~Chapter Eleven~

Secrets in the Spire

The Spire, Caras

Kingdom of Cedirc

7th Day of Pendelius

Early Evening

As he crossed the bridge that led from the main island that contained the Cedircian capitol to the smaller island on which the was built the obsidian and basalt tower that was known as the Spire Arcana, or just the Spire, Malute felt an unfamiliar and wholly unwanted sensation within him.

Trepidation.

The last time he had felt so nervous had been the day that he had come to the Spire over thirty years ago when he had first escaped from the mage-hunters in Eno’Kalia. Back then, anti-Eno’Kalian sentiments had been high, and more than one member of the Conclave had thought he was at best a spy for the island nation or, at worst, an assassin sent to eliminate as many of them as possible before he was caught, though he was barely a teenager at the time.

He had faced an uphill battle upon his arrival when it came to being accepted by the majority of the magi within, and for the first few months he had wondered if the long voyage from Eno’Kalia hiding in the cargo hold of a merchant ship had been worth it. The dark glances, suspicions, and outright hostility had almost overwhelmed the frightened young exile in his first years among the magi of the Spire.

Were it not for the kindness of his master and rescuer Corvin Medeannus, Malute was not sure he would have survived.

It had been Corvin who had enabled him to abscond from Eno’Kalia in the first place, having taken an interest in the plight of the gifted from the island and working with the then-Prince Darren Ungalt II to help any found with the talent to escape his father’s mage hunters. Thus, Malute had owed his freedom to the magus, as well as to the man who now sat upon the Obsidian Throne of that nation.

As the one magus in the Spire who had actually taken steps to do something about the harsh treatment of magic users in Eno’Kalia, Corvin had seen past the tint of his skin to the man underneath, and that had been the single light in his life as he adjusted to his new surroundings and set about trying to be accepted in this foreign land. It had still been difficult, but with the aid of a High Mage of Cedirc, he had eventually managed to learn to live with the mistrust of the others, vowing to prove himself to them all, and he liked to think he had done just that.

In spite of all Corvin’s aid, however, he had still felt immensely lonely, remembering the love he had felt back home before his powers had manifested themselves. While his sense of loneliness was lessened when he was with the elder magus, that crushing sense of isolation returned with a vengeance once he went back to his chambers after lessons or lectures, or when he walked the grounds, or when he went to the kitchens to eat, or did any activity without the High Mage present.

No one else had wanted anything to do with the exiled mage from Eno’Kalia.

All that changed one day, when the royal family had visited the Spire taking their son on a tour of the city to let him see it for himself. The prince had seen the way the darker skinned teenager was treated by the others of his age, and even the adults, constantly shunned and insulted wherever he went, and took issue with what he saw. Beyond that, the prince had been immensely interested in the apprentice from Eno’Kalia, and had had many questions for him. In spite of the disapproval of his father, who shared the rest of the Spire’s suspicions regarding his presence there, the prince returned again and again to learn more about the Malute and, more importantly in the end, the plight of any who manifested the ability to touch and wield the vitarus. Malute, for his part, had been equally suspicious of the prince’s interest, believing that he was only striking up a friendship in order to humiliate him in the end, as several of his fellow apprentices had done in the weeks since his arrival.

Aside from Corvin, he had not been used to kindness from the people in Caras, or Cedirc in general. In spite of himself, Malute began to look forward to the prince’s weekly visits, which at first were overseen by Corvin at the behest of King Artur DeCarren. Eventually, even the King relented on these restrictions, coming to trust Corvin’s judgment of the foreigner, and the prince and Malute had begun getting together more often, getting to know each other better as Malute continued his studies within the Spire. The prince had taught Malute much about Cedircian culture, taking him with him around Caras frequently, and the more he was seen with the foreigner, the more accepted Malute had become, both within the Spire and without it.

And as so it was that Malute had become close friends with Alfred DeCarren, the then-prince of Cedirc, in the months before the gal’roth had first appeared, surprising and slaughtering thousands of unaware Cedircians with their ravenous destruction before a fighting retreat could be organized.

King Artur DeCarren had been killed in that first encounter.

Alfred had been crowned King shortly after, and Malute had not seen him for a long while. Malute had been despondent over this, missing the one person who had shown him genuine friendship in all the time he had been in Cedirc. He had not begrudged Alfred that, however, knowing that his priorities had shifted drastically with his unexpected early ascension to the Talon Throne. He had just figured that their friendship had run it’s course.

He could not have been more wrong.

One of his first acts as King of Cedirc had been to make Corvin Medeannus the High Mage of Cedirc, and had alloted him chambers in the West Tower of Gryphon’s Roost. He had been allowed to bring his apprentice with him, so that his studies would not be disrupted, and so Malute had also moved into Gryphon’s Roost, and his friendship with Alfred had resumed and deepened.

When Alfred had marched north in following the spring thaw late in the month of Teseralius in 212 A.C. to avenge his father to continue the war against the ilvarri and these new enemies in Shetna Forest, he had brought his High Mage With him.

And Corvin had brought Malute with him.

He had fought beside Alfred and protected him during the remaining eight years of that bloody conflicted, and had once again seen proof of Alfred’s quality when, upon learning that the ilvarri too were being attacked by the gal’roth, he had pressed for peace with the forest dwelling people. More importantly and impressively, he had won that peace after months of tense negotiations with the High Lord of Shetna, Sevrail Maramas, and the ilvarri ruling council. Much as Alfred had in getting the magi of the Spire to tolerate and even accept Malute, the newly crowned king had worn down detractors of both species, and though the peace had been tenuous, it had lasted in the face of a common enemy, and eventually beyond, as it turned out, even in the wake of that last battle at Faldûr Istan.

Malute had been a part of that disastrous affair, and he still was impressed with how Alfred had managed to assuage the ilvarri’s fears when the plan went awry.

With Corvin’s powers being stripped from him, he had vacated the seat of Court Mage and Alfred had appointed his friend to the position, though there had certainly been more qualified magi than he. But a bond had been forged between them and, more than that, Alfred had need someone who new the truth of what happened at Faldûr Istan close at hand, just in case the situation Malute found himself in at the present ever occurred—or rather when it occurred.

