“There are some who argue that a true mage can have no friends, only competitors. But this is both reductive and psychologically damaging, particularly in an organization that relies upon the teamwork of various mages to maintain its optimal fighting form. The Ardent require every individual to excel, rising to their highest possible level of competence, and in many cases the best way for them to do so, is competition. There can be no denying that. What does not follow is that these competitions need to be malignant in nature. Mages excel when they are pushed to excel, but friendly rivalry is far more effective in producing excellence than actual conflict. Every mage of the Ardent wishes to be the most powerful, they strive for it, because that power is what stands between the Eidolons and civilization. But in one another, these greatest of mages can find some degree of comfort and companionship. They have warped their bodies and minds with magic to become instruments of war, and who better to empathize with that plight, to even encourage it, than others who are possessed of the same relentless drive to advance and succeed.
—Systems of Abuse, Thele Bovradia
“Oh come on.” Sylvas groaned.
Malachai’s pale eyes widened as he stepped in closer, excitement bubbling inside the other man. “You crushed Hammerheart, the most powerful mage on your campus.”
Sylvas looked around at the other white-clad students, all staring at him intently. It seemed that like Hammerheart, this Malachai had a following among his fellow naval track students. “Yes, you mentioned that before.”
“Yet you come from no bloodline of wizards, nor from any world noted for producing ascendants. How could this be? That a mage raised with all the resources and competencies might be defeated by someone like you?”
Sylvas swallowed the insult, took a deep breath, and answered. “I’m on leave. I’m not here to have a fight with anyone. If you were part of the Hammerheart fan-club, I’ve got to tell you, the guy deserved everything he got. You were rooting for a psychopath who didn’t care if he killed people to get ahead.”
The various Whitehall students looked at one another in what Sylvas was slowly realizing was confusion. Malachai took a little step back, “I believe that we are misunderstanding each other.”
Sylvas was past the point of politeness. “Then try speaking clearly instead of making veiled threats.”
“Let us start over.” He held out a hand. “Might I buy you a drink?”
Sylvas stared at the hand without reaching for it. There were a great many lethal spells that you could unleash with a touch. He’d seen some of them first hand, and he had to assume that a death affinity mage would have even more murderous capabilities than the average caster. Yet they were standing in a busy thoroughfare with dozens of witnesses, even beyond the crowd of Whitehall students. Tentatively, he reached out and took the hand. “You want to buy me a drink?”
Malachai nodded and shook the hand at the same time. “Indeed.”
Sylvas retrieved his hand, feeling like he’d just dodged a bullet. “And… talk?”
“We could sit in silence if that is your preference, but yes.” Malachai’s face showed, for the first time, a glimmer of amusement. “I would like to buy you a drink, and talk.”
Sylvas eyes darted around the crowd. There were a half dozen other Ardent trainees in Malachai’s wake, all of them staring at him intently even now. “And your friends here…”
“They would also like to buy you a drink.” Malachai seemed to be amused. Good for him. Sylvas was still trying to talk down his fight or flight response. “And talk.”
“That’s a lot of drinks.” Sylvas cast a casual glance around to see if any of the Blackhall students he knew might come rushing to his rescue, but judging by the frankly atrocious singing echoing through the whole station, he was willing to bet that they were already in TiChi’s doing their best to race poor Harvan to bankruptcy.
Malachai didn’t reach for him, but Sylvas had the sense that the man wanted to take him by the arm and drag him. He’d wager that there were very few people in the Death Mage’s life who would say no to them. “We have much to talk about.”
“Alright, let’s talk.”
“And drink.” Piped up one of the other Whitehall students, a rather excitable looking dwarf with his hair shaved into a mohawk.
Malachai cast a glance his way that silenced him, but then nodded. “And drink.”
That set off a little cheer from amongst the other recruits and they began making their way towards a bar, bypassing TiChi’s since it was already packed to capacity. Sylvas managed to stick his head in long enough to wave to Kaya and Gharia before he was carried off. This morning’s comedy routine forgotten in the moment of trying to make sure he had witnesses in case he was murdered. They waved back but made little move from where they were huddled against the bar surrounded on all sides by some of the most imposing looking najash Sylvas had ever seen. Gharia looked to be arguing with them, while Kaya was… Sylvas wasn’t even sure what she was hoping to achieve, but she was holding one of the men in place by his forked tongue.
