Antone hugged the stone wall facing a grated sewer entrance hidden at the edge of Lem’s central fortress. He channeled mana into one of his spell models and his skin took on the same characteristics as the wall, grey and coarse. Even his eyes became ashen and solid-colored as kept himself camouflaged from the sentry. The guard would change sometime in the next half hour, and the next gguard was a bit of a drunk. He’d have a few minutes to sneak through the grate, but getting back out would require the same patience.

The sentry wore chainmail and the Lemish tabard, white cloth with a symbol of the Goddess of Light in the center. Antone kept his breathing slow and steady while the guard palmed the hilt of his sword and kicked an errant stone under his feet.

A few minutes more and the scowling guard stormed off to find his late compatriot, a common occurrence for these two. Antone had met then before, in a dim bar with cheap ale and cheaper whores. They didn’t know he was an archmage; he’d posed as a fisherman coming to the city for a bit of trade.

Antone could spit curses and sling beer with the best of the city guard, so he had no trouble blending in at their local haunts. As the guard disappeared from view, he crept towards the metal grate and held out his hand. Another spell model, from his other arm, allowed him to mold metal like clay. He gently plucked the padlock off the handle, opening the gate slowly enough to avoid creaking.

Once inside, he molded the lock back into place and turned into the darkness. Two turns to the right then he’d find a ladder, his first stop on the way back to the undercity. Lem had a sewer system of sorts that seemed to be built on an older version. Only the noble mansions and government buildings had built-in plumbing; everyone else disposed of waste at local holes that fed into the channels below.

He pulled out an oil-soaked torch and struck the travel flint he kept in his bag. The resulting light was bright for a moment, then dimmed as the flame reached a rag curled on top. He wrapped a cloth over his face to help with the smell and descended the ladder. He could hear the water and waste slopping against the carved channels. Fortunately, the builders were prescient enough to add a walkway on the side.

But it wasn’t designed for comfort, and he had to crouch. Occasionally he’d curse as his sword, strapped to his back, scraping the ceiling with its pommel. There were only the sounds of slow-moving water, the stones displaced by rats scurrying away, and the crackling of his torch. He was nearly an hour’s walk from the next guarded entrance, so he had no fear hurrying through the tunnels.

It was always difficult navigating underground, but he’d been in Lem so long he had a general sense of direction. He was moving away from the central fortress, towards the academy. The passage he sought was undisturbed, a few bricks in the wall crumbled from time or water damage.

Antone had to squeeze sideways through the gap , finding himself in a dirt tunnel on the same level as the sewer. He walked a few more paces while the walls gripped him, until the passage became wider and began descending. There was enough space for two people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder when he came to another crumbled wall. This one opened into the catacombs.

It was so deep nothing lived down here. No sounds of rats or signs of cobwebs freshly spun. The stone greyed like dying flesh and the air was stale as a last breath. Some areas were collapsed, and Antone had to navigate over rubble or use a digging spell to move the earth. Other areas had crudely hewn alcoves with skulls and bones crunched together in disarray.

It was impossible to tell how many bodies were placed down here in the past, or why. For every ashen wall, a mound of chipped bones or human debris rose to the ceiling. In larger areas he had to climb over the piles, feeling skulls crunch under his heavy boots. In smaller areas he just skipped the craggy entrances and burrowed through the dirt walls.

Another hour of moving and he checked a worn journal he kept in his pocket. It belonged to Hendricks. He was nearing the area where the room should be. Antone wasn’t sure why he’d come himself; it was just a feeling. None of the four friends had returned to this room since the first exploration. They’d never had a reason until Zeek showed up with a power that could possibly unlock the door.

He found the area where the room was located, hidden in a side passage between two rooms filled with alcoves and thick layers of dust. He had to crawl on his hands and knees through another cracked wall underneath one of the shelves in the room, entering another area just large enough for two or three people to fit. He could only crouch or his head would hit the ceiling.

He checked his journal again to be sure.

The room was supposed to be here; he recognized some of the turns as he traversed the catacombs. He was certain this was the same room they’d entered before, but it was collapsed. He used another spell model to push aside the fallen dirt and compacted rubble.

Another half hour of work and he had the space cleared, or at least he thought so. The shape was right but he couldn’t find much else, except for the door. It was unmarked by the collapse. Arched and taller than him, with the appearance of smooth stone, with leaves and brambles carved along the rim and a circular depression in the center.

In the carving was a blackened symbol—a row of sharp fangs pinched into an inhuman sneer below two hollow eyes with no irises. He placed his hand on the symbol and tried to push his mana inside, the same thing he’d done years ago. Nothing happened and he frowned, taking another look around the room.

There was no sign the collapse had happened accidentally. Lem wasn’t prone to earthquakes or flooding, sitting on a plain at the foot of a mountain range. It was possible the room collapsed because he and the others had disturbed it. But…it was just too much of a coincidence.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Antone didn’t believe in coincidences.

If Hendricks told the kingdom of this room and its contents, there was no knowing who was watching now. It was even possible his presence here would alert the clergy that someone else was looking into the undercity. If that happened, and it was this room, he and the others would be the only suspects. He raised his hand, used a spell to collapse the ceiling again, and crawled back into the catacombs. They’d have to find another way inside.