He had not imagined it would be brought on by an assassination, attempt of all things, and certainly assumed they had more time to prepare his children, but unless they succeeded in saving him now, such would not be the case. Truth be told, even though almost a day had passed by since the almost successful attempt on his life, the magus was still had a hard time believing those events had actually occurred.

It seemed almost surreal.

With a heavy sigh, Malute stepped off the bridge, he halted and eyed the towering black edifice of the Spire, silhouetted now by the setting sun behind it, casting a golden flare around the edges of the structure. He remembered the first time he had seen it, an eager, grateful young boy fresh from being rescued from Eno’Kalia. It had seemed a symbol of hope to him, back then and though all his memories of the place were not bad—he had met Alfred there, after all, and that had irrevocably changed the course of his life—Barthalamus had not been wrong earlier that day when he had all but accused Malute of avoiding the place in recent months. Actually, years, truth be told, and he would not be here this day were it not the largest repository of knowledge in the country, if not the continent.

If information on hazca razith was to be found in Caras, it would be within the Archives of the Conclave within the Spire.

In spite of Alfred’s embracing of him and implicit trust of the magus, he had never fully been able to escape the mistrust of his heritage that had hounded him within the Spire. If anything, him being made High Mage had increased tensions between he and his fellow magi, and the intervening years wherein he had spent more time in Gryphon’s Roost than within the tower had done nothing to help that either.

He could only hope that enough trust remained for him to succeed.

Taking a deep breath, doing his best to restore his usually calm, controlled demeanor, though inside he was anything but, he continued down the cobblestone path through the tower gardens, passing by many apprentices and magi who were out enjoying the cool air of the early evening. Conversations stopped as the High Mage went past, springing up once again in his wake. A few of those he passed gave polite nods or waves; an equal number gave him dark looks. Most regarded him with placid, unreadable expressions, and to him that was almost worse than the outright hostility. He would much rather know where he stood among his fellows.

But in order to do that…

Barthalamus was right, he mused as he neared the steps of the black tower, I need to spend more time here.

Once Alfred has been saved.

At the far side of the terrace at the top of the stairs, against the onyx coloured wall of the tower, a swirling cloud of blue and green mists roiled in midair where one would have expected a doorway to be.

And it was a door, of sorts.

The green-blue mists swirled around and within one another in constant motion, but always in a circular fashion, creating a larger version of the spell Malute had used to communicate with Barthalamus earlier. Without a second thought, Malute stepped into the misty portal, feeling the familiar chill of the magical mists on his skin at the same time he felt a sort of presence within his mind as one of the tower guardian’s probed his mind for his intentions. He resisted the urge to shiver, though he loathed the sensation, and regretted that he had not the energy left to use the portal that connected his chambers in the castle to his ones in the Spire and would have allowed him to avoid this particular security measure of the main entrance of the tower.

Since any could enter the tower through the permanently activated portal, the magi within had added the extra measure of two large obsidian gargoyles that stood to either side of the entrance, imbuing them with the ability to sense ill intent within those who passed through it. Should they do so, the ruby eyed stone sentinels would seize the visitor and hold them so they could be interrogated by the magi within, and dealt with afterwards. Should the intruder try to fight them, they would be killed outright. Though he knew they would not activate now, Malute still eyed the winged sentinels that flanked him with mistrust as he emerged from the other side of the portal, though their gemstone eyes remained unlit and their bodies and wings motionless.

Oh yes, how he despised using the main entrance.

But he had not had any time to rest since his expenditures the previous night or even the small amount of vita he had used to confer with Barthalamus earlier, and so had not had any choice. Unlike the portal that he had just used, the one that led from the Roost’s West Tower to his chambers far above required a large amount of vita to activate, ensuring that not just anyone could use it. Similar to the gargoyles on either side of him now, an enchanted statue stood at either end of the portal in both his chambers, and neither would hesitate to strike if anyone but Malute attempted to use them. The events of the day had left him drained, and so he had had to take the roundabout way to the Spire, much to his dismay.

For one thing, had he been able to use his private portal, it would have been much faster than descending the long, winding trail down from the hill atop which the Roost stood before looping back through the city. For another, it would have necessitated less interaction with people.

Any people.

Even though the guards at the Lower Gate of the Ascent had been under orders to allow none to enter nor exit the castle grounds, they had not hindered him leaving, though they had attempted to question him about what exactly had happened. They had heard rumours, of course—such was inevitable following momentous events—but Malute had been in no mood for such queries.

Thankfully, a look from him, tired and worn as he knew he must look be now, had still silenced them and sent them scurrying about to let him through.

His reputation had preceded him in the city, and he had passed through unmolested by the populace, though he heard the same rumours whispered as people noticed him hurrying through the streets. The people of the city knew he did not like small talk, and so none had attempted to stop him, though curious looks had followed him the entire way, and he could only imagine the new rumors that had been sparked by his passage.

They would have to put out some kind announcement regarding the night’s events.

And soon, he knew, before the whispers got too far out of control.

If only they could be certain how things would turn out, but there were no certainties there.

Especially since, Malute admitted to himself as he stepped forward into the entry hall of the Spire, this whole search could be pointless. Herocas did not seem at all confident that he could keep Alfred alive when we left.

But they could not do nothing. He could not do nothing.

He looked around the large, circular room that served as the entrance to the Spire. It was massive, spanning well over a hundred feet in diameter and fifty tall, capped by a large dome above, supported by trusses. Each truss came from the top of great basalt buttresses rose at regular intervals along the walls, enchanted torches set in sconces upon each to shed light into the windowless room. As he had expected, he did not see any magi around, only servants scurrying about their work, but there was few of them about in the early evening. To his right, the large staircase that circled the room and ran the entire height of the Spire began.

Between each of the buttresses, a misty portal swirled, allowing quicker access to the floors above and below—if one knew which led where, that was, since they were purposefully not placed in any kind of order. If any intruder did manage to get past the gargoyles, they would not find locating their target a simple matter.

The Conclave was nothing if not cautious, protective of their own and their knowledge, maybe to the point of paranoia.

Though, maybe these measures are not as drastic as I always thought them to be, Malute considered as he looked around, thinking that had the King’s chambers had even one of these measures, last night could have ended very differently. The throne room of the castle, of course, had some wards and other defensive measures, but Alfred had not allowed any near he or his family.