The bar that they did eventually situate themselves in looked like it had originally been another hangar for ships coming to the station, the whole wall where bay doors had once been had been replaced with some thick transparent material that let the planet of Strife occupy their view. Glowing a radiant red. Much of the décor of this bar seemed to have been chosen for the same purpose; to match that ambient red glow. It was a smaller place that TiChi’s by far, and far less busy by comparison, but the wood paneling and simplicity of it reminded Sylvas of his very first night out drinking with the Ardent fiend who had gotten him into this mess.
At one of the more secluded tables, he caught a glimpse of Bael and his cousin sipping glasses of wine and engaged in the kind of polite conversation that would probably still make his head spin after all these years, he gave them a nod, and received a raised glass from Bael. That was one sure witness, just in case things did go sideways.
Sylvas and Malachai were squeezed in together at the rear of a booth, while some of the other naval recruits headed up to the bar to fetch everyone drinks. Malachai had his lapdogs well trained. “Now, you say that Hammerheart was willing to kill, he made attempts on your life?”
What followed was a rather stilted account of Sylvas first term on Strife. He was careful to avoid giving too much away about his own capabilities or those of the others in his group, but it seemed that Malachai and his cronies had been watching replays of the scried exercises and picking apart how every individual part had been done. “And this, at the end, when Hammerheart struck you with all his strength and you suffered no harm.”
“One of my embodiments.” Sylvas conceded. They would have worked that out anyway.
Malachai had made his way through two whiskeys in the time it had taken Sylvas to get up to that point. He had paid for neither of them. Sylvas privately hoped that the man remembered to pay his friends back, but he doubted that he would. He’d probably consider it a tax for being in the presence of greatness. “It was masterfully done, concealing the embodiment until the end.”
“It wasn’t a tactical choice.” There was no point in hiding that either. Not now that he was so far past it. “I was still filtering my mana to achieve the third circle up until then.”
That gave Malachai pause. “So… you were only second circle throughout this battle?”
“Yep.” Sylvas took a long draw on his own drink. He remembered it tasting better the first time he’d had whiskey, but maybe it was just a variance in the particular whiskeys. He didn’t claim to have any expertise in the matter. Beyond knowing that if he ever drank vlashgahr again, it would be against his will.
Despite the drinks, no part of Malachai seemed to have relaxed. If anything he seemed even more intense than before. Though at least now Sylvas could appreciate that it was just the way that the man was, as opposed to being a result of his presence. “Hammerheart was in his fourth circle. At the height of his power.”
“I never scried him, but I’d guess so.” Sylvas conceded.
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There was a lull in the conversation. Some of the other students had been murmuring to themselves as he’d told his story as their theories about what they’d seen were confirmed or denied, but now they were all looking expectantly at Malachai.
He met Sylvas gaze. “You may be a match for me.”
It was difficult to know how to answer that, but it seemed like this guy really thought a lot of himself, so it was probably meant to be a compliment. “Thanks?”
“I hope that you do not think it arrogance for me to say it is a surprise despite your rank within the Blackhall, my affinity gives me certain advantages, particularly on Strife where extinction has taken place. There are few who could match my power. Even among the fifth circle. But the more I learn of you, the more I suspect you might be one of them.” The level of scrutiny that he was putting on Sylvas felt uncomfortable, as if the man could scry him just by staring hard enough. He felt as though every part of himself was being weighed and measured, and he couldn’t say that he liked it.
“There’s more to winning a fight than just being more powerful.” Sylvas smiled at his own memories of his early days on Strife, sneaking around the melees, sniping easy targets. “A circle one mage can beat someone in the fifth circle if they have surprise on their side.”
“Perhaps.” Malachai set his glass down on the tabletop a little harder than intended. “But you cannot deny probability.”
“Statistics don’t matter.” Sylvas wasn’t planning on getting drawn into some sort of theological debate with Malachai, no matter how badly the other man seemed to be constantly striving for an argument. “Not on the level of the individual. All that matters is what happens on the day.”
It was enough to finally get a real emotional response out of the other man. He scoffed. “You would deny reality?”