###

Irith removed a raven-colored silk cloth from her desk, rubbing it across her fingers to remove the ink. She read over the document one more time before setting it in a stack neatly piled in front of her. The last report she had to write was an explanation of the mana disturbance yesterday near the slums. Nothing went unseen in the city, and residents reported the sound of smashing wood and breaking stone after she “tested” Zeek. Fortunately, it was easy to explain away when the two informed the academy they’d unlocked their mana.

Archmages helping each other’s children and friends become mages was a time-honored tradition, a small allowance that accompanied their many obligations. The witnesses who’d seen Zeek and Penelope visit the earl helped, but young Sirius’s companionship at the academy sold the lie. Not that she was surprised; she’d already considered all this before they set up the ambush. Antone hadn’t even mentioned the possible issue, and Turginet believed they could skirt away in the night like thieves if he’d guessed incorrectly.

But he hadn’t.

That was perhaps the most disturbing truth of all. A mage from legend come to life. Irith rose from the massive desk carved from imported marbled wood and sat in a plush chair by the window. Her office in the fortress gave her a clear few of the Order of War Magic’s training field. A dozen or so mages rested cross-legged on the grass, meditating and trying to force their mana into new spell models. A servant entered moments later with her afternoon tea; she didn’t look as it was placed next to her.

When the stone-framed doors thumped shut, she sipped her tea and began her planning session. Interfering too much in the academy would raise flags, so she’d have to do things discreetly. Antone wouldn’t entertain her idea of faking Zeek’s death. Something about loyalty and understanding what they were up against. She stopped listening when he droned on in bogspeak or whatever dialect he stubbornly retained. It was risky, that was a fact. The wrong bishop in class, the wrong spell used, or one inexplicable event and he’d disappear from their grasp.

It was her job to insure that wouldn’t happen. This had always been the arrangement; Turginet handled research, Antone was the muscle, she was the mastermind, and Hendricks…well, he was the heart. What do you call a group of friends ravaged by despair and glued together by a fierce thirst for revenge? A smile crept across her lips; Hendricks liked the word “revolutionaries.”

If that was the end they sought, the planning would be extensive. Keep Zeek safe, learn his secrets, explore the undercity, and avoid notice by the enemy. She believed a terrible truth lay hidden at the core of all this. A truth antagonistic to the clergy and the kingdom.

Now, she wasn’t afraid of death; risk came with being a war mage and field agent. They’d all prepared to escape Numera if necessary, but that was a last resort. This was her home, and the citizens the same she’d served for years. Travel showed her how wonderful Numera could be, but there was a fox in the henhouse.

She waved her hand while filling a golden bangle on her forearm with mana, and a spell model carved in silver leaked shadowy mist as a shadespawn formed next to her. She stood and pointed at the desk. “If anyone touches this while I’m gone, hide in their shadow and send me a signal.” The shadespawn bowed and stepped backwards into the ground under the desk.

Irith then fed mana into a spell model tattooed on the small of her back as tendrils of onyx-hued smoke crept across her body like thin snakes, draping her in a cloak made of wriggling shadow. A frayed edge brushed the ground, turning into trailing blackness as a deep hood covered her face. She stepped towards the curtains and fell into their shadows.

###

“You will not be going on late night escapades with the captain and her.” Priscilla, the Lady Yenson, spoke the last word with venom. Turgi put his glasses on top of his head and looked up from a pile of dust-covered documents. “Oh my love, you know there’s nothing between Irith and me. You don’t need to be like that,” he cooed, motioning for her to sit next to him by the fireplace.

“I never suggested that, Turginet. Is your conscience speaking?” She squinted at him suspiciously.

Turgi chuckled. “My heart alone keeps me from thinking of any other woman than you, my sweet. Don’t be so prickly, these are important matters the group and I have.” Priscilla took her seat, moving with practiced ease in her ornately styled dress. She glanced at the door before speaking.

“What of young Zeek? Was your adventure successful?” she asked, ignoring his sweet-talking.

Turgi leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, whispering in her ear, “He’s the real thing. It’s all true.” Priscilla nodded, taking a book from the pile sitting on the end table near her.

“Fairytales come to life. It’s almost romantic if not for the very real threat of death,” she replied.

“Indeed, but isn’t a little excitement a good thing?” Turgi spoke while returning to his documents.

“Little relative to what? A war? Should we prepare?” Priscilla asked, pretending to thumb through the pages.

“It’s not too late, my dear. Irith and Antone could pursue this themselves. Should I withdraw?” he wondered aloud without looking towards her.

Priscilla chuckled. “Would you really quit if I told you to?”

She could see a smirk pinched on the side of his face as he spoke. “I’d tell you I quit, of course. No need to wilt such a beautiful flower with worry.”

She smiled back. “I’d never love a man who gave up his beliefs.”

“So you’ve told me,“ he laughed.

“What would you prefer this time? Scandal, business, or visiting friends?” she asked.

“Antone tells me the southern ocean is wonderful this time of year. The perfect place for a lady to vacation and visit family. I’d recommend you plan to travel in a month or so,” he answered.

“What of Sirius? The she-scorpion is taking care of it, I presume?”

Turgi licked a finger and flipped the paper in front of him, squinting at the words. He spoke gently while reading. “His mother will need an escort, the roads are dangerous around Wyrmwood. Coincidentally, the school will agree and encourage him to take a retreat to finish learning another spell model.”

“And if you aren’t here when I return?” she whispered. He looked up from his pages and met her gaze. “Invite everyone we dislike to my funeral and poison them,” he said.

She grinned back, her pretty eyes holding a vicious glint. Turgi blushed.