If you pull through this, there will be a lot of changes to your security, Alfred, the magus resolved as he began heading for the portal directly across from him, one comprised of red and orange mists swirling about within it, knowing it lead to the Archives.

“Malute!”

The commanding voice boomed out from behind him as he neared the red-orange portal, stopping him in his tracks as he recognized it, having fully expected to hear it, though he had hoped to make it within the archives before Barthalamus found him. He should have known better, he knew; the Voice of the Conclave knew all who entered the tower, after all.

He spun about to see an aged magus with a long grey beard, stooped shoulders, and a wide brimmed, pointed hat staring at him from dark, glittering eyes. In spite of his decrepit appearance, an intelligence shone in his dark eyes, and the crows feet around his eyes spoke of many decades of smiles and laughter.

No hint of such a smile was present on the old man’s features now he shuffled towards Malute, knotted grey staff clacking on the dark grey slate tiles of the floor.

There was likewise no humor present in the old magus’ tone as he spoke in a sharp tone, “Did you could visit the Spire without coming to see me?”

“Of course not, Barthalamus,” Malute said, but was cut off before he could offer an explanation.

“You could have sent word that you were coming—or told me earlier!”

“I did not know I would be,” Malute replied, not letting himself be intimidated by the brusque, accusing tone.

“Oh?” the older mage arched a bushy, grey eyebrow at him.

Malute glanced around them as he considered the best way to respond. He did not want reveal too much, but knew that the old man’s curiosity would have been piqued by their conversation earlier, and especially with his presence here now. He would have to offer Barthalamus something, but what?

“Why have you come, Malute?” Barthalamus pressed as the silence went on.

Malute stepped closer to the elderly magus, speaking in a barely audible voice that Barthalamus had to lean in to hear, “I have come here on the King’s behalf to do some research,” he tried to evade, but stopped as the other man scoffed.

“The King can give commands while near death?”

Barthalamus’ question, spoken in the same low tone as Malute’s own, sent a chill through the bones of Cedirc’s Court Mage. He felt his eyes widen at the question, though he knew he should not be surprised. If the people of Caras had heard of the attempt, it stood to reason that the magi within the Spire had as well.

“You have heard, then,” Malute said after a moment’s thought, during which Barthalamus barely seemed to even breath as he waited for a response.

“We have heard many tales this day, my friend,” Barthalamus confirmed in his deep voice, “None of them good.”

“What exactly have you heard?” Malute decided he had better determine exactly what was being said.

“Well, that depends on which particular tale you hear,” the Voice of the Conclave rumbled in response, searching’s Malute’s dark eyes with his own as he continued, clearly searching for some sign of the truth, “Some say that an attempt was made on the King’s life last night, but he survived and is recovering. Others say the King was killed. Or that the assassin was killed before they could reach the King. Lastly,” he added, a glint in his eyes, “Others have heard that he was poisoned, and lies near death.

There was no doubt in Malute’s mind as to which of these the sly old mage believed. He sighed, wondering if Barthalamus had known when they had talked earlier and asked the old man as much.

“No,” Barthalamus replied, beard wagging as he shook his head, “Some whispers had reached us by then, but none we gave credence. But then you began asking your questions about magi who have been burnt out using the vita once more. And more than one magi has mentioned feeling two people using large amounts of vitarus within the castle last night. Not one, Malute, but two. Unless you have taken on an unsanctioned apprentice, there was unknown mage in the castle last night.”

“That could just have been the priests of Aegoth performing their healing,” Malute pointed out, though he knew as he spoke the words that that would not deter the other magi’s questions.

Sure enough, Barthalamus gave him a look of slight annoyance, “Do not dissemble, Malute. You know as well as I that the powers used by the priests feels different from our own. None here would make that mistake. Though we have sensed some magics from the priests ever since, it is apparent that you and another mage fought in the castle last night.”

With a sigh, Malute nodded. He looked around again, double checking that there was no one near enough to overhear. Few people were around, and none appeared to be listening to their hushed conversation, but still he hesitated, not wanting to spur the rumours on.

“Could we talk somewhere a little less open, Barthalamus?” he asked instead of answering the Voice’s question, hoping the other man would understand his desire for discretion. Though he wanted nothing more than to be on his way to the Archives, Malute knew that Barthalamus would not be put off. If he had to take the time to explain the situation to the old magus, better it not be in public.

Understanding lit in the old man’s dark eyes as he, too, surveyed the room for potential eavesdroppers, Barthalamus held up a wrinkled hand to stop any explanation from Malute as he acceded to the request, “Yes, of course. Let us adjourn to my study, then. We can talk there.”

Not waiting for a response, for it had been less a suggestion than a command, the venerable magi turned on the spot and began heading for a pink-hued portal, one which Malute knew led directly to the antechamber outside the Voice of the Conclave’s chambers.

With a last regretful look to the archive portal, swirling about itself only a handful of paces away, Malute hurried to catch up to the elder mage, falling into step beside him as the approached the roiling pink mists. Barthalamus halted and gestured for Malute to go through first and, with a slight bow, Malute did as instructed, mentally steeling himself for the mental intrusions he knew would be coming once again.

To his surprise, he felt nothing as he passed through the mists, aside from the cold, damp sensation that occurred whenever one went through a conjured portal, though no moisture ever clung to clothes or skin after traversal. Barthalamus must have allowed him to pass through without being scried—the old magus had already done so through the gargoyles at the entrance, after all, so why repeat the process now?

He stepped through on the other side, and though he had taken but a handful of steps to step through the portal, he knew that he now stood near the top of the highest pinnacle of the Spire, where dwelt the Voice of the Conclave. To his right as he stepped forwards to allow Barthalamus to follow was the top of a staircase—the same one that had started in the entrance hall far below. It took well over an hour to climb those stairs, Malute well knew from much personal experience.

A favoured punishment for disobedient apprentices was to make them climb the stairs, and he had been on the receiving end of such discipline more than once when younger.

“Do not fret, my friend, I will not make you climb them again,” Barthalamus voice rumbled from behind as he stepped through, seeing where Malute’s attention was fixed. He paused, and a glimmer shone in his eyes briefly as he added with a chuckle, “At least not on this occasion.”

Malute forced a dry laugh at the old man’s joke, appreciating the attempt at levity but too distracted by the coming conversation to feel the humour. His mind whirled as he tried to figure out how best to approach the subject with Barthalamus.

