrier. We were led by three undead-the Mistress herself, her bodyguard, now known as the Wing of Night, and Maestro Hustin, a student of the blessed Tyran and one of the teachers. We knew, of course, that he belonged among the rebels, but until that day he had never so clearly demonstrated his nature.

I remember with horror the moment I realized the inevitability of death. We were moving too slowly; demons that come to the world of the living can move very quickly. And no matter how much a mortal man might prepare, no matter how many times he studied the philosophy of darkness, no matter how many days he spent meditating, he would never be able to sense the imminence of hell's creatures without awe. For the chill that they produce will forever inhabit a man's soul. Only the will of Mistress of the Night has kept us from our shameful and senseless flight. Obedient to her commands, frightened and despondent, we entered the protective perimeter that Maestro Hгstin had drawn, and prepared to retreat to the judgment of the gods, for hope had abandoned us altogether. No one believed that salvation was possible.

When the first demons, like wisps of translucent yet impenetrable black shadows, swirled around us in a deadly circle, I lowered my eyes. There, beyond the line, true evil was gathering. It was sifting through my soul, sifting through my memory, and in moments I could see everyone I'd ever harmed. The twisted faces of people laughed with hatred or, conversely, groaned pitifully, asking what they had done to deserve their current fate. They called and beckoned to them. Their attraction was so great that it deprived us of reason, leaving only one desire: to obey the sweet poisoned voices, to become the obedient executor of a greedy and hungry will. Some of us tried to get up to leave the circle, but the undead clung to the weak in spirit. They had to stun some of the mages, though.

Despite my warning, I disobeyed the order, and now I must reap the benefits of my recklessness for the rest of my life. So I watched as the evil spirits, with their visible form, surrounded the Dark Mistress, sliding over her body, caressing her hands. The strongest of them were crawling through the undead as if her flesh were not a barrier but something to be attracted to. Gradually the number of them increased. It was such a bewildering sight that I was frozen in complete stillness, unable to look around, and only later did I hear from my companions that the demons had not crossed the boundary of the circle. It was as if it had become impenetrable to them. I could see the shadows woven together into a black blanket that enveloped the slender figure like a heavy cloak, and it was horrible and beautiful at the same time.

It was impossible to look away. She shone with a dark light, filling the souls of those who gazed upon her with unearthly bliss, making them tremble with wild fear, filling them with pain, and forcing them to freeze in the stony stillness of ecstasy. The torrent of power that emanated from her took on flesh and sheltered us insignificant ones from the power of the servants of the Lord of Hell.

I don't know how much time passed. I was told later that the appearance of the Dark One's servants had lasted no more than a minute, but for me, it had been an eternity. I thought we sat there on the floor, spellbound, staring at the laughing demons for an unimaginable amount of time until suddenly they were gone, and the Mistress' quiet voice ordered us to leave. The risens quickly led us away, helping those who couldn't walk on their own. To this day, in my dreams, I can still see that image - the slightly turned face, half-hidden by shadows, and the anthracite-black eye, like a window into the Abyss itself.

I went blind that day. To this day I regret that I did not lose my memory.

"Memories of Koyan the Blind."

Original, property of the Zonna Academy of Magic.

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