“I’m a mage, isn’t that all we do?” Sylvas shrugged his shoulders, pretending that he couldn’t feel all the power gathering around Malachai as the man became incensed. If it came to a fight, right here and now, packed like sardines into this little booth, he had no doubt that the other mage would destroy him. Sylvas couldn’t even use most of his magic on this station without the danger of tearing it apart and killing them all.
But it seemed that today was not his day to die, Malachai got himself under control and forced a smile. “A unique perspective.”
Sylvas let out the breath he hadn’t meant to hold. “If you see enough things happen that are meant to be impossible, you adjust your view on probability.”
The other man’s eyelid seemed to twinge a little, but only for an instant before he plastered a fake smile on his face. “And now you must tell us of your romantic exploits, in the recordings you are close with many of the other students. The najash scent marks you constantly, the dwarf girl seems to have claimed you as betrothed…”
Sylvas laughed out loud at the sudden change of tact, and the rest of the table soon descended into lewd conversations about the relationships between the various students at the Whitehall, taking some of the pressure off Sylvas to be their sole entertainment for the evening. But Malachai seemed to be unwilling to relax, even for a moment, he leaned in closer to Sylvas. “Which of them is it that you have chosen? Neither najash nor dwarves suffer infidelity. Which has been rejected? Which is now your enemy?”
Flustered by the sudden intensity of the questioning, Sylvas choked on his whiskey. Eventually managing to blurt out. “Neither of them! I’m not… I’m not courting anyone.”
Malachai set his glass down again. “Noted.”
Conversation carried on around them for a while, before curiosity got the better of Sylvas. “You’re in your fourth circle now?”
Malachai sipped his whiskey, showing no real sign of enjoying it. As if he were just going through the motions. “Indeed.”
“And you’re in your second year of training?”
“First.” He corrected. “As with you.”
“You won your cull?” He already knew the answer, but it seemed the best way to keep the conversation rolling on.
Another little scoff from the death mage. “Of course.”
“I’ll have to see if I can get a copy of the scrying when I get back.” Sylvas attempted a smile.
“It will tell you little, I’m afraid. My allies shielded me, I killed our foes.” He sounded almost bored. “There are no secrets to be gleaned.”
Sylvas blinked. “You killed them?”
“The warding amulets, the Crests, prevented any actual deaths, of course, but yes. That is the nature of my magic.” Malachai swirled the whiskey in his glass as though he were lost in thought.
Without thinking about it, Sylvas let the next words slip free. “Do you ever wish it wasn’t?”
For the first time, Malachai seemed to be actually surprised by something he’d said, instead of it just ticking off another box on some mental list he was making about Sylvas. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your magic, if you could have had another affinity, would you have chosen something else?”
It only took a moment for the disgust on Malachai’s face to be wiped away with the same blank mask that he showed every other time they’d encountered each other. “My affinity is what makes me powerful, it is what makes me myself. I will be the greatest among the Ardent, the finest weapon ever forged to slay the Eidolons. Why would I want to change that?”
Sylvas didn’t know how to answer that kind of blind conviction. “I just feel like if it was me, I’d feel limited. If death was the only thing I could create I wouldn’t be satisfied.”
“Make no mistake, Sylvas Vail. Death is all that you create. You are a killer by design. Even if your spells do not deal instant death to an Eidolon with the clarity and perfection of my own, every action that you take is towards the same goal.” His voice had dropped in volume, but each word reverberated low in Sylvas ears. “Each ship that you move is a piece in the game. Each of the Ardent you transport onto a battlefield is there to slaughter. If your spells do not kill, then they lead others to kill in your stead. If they do not destroy, they allow others to destroy with more ease. We are soldiers in an eternal war, guardians of our entire reality, and the only means by which we win that war is the complete annihilation of the Eidolons. There can be no compromise with creatures that have no thought. There can be no peace with monsters that feast on the souls of worlds. We bring death, and it is the greatest mercy we could grant. Death is a kindness when compared to what they would do to us, to all living things in this universe.”
Despite the mask of neutrality that Malachai had plastered over his features, Sylvas could hear the passion leaking through in his words, and he felt for a moment, the awful vulnerability at the heart of this death mage. The crushing weight of his own beliefs. “We are more than weapons.”