The older mage’s own small smile faded when he saw he would get no further response from Malute, and he swept past the purple robed magus, his own dark green robes swishing about him as he waved a hand in front of the iron bound door that stood in front of the pair. At his wave, a series of clicks sounded from within the wall as a dozen locking pins retracted, and the heavy portal swung open on silent hinges. Barthalamus led him into his private chambers, the door swinging shut behind them, closing with barely a sound. The pins clicked into place again, and Barthalamus muttered a few words under his voice, the emerald set at the top of his gnarled oaken staff flaring briefly.

“I have raised the wards,” the old man said a moment later, and Malute knew that meant that none outside the room could now hope to hear them, whether through mundane or magical means.

They could scream and shout and none could hope to here.

Barthalamus gestured to one of two plush chairs that sat on either side of a large hearth, in which a large fire blazed, offering him a seat as he moved to the other. Aside from the tow chairs, the room also held a large desk with many scattered pieces of parchment strewn across it, several large shelves full of books and scrolls, and two smaller wooden doors that Malute led to Barthalamus’ bedchamber and lavatory. Nodding his head gratefully, for he felt his weariness once more catching up to him, Malute moved to the offered seat, leaning his staff against the wall nearby before lowering himself into the cushions.

“An assassin did come to Gryphon’s Roost in the dark of the night, Barthalamus,” Malute started after a moment’s thought as he settled into the chair, speaking in normal tones and shaking his head as he met the other mage’s eyes, “And yes, I suspect they were once a mage. But they could still use the vita, though they had the emptiness of one who had lost the ability. I cannot explain it.”

“That is impossible, Malute,” Barthalamus insisted, in much the same tone he had used earlier, though he sounded less dismissive and more curious as he leaned forward in his chair.

“So I too believed, Barthalamus. Until I felt the assassin wrest control of my own flows from me!” Malute’s voice held a tinge of anger as he finished, and he quieted a moment to calm himself.

“I do not doubt that you believe what you are saying, Malute, however…” Barthalamus trailed off, giving a helpless shrug.

“There is no record of that being possible,” Malute finished the thought for him, and the other mage nodded. He sighed, “I know that, Barthalamus, and yet I also know what I sensed last night. The intruder was burnt out. I probed them as they crossed the compound.”

The old magus was quiet for a long moment, searching Malute’s dark eyes with his own for a long moment before settling back in his chair once more. Malute remained silent, giving his friend a chance to think things over, enjoying the the respite for his legs after the long night and day.

Finally, Barthalamus straightened in his seat and nodded, “If you say it happened, Malute, I believe you. Perhaps this is something we should study more… in spite of the discomfort it will bring.”

Though those who lost the ability to wield the vitarus were not shunned or cast out, they were not sought out by their fellows either. Nor did they seek the company of those who could still use the power they had lost, as that only reminded them of the absence more keenly. Most, like Malute’s former master, simply disappeared. Thus, in spite of Barthalamus’ words, Malute was not overly convinced that any would take up that line of research, excepting maybe the old mage himself.

The Court Mage simply nodded in response to the statement, then added, “The assassin escaped through a portal he made with power he stole from me, Barthalamus. But until I seized the vitarus, he did not show a hint of magical ability,” Malute had thought long on that, and though they were certainly burnt out, he was sure the intruder had been able to see and feel the mist, enabling him to wrest control from the surprised magus.

Brow furrowed, Barthalamus nodded, a frown deepening on his face, “And the King?”

Malute’s face fell at the question, though he had surely anticipated it, “It is as you have heard.”

“Which tale? It cannot be all three?”

In spite of the severity of the situation, Malute gave a slight chuckle at the old man’s reply—he had forgotten that Barthalamus had told him multiple tales he had heard. He shook his head as he rubbed his tired eyes, which seemed to grow heavier now that he was seated.

“The King was stabbed, and the blade was coated with poison,” he explained, meeting his friends eyes, “King Alfred fights for his life within the Temple of Aegoth. The power you sense from the temple is being used to prolong his life while we search for the cure.”

“’The cure?” Barthalamus repeated, catching Malute’s use of the specific article, “So you have identified the poison, then. What is it?”

Malute again hesitated, the older mage’s earlier warnings about anti-Eno’Kalian sentiment coming back to him in that moment. He trusted Barthalamus completely, and yet… he shifted his eyes away from his friend and focused on the flames crackling within the hearth, debating how much to say once more.

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“Malute…” Barthalamus prompted into the silence.

“We have,” Malute confirmed, pausing to sigh again. He took a deep breath and tore his gaze from the dancing flames, fixing it on Barthalamus once more as he spoke, “It is called hazca razith.”

There was no indication that Barthalamus recognized the name, and when the older mage remained silent, Malute added the part he knew would get a reaction.

“It is a poison favoured by Eno’Kalians.”

Barthalamus’ eyes narrowed in thought upon hearing his words, then slowly widened as the potentially disastrous implications of that news occurred to him. His eyes narrowed once again as he refocused on Malute.

“And you are certain that it was not—”

“It was not them,” Malute firmly interjected, having easily guessed what the Voice’s next question would be, “Their desire for peace is genuine, Barthalamus,” he reaffirmed once more.

“So you insist,” came the plainly unconvinced reply.

“So I know!’ Malute shot back, an undercurrent of anger tinging his tone once more.

“You cannot—”

“I can and do know!” Malute cut the older magi off as he surged to his feet, taking a couple steps forwards to tower over the still seated mage and glare down at him, “Look past your prejudices regarding them, Barthalamus, I implore you.”

Barthalamus met his stare and leaned back in his chair, seeming slightly taken aback. Few dared to interrupt him, after all, and few that did ever did so again.

But Malute was beyond caring about that at this point.

He had not slept in almost two days, and the last thing he needed was this man, the Voice of the Conclave, one of his oldest friends, questioning the validity of the Eno’Kalian treaty. Not now, not with Alfred lying near death and the only chance of saving him maybe lying with those very representatives, who should be on their way downriver even now.

Barthalamus studied him for a long moment again. The silence stretched on between them and, unable to read anything in the old man’s dark eyes, Malute had just begun to regret interrupting him when Barthalamus finally spoke, a hint of reproach in his level tone.

“You more than anyone should know that I have less prejudice towards the Eno’Kalians than most, Malute. The very fact that you were not removed from the Spire years ago as so many demanded speaks to that. I warn you,” he said in a frosty voice, standing to meet Malute’s glare with his own, “Do not mistake apprehension for prejudice, nor through around accusation blithely.”

Unable to meet his withering gaze for long, Malute nodded and stepped back, lowering his eyes.

“You know the battles I have fought on your behalf, and believe me when I say that there were more that you remain ignorant of, especially in recent months and years,” Barthalamus continued, stepping forwards as Malute continued back away until his legs hit the chair behind him, forcing him to sit as the old mage towered over him, “I told you that the Conclave has not been overly receptive of the proposed treaty with the Eno’Kalians and I meant it. I have fought hard on your behalf recently in your continued absence. Many called for you to be ejected from the Conclave, if not driven from the kingdom entirely. They see your closeness to the King as a threat.”

Malute could only stare up at Barthalamus in silence, not daring to interrupt again as the old man leaned closer, hands knotted on the top of his staff for support.

“I do not,” Barthalamus said, and his eyes and tone softened as he continued, “I never have. You above all others here know only all to well what it was like in Darren Ungalt I’s Eno’Kalia. We all judged and derided him from afar over his mage-hunters. You survived them. You escaped,” the old man sighed and stood straight once more, moving back to his chair and settling into it with a sigh. He met Malute’s eyes once more and said in a soft voice, “If you say they can be trusted, I believe you, Malute. But I warn you that not all the Conclave will, nor will all those within the Spire.”

“They never have,” Malute said in a jaded tone.

“No, they have not, to my great regret,” Barthalamus agreed apologetically.

They were silent a moment again as each considered their next words. It was Barthalamus who again broke he silence as he asked, “This poison, this…?”

“Hazca razith,” Malute supplied the name.

“Hazca razith,” Barthalamus repeated, letting the words roll off his tongue, “Yes, they sound Eno’Kalian, to be sure…”

“The poison?” Malute prompted as the old man trailed off.

“What? Oh, yes,” the old man met his eyes again, “This poison, you said there may be a cure?”

“There is a cure,” Malute stated, adding with a sigh, “But we cannot get it in time.”

“So why come here?”

“To see if there may be another that could help him survive longer,” Malute answered, then went on, deciding to explain more fully to the confused magi, “Hazca razith comes from the gland of the manticore, a beast that prowls the dark sands of the Black Desert. There is an antivenin that can be taken from the same beast, but we do not have any here, not even in Amshere, though the Shardeth Waste is home to many monsters of its own. No, I hope to find some note of anything that has helped slow the poison’s progress in past victims.”

“Malute…”

He caught something in the other man’s voice, and fell silent, looking at him curiously.

“What is the point if we do not have the cure?”

If Barthalamus had slapped him in the face, Malute would have been no more stunned than he was at the question. What was the point?

“To keep him alive!”

“But without the cure, what is the point?”

Malute pondered the question, wondering how best to answer. Like Herocas, Barthalamus dis not know the full tale of what had happened up north during the Ilvarri War, though the Voice knew more than Herocas had. Barthalamus had been present at the Battle of Faldûr Istan, after all, and had been one of the magi who confirmed that Alfred had not turned fully into one of the monstrous gal’roth following the battle.

He had not been present for the raising of the geas, however; only a handful of humans and ilvarri had gone and taken care of the gal’roth after.

And thus he did not know how disastrous Alfred’s death would truly be for the kingdom should it happen before the proper steps could be taken.

Once more, Malute found himself considering exactly how much he should tell his friend. He disliked lying to Barthalamus, even through omission, but he had already broken his oath to Alfred once this day, when he had told Herocas part of the tale.

Did he tell more now?

“Those in the delegation may have some of the antivenin with them,” he said at length, knowing the silence had drawn on too long already, “The poison is favoured in their land, and the cure kept at hand. We are not sure if they will have brought some with them here, however.”

Barthalamus’ eyes had narrowed once more at the answer, and he saw from the other man’s expression that he clearly sensed that Malute was avoiding saying more. To Malute’s great relief, however, the other man settled back in his chair and simply nodded before speaking.

“So you hope to keep him alive long enough to determine if they have some with them,” Barthalamus reasoned, and Malute nodded.

“The High Priest and his fellows can keep his body alive and stop the poison’s progress, it would seem. Some part of what happened to Alfred in the north is helping with that,” he explained, and saw Barthalamus’ understanding nod as he continued, “But they do not know how long they can keep that up for. Already they are tiring, and we cannot aid them.”

“No, we cannot,” Barthalamus agreed, shaking his head, “So you have come hoping to find something in the archives about this poison.”

“Yes,” Malute nodded, “An herb or poultice… anything that could aid the priests in their efforts.”

“The chances of finding such that they do not already know are slim, Malute.”

Malute could not suppress a wince at the clear warning present in those words. Barthalamus was not discouraging him, not outright, but also did not have much hope that any such search would yield positive results.

In all honesty, Malute was not certain of that either.

But he had to do something.

Alfred lay near death, and Malute had to do something to feel as though he were contributing to saving his life. Kyarra had already flown off to inform Rolan and the others of their father’s state, and Rabberick was busy securing the castle while Herocas fought to save Alfred.

Malute could not stay idle. He feared had been for too long with this conversations as it was, and longed to be on his way tot eh archives.

“I know, Barthalamus,” Malute admitted, “But I need to be doing something.”

The other man searched his face for a moment as Malute fidgeted unconsciously, glancing towards the door that led from the mage’s study, eager to be on his way and begin his search. Finally, the old mage gave a satisfied nod and pushed himself to his feet, signaling that the meeting was at an end.

Malute stood as well, feeling his sore legs complaining as he once more settled his weight upon them. He snatched his black staff from against the wall as he felt his legs wobble a bit beneath him, steadying himself with the extra support.

“Well, you cannot search alone,” he declared, shambling towards his desk.

“You will help?” Malute asked, hopeful at the prospect of assistance.

“No.”

Malute felt his heart drop at the simple response, and felt his shoulders slump.

“But I will send help,” the other mage continued, turning a sly look upon Malute as he grabbed something from the top of his desk.

A bell.

The old mage shook it, but no sound came forth.