“And impossible things happen every day?” Malachai couldn’t contain a sneer. “You truly do deny reality.”
“And you can deny your humanity all that you want, but I’ve spent a life being molded into what other people want me to be, and I’m done with it.” Sylvas was surprised to find his own temper rising. He’d thought he had better control over himself. “I’m nobody’s playing piece, I’m nobody’s weapon. I want to fight the Eidolons, but not if the price is turning into one.”
Malachai was smiling, and it made Sylvas want to hit him. “There is the fire that I knew must have been inside you. The fire that was so absent from your accounts of your battle for ascendance. How amusing that rebellion is what fuels you.”
Sylvas started pushing his way out of the booth, the other naval recruits shifting as fast as they could to get out of his way, as if he was another Malachai, and they were his underlings. It made him feel queasy. “I think I’ve had enough drinking and talking for one night.”
“No, please. Don’t leave.” Malachai called after him. “You’re just getting interesting.”
“Good night, ladies and gentlemen.” Sylvas said to the rest of the Whitehall recruits before heading out. There wasn’t enough whiskey in him to be making him feel as sick to the stomach as he was, and the chance of finding some fresh air to make himself feel better on a sealed can in space was pretty slim, so he sought out the next best thing. The corridors passed in a blur, and he had to shove his way through the crowd to get to the bar in TiChi’s. Kaya and her respective reptilian suitors were still present, with Gharia and her hulking recruit having gone off somewhere a little more private. It was nice to see that her heart wasn’t broken.
“Ho! Devil-drinker!” Kaya called to him as he approached.
“How can I possibly still have that reputation after last night?” Sylvas groaned. Not really feeling all that upset. A hand hit him on the ass, and he turned to see it was Ironeyes trying to slap him on the back. “Even after the glurgach cocktails. You were the last one standing!”
“Glurgach?” Sylvas repeated back, hopelessly.
“What did you call me, stanzbuhr?” Ironeye’s eyes widened in surprise.
“I didn’t… you just said…”
The dwarf threw back his head and laughed, almost toppling right over before Sylvas caught him by the front of his jacket. “You’re alright for a long-legs.”
“And you’re alright for a short-arse.” Kaya answered back as Sylvas was still too focused on keeping the short but incredible dense dwarf from toppling over.
“Look who’s talking!” Ironeye’s bellowed at Kaya. “Shlackguzzar!”
Their back and forth from that point on degenerated into bellowed words of dwarvish that Sylvas was frankly relieved not to know.
“The two of you should really just sleep together and get it out of your system.” Luna commented as she passed them by to place another order.
Both dwarves immediately looked disgusted and turned the full weight of their yelling on her instead. Luckily, she couldn’t understand a word of any of it either so she weathered the storm without any real injury to the ego.
When she broke away from the bar with a drink in hand, Sylvas found himself face to face with TiChi again. “What can I get you, darling?” She chuckled to herself. “More pickled eggs?”
“Do you have anything other than pickled eggs to eat?”
She still looked bemused. “This look like a restaurant?”
“Whiskey then, please.” He didn’t make the mistake of leaving a tab open and going the route of Harvan, but he did break away from the dwarves who were still lost in their argument and follow after Luna, who he hoped would be in the company of some of the more rational recruits of the Blackhall. He was to be disappointed, she was nestled amidst all of the Greyhall students, greatly enjoying all of their undivided attention, much like Sylvas had received the attentions of the Blackhall, although with more amorous undertones rather than murderous ones, he kept on walking, even as many of those strangers raised a glass to him.
Here and there among the thriving crowd he could see his fellows, Anak still nursing a hangover from the day before, Bortan and Vel competitively trying to outdrink one another. Abbas was attempting some work of alchemical magic to turn the glass of water on the table into wine, with no success so far.
It was all so pointless. The drinks with the Blackhall students had served some purpose at least, but all of this socializing between the different students, Sylvas couldn’t see the point. Yes, they were all meant to be friendly so that when they served together they could get along, but this all just seemed so wasteful. The precious moments of their lives ticking away.
This was only the second day of their shore leave. If he had to go another five wasting his time, he might go mad.