No sound that he could hear, Malute knew, for he was familiar with such enchanted instruments. They were not used to make sound for those in the user’s vicinity, but rather to summon from afar.

Sure enough, even as Barthalamus set the bell down on the desk once more and began crossing the room once more, a knock sounded at the door. Two raps, then silence. The old mage waved a hand at the door and the locks clicked open, the wooden portal swinging open to admit two people in the grey robes of apprentices, a man and woman.

“These are two of our most promising young magi,” Barthalamus said, gesturing for them to enter the room. He continued as the apprentices moved to stand before the two magi, bowing respectfully to both, though Malute noted the slight hesitation they gave before bowing to him.

He suppressed a sigh at that, not really surprised.

“Nathaniel and Laurenel, this is Malute,” Barthalamus said, though the introduction was clearly unnecessary. From their slightly nervous, disbelieving expressions, it was obvious that both the man and woman had known who he was the moment they had entered the room.

Malute’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the two, noting the hint of a tattoo poking out from the folds of their robes on the tanned skin of their necks skin, dark eyes, and short noses as he looked back and forth between them, noting many more similarities in their features—too many for them to not be related.

“Yes, they are twins, Malute,” Barthalamus confirmed, “They came to us several years ago, and are close to taking the Trials. I am sure they will pass with ease.”

The twins nodded their thanks at Barthalamus’ words, both looking pleased.

“What can we do for you, Master?” the male, Nathaniel, asked.

“Malute requires your help with some research,” Barthalamus explained, “I need you to go to the Archives and help him find the information he seeks.”

“Of course, Master,” Laurenel replied, and both bowed to Barthalamus, faces neutral once more.

“Wait for me outside the Archive Portal, please,” Malute bid them, shooting Barthalamus a look.

With a shared look, the blond twins moved back outside the room, glancing back over their shoulders before they stepped through the pink mists to return to the entrance hall below.

“What is it?” Barthalamus asked as soon as the two apprentices had disappeared.

“I need discretion, Barthalamus.”

“Ah,” the old man said with a small chuckle, “You are ever distrustful, Malute.”

“I do not word spreading.”

“Do you think that I would send them with you if I thought they could not hold their tongues?”

Malute considered that for a moment, then shook his head, “I suppose not.”

“Exactly,” Barthalamus put a hand on his shoulder, “Trust me, they will not say a word to anyone.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Barthalamus laughed in the face of Malute’s continuing doubt, his chuckles echoing off the walls around them as Malute waited for an answer, feeling less than amused himself.

“Did you not notice their skin, Malute? It was similar in hue to your own.”

Malute began to shrug but froze instead as the meaning behind Barthalamus’ words became clear. His head spun to the portal the two had passed through.

“You don’t mean…?” he said in disbelief, not able to finish the question as he regarded his friend once more.

“I do,” Barthalamus confirmed.

Malute rocked back on his heels.

The twins, like him, were from Eno’Kalia.

He should have known from the mostly hidden tattoos on their necks. All who were found to possess the gift had been thus marked in the days of the old emperor, ensuring that even should they escape captivity they could be easily located. Of course, after receiving the mark, the unfortunate recipient was usually killed, unless a public spectacle was desired.

“How long have they been here?” he asked, still unable to believe he had not known.

“Several years,” Barthalamus repeated his earlier words. His lips curled in a sad smile as he met Malute’s shocked gaze, “You would have known, had you bothered to stop by more often.”

Malute accepted the rebuke, not able to argue the point.

“They have been looking forward to meeting you for some time,” Barthalamus continued, “I regret that you have met under these circumstances, but… I could not have you leave without meeting them, and they you. They have been most eager to meet the first magi to escape Eno’Kalia and become part of the Conclave.”

“I—thank you, Barthalamus,” Malute said, overwhelmed by the miasma of emotions that suddenly whirled inside him in that moment.

More had escaped.

In spite of Corvin’s efforts, which had ceased when the former magus had left the Spire, Malute had hardly dared to hope that other from his country had escaped from Darren Ungalt the First’s mage hunters, but clearly some had.

And the Spire had taken them in!

Barthalamus’ insistence on him visiting the Spire made more sense now.

“You could have told me sooner,” he chided the older mage, who simply laughed.

“You could have come sooner,” Barthalamus retorted, and both shared a short-lived chuckle at that.

“Thank you, Barthalamus,” Malute said again as he, too, began to head for the pink portal to return down below.

“Good luck, Malute,” Barthalamus called from behind, “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

Malute glanced back and nodded, not breaking his stride as he vanished through the mists.

* * *

Barthalamus watched the purple robed mage disappear through the portal, wondering what it was that Malute had held back from him regarding the King’s condition and why he was so bent on saving Alfred DeCarren’s life.

It went far beyond mere friendship, that much was clear.

The Court Mage had clearly been debating whether to say more, and though he had decided not to, the Voice of the Conclave had seen clearly the indecision in his eyes. Barthalamus trusted Malute, however, and trusted that he had his reasons for keeping silent.

The old mage would let him keep his secrets.

For now.

He let out a heavy sigh, then waved his hand towards the door, muttering the command word again and turning away before it had shut. He began moving towards his desk, hearing the clicks from the locking pins as he moved around to the far side. It seemed to the old magus that he was feeling every one of his almost nine decades of life in that moment as he slowly settled himself into the padded chair behind the desk, aged joints protesting with every movement, pain flaring.

Barthalamus withdrew a small key from one of the pockets in his robes and unlocked the central drawer of the large desk, opening it to pull out a leather bound book, one of several where he jotted down conversations of note he had. Though his mind was still sharp and he seldom had any trouble recalling what was said at a later time, he found the practice helped him consider the conversation from multiple angles. Often he would find that he had missed some tidbit or another while engaged with the other person, only noticing it when he wrote it down.

He hoped such would be the case now.

The old magus remembered well the battle outside the ilvar fortress known as Faldûr Istan, deep in the northern expanse of Shetna Forest where the gently rolling hills of that forest gave way to the towering rocky edifices of the Fareltzar Mountains. He had been part of the spell that had seen the end of thousands of the gal’roth, and knew, too, that Alfred DeCarren had not left that battle looking as he now did. That had happened later, after Alfred, Corvin, Malute, and a handful of ilvarri had gone within the fortress.

What had happened within had resulted in Alfred’s deformity.

The reasoning behind why the two of them saw fit to bend the truth the way they did had long eluded Barthalamus, but he had been content to let them continue the charade. What difference did it make if Alfred’s transformation had happened alter on, after all? He had always trusted that if anyone else needed to know, they would pass it on.

Now, following his conversation with Malute, the magus was less sure of that.

Whatever had happened within the fortress made Malute terrified at the very thought of Alfred dying, and Barthalamus knew there was very little that could so unnerve the foreign-born mage.

Malute had escaped multiple bands of mage hunters during his escape from Eno’Kalia, after all, and those employed by the former emperor of that land had been utterly ruthless. So long as their intended target was captured or killed, they cared not for any collateral damage. Barthalamus knew that Malute had witnessed the razing of entire villages during his short life on the island nation, and had gone on to witness the execution of several of those who were protecting him.

Beyond that, he had bore the persecution of dozens of prejudiced apprentices and full magi within the Spire upon his arrival. Oh sure, he had had the backing and protection of Corvin Medeannus and a bare handful of others who saw past his heritage, but so few could not always protect one from their enemies, and Barthalamus knew Malute had endured much hardship during his time training at the Spire.

But he had endured.

More than that, he had thrived.

No, Barthalamus knew that if Malute could not bear to consider the consequences of Alfred DeCarren passing, that almost certainly bode ill for the entire kingdom.

He almost regretted the way he had exaggerated the state of things within the Spire.

Almost.

It was true that there were many detractors to the proposed treaty with the Eno’Kalians, and that many sessions of the Conclave had deteriorated into shouting matches regarding the Spire’s overall position on it, but that was as far as it went. Malute was no more in danger of being ejected from the Conclave than he had been when he had taken on his role as Court Mage and one of Alfred’s principle adviser two decades previous.

If anything, his position had increased his standing with several of the Conclave, who saw having a magi within the court of Alfred DeCarren as a boon to the whole Spire, in spite of the fact that Malute rarely made time to join his fellows. Corvin Medeannus had been the first mage to make friends with the sovereign of Cedirc in a hundred years by befriending Alfred’s father, Artur II, and they did not want to go back to not having a voice within the King’s court.

No, Malute Acilibah had long ago proven himself to his fellows, and Barthalamus felt a twinge of remorse over trying to use Malute’s own memories against him to try to glean some more information out of him.

With another sigh, the wizened old mage dipped a quill into a waiting ink pot and began recording what he recalled of the conversation, hoping he would find some new information he missed before.

And if he did not, he could always ask the twins later on.

One way or another, Barthalamus would learn what Malute knew. The stubborn, prideful Eno’Kalian would want realize he needed help eventually.

And Barthalamus would be ready when he did.

* * *

“It is such an immeasurable honour to get to assist you, Mage Acilibah,” Nathaniel said as he returned with yet another stack of books on various poisons, venoms and their cures, adding them to the already overly crowded table at which the mage and Laurenel sat hunched over, pouring over the tomes for any mention of hazca razith.

It was not the first time one or the other had voiced that sentiment.

Nathaniel and Laurenel had been waiting eagerly for him when he had returned to the entry hall, and had immediately began telling him how glad they were to finally make his acquaintance, how much of an inspiration he was to them, and so on, heaping on many more praises besides. It had been all Malute could do to get them moving into towards the Archive portal.

It was not that Malute did not appreciate their excitement at meeting him—far from it.

He could only imagine what his own reaction would have been had he arrived at the Spire all those years ago, completely alone with no family or friends to turn to should they turn him away, to find another exiled Eno’Kalian residing within. How different things may have been for him had that been the case.

But no, he reminded himself as he once again began to follow that line of thought, he had not been alone at the Spire. He had had his master, Corvin Medeannus, the man who had not only fought to get him a place within the Spire, but had worked long and hard with the future emperor of Eno’Kalia to get him safe passage from the royal palace in Infallis, the Eno’Kalian capitol.

That had been no easy feat, Malute knew, in no small part because the location of Infallis, sequestered within the nigh impassible, treacherous, oft-active volcanic mountains of the Ring of Fire, made it extremely difficult for any to enter or leave that palace without being seen. There was only one pass that allowed access to the mountain plateau that contained the Burning Sea, upon whose shores was built the capitol, and the sturdy granite wall through which Torhen’s Gate allowed access had been heavily guarded at all times, with large cohorts of mage-hunters present constantly to search all carts, wagons, and caravans that come or went through yawning opening in the wall.

Of course, Torhen’s Gate remained heavily guarded, so far as he knew, but the twins had assured him that the cohorts mage-hunters had been disbanded by Darren Ungalt II, and travelers were no longer searched for the branding of a mage.

At least not officially.

Though magic and those that could wield it were no longer outlawed within the confines of the island nation, there remained strong anti-magic sentiments among the populace. Years of mistrust and outright fear of magi—not to mention being constantly vilified by the emperor—did not simply disappear overnight, no matter what edict came from the new ruler. Many bands of former mage hunters had formed following the dissolution of that part of the Eno’Kalian military, and had set up hideouts throughout the island, in the caverns beneath the Black Desert and dark confines of the Shadewood. Rumours even spoke of a large bastion brimming with the bastards on one of the islands that comprised the Basalt Isles to the south of the Eno’Kalian mainland.

Certainly, Darren II had done what he could to hunt down and rout these bands where he could, but his father had had thousands of the killers in his employ, and they were good at what they did.

It would be a long while still before Eno’Kalia was wholly safe for those who practiced the craft.

And that was a large part of why the twins had left the nation.

As they had entered the archives and made their way to a secluded spot amidst the seemingly endless rows of old books and scrolls, finding a table relatively near to where the works on healing knowledge and herb-lore were kept, Malute had gotten a good deal of their tale.

Their powers had manifested in the last days of Darren Ungalt I, and, like Malute’s own father, their parents had immediately worked to hide their abilities from the authorities. Perhaps inevitably, the mage hunters had found them, and they had been branded and taken to the capitol for public execution.

But not just Nathaniel and Laurenel.

Their entire family, including their mother, father, two brothers and one sister, along with their grandparents and any other relation that could be found, had been taken into custody with them. The emperor had decided that an example needed to be made for any others who thought to hide those he thought of as abominations from their deserved fate. There had been a rise in sympathy towards the magic using community, and the emperor could not countenance that.

And so their entire family had been rounded up. Those who resisted in any way had been killed outright, their bodies left where they had fallen. As they had been wheeled away in prison carriages, they had watched as their family home was set afire by the emperor’s men and women, destroying all their worldly possessions, completing the destruction of the whole world the twins had known from birth.

During the executions in front of the gates of Castle Pyros, the seat of power for Emperor Darren Ungalt the First and all his predecessors for centuries, the hunters had made a mistake though. Caught up in the desire to break Nathaniel and Laurenel completely, they were saved for the last and made to watch as their entire family was executed in front of them.

First their grandparents—the two that had survived the journey, that is.

Then their aunts and uncles and more distant relations.

Next, their parent’s throats were slit in front of them.

Lastly, their older brother and younger brother and sister, who were both not even out of adolescence, were brought in front of them on the blood soaked platform as the crowd cheered and jeered in an endless cacophony of blood lust. Their siblings, tears running down their dirty cheeks, had been forced to kneel in the coagulating blood facing the twins.

Then the blades had been drawn across their throats.

The idea had been to make the twins suffer as much as they could before they, too, were executed, but the hunters and executioners had not counted on just how powerful the twins could be.

They had pushed too far.

All practitioners who were captured were fed a special brew of herbs that served to confuse their minds and disrupt their ability to touch the vita upon capture, and were forced to drink more of the draught each day to continue to suppress their abilities. But the emotions that seeing their parent’s lifeless bodies bleed out on the platform in front of them brought to bear within Nathaniel and Laurenel had enabled them to do just that.

And seize it they had.

Even as their siblings’ lifeless bodies feel to the platform among those of their slain kin, the twins had been able to at last grab hold of the vitarus and used it to break their bonds, iron bands snapping into tiny fragments at a thought, the Emperor’s mage hunters had closed upon them.

And so they had taken the only option available to them as dozens of armed soldiers rushed them.

They used the soldiers’ own life-force against them, taking the vita from within some to use it against the others. In spite of their anger, however, they were careful not to target any who did not come at them, save for one.

Darren Ungalt I.

Working in unison, the twins had focused their attention on the emperor, and within seconds the vicious ruler had withered and fallen to the ground, dead, as all the vita within him was stolen by Nathaniel and Laurenel, who then turned it on more of the mage hunters that closed around them.

Then, with a final look at the mound of corpses that had been their family, they had fled the capitol, fighting their way through Torhen’s Gate and into the wastes of the Black Desert. They had lived amidst the black sands of that barren place for years, avoiding all contact with any they saw, horrified by what they had done to survive, overwhelmed by the guilt of having killed so many to save themselves. Even though they had not done it by choice, their grief over their actions had been palpable to Malute as they had recounted the tale as they searched the stacks for the tomes and scrolls they thought would help them.

Only after several years had they learned that the new emperor did not hunt for them, and had in fact abolished the mage hunters altogether and stricken the laws against the use of magic from Eno’Kalia altogether almost as soon as he had succeeded his murdered father. They had dared hope that they could find a place in Eno’Kalian society upon hearing that, in spite of what they had done, but they had soon learned that though magic was not illegal, it was far from being embraced by the general population, and so they had sought passage to Cedirc.

Malute had remained quiet throughout the recounting, hardly believing what he was hearing.

From the treaty negotiations with Darren II’s representatives, the King and his adviser’s, Malute included, had gotten most of the story over the past years, but never had he heard the full tale. It was relatively common knowledge that Darren I had been killed by magi who had escaped captivity, but he had not realized full brutality of the situation.

He could hardly imagine what these two had survived, and at such a young age.

He found himself regretting even more that he had not met them until this moment.

The magus gave Nathaniel a nod as he hurried off to search for more books, wondering at the eagerness that the young man still showed. His regard shifted to Laurenel as she poured over a dusty old tome, finger following the lines as she searched for any mention of hazca razith.

The twins had immediately recognized the name of the poison when they heard it, and their faces had fallen when they realized why Malute was so determined to find something. He had not wanted to tell them the reason for his search, but had known that hey would put two and two together before long.

Besides that, he had wanted to show them that he trusted them after their retelling.

He had seen the fear of his reaction in their eyes as they finished recounting the bloody tale.

To be honest, Malute was slightly surprised that the Conclave had allowed them into the Spire. Using the vita in that way was grounds for dismissal, after all, but he figured that they had taken into consideration the extraordinary circumstances surrounding those dark events. The twins were also clearly not proud of what they had done—the tone of their voices had conveyed that beyond a doubt. Beyond that, they had also made clear that they had come to the Spire hoping to gain better control over their powers to avoid such a situation from ever occurring again. But still, in spite of their obvious remorse over how they had escaped their fate, the Spire usually did not take in those who had perpetrated such acts. Either they had not told any one, or…

Barthalamus.

Malute was sure that the Voice of the Conclave had used his position to help these two gain admittance to the Spire, and was not wholly convinced that he had had the blessing of the Conclave to take them on as his apprentices. Usually the Voice was above such things, after all.

He wondered just how much of the anti-Eno’Kalian sentiment in the tower was because of these two.

But there was nothing to be done about that now, he considered as he watched Laurenel brush back some of her long, sandy-blonde hair back behind her ears, the top of the mage’s mark tattoo just visible at the base of her neck before her hair blocked sight of it. They were here, and that was that.

With a sigh, he returned his attention to the volume that stood on the table in front of him, waiting for his attention.

Healing Herbs and Their Affects and Uses, he read the title, hoping that this book would contain some mention of hazca razith. None of the over a dozen he had perused thus far had, unless her had missed it.

The three had been within the archives for several hours now—exactly how long Malute could not be certain of, but they had had to get new candles when the original ones had begun burning out, so he assumed it was nearing the middle of the night.

Which meant it had been nearly a full day since the attempt on Alfred’s life.

Had it really only been a day?

It seemed to the exhausted mage that it had to have been longer already. He rubbed his tired eyes to push the bleariness away as the words on the page seemed to blur in front of him.

But he would not let himself rest.

Not until they found what they were looking for, because they would find something, he resolved as he began scouring the tome in front of him once more.

They had to.

There was no other acceptable outcome.