“Never say to someone’s face, that which will hurt more when said behind their back.”

-Headmasters of Pentakl

After sleeping the sleep of the unjust for what felt like days, Lyeasrakardsul woke in the middle of the night. Before cleaning up the upchucked aftermath of the p-wyrd, he had put out his: 'Do not disturb! I am sleeping! And even if I am not, I do not wish to see you!'-sign. Rest was exactly what his scrawny body had needed. Not even his shrivelled conscience had disturbed his sleep. He felt refreshed, he couldn't have slept any more even with one of Noertdel's extra strong potions.

You were wrong you know, his inner critic thought.

"A sorcerer is never wrong!"

Don't try that with me, we both know you were wrong about a lot of things, the faultfinder persisted.

"Okay, maybe I jumped to some conclusions about the nightmares," Lyeasrakardsul mumbled looking for his spare hat.

And what were those incorrect conclusions exactly?

"You want me to say it?"

Yes, I want that, his pedant thought.

"Fine! But I want it on the record that only a lunatic would have concluded that it was the first prophecy sent to a sorcerer!"

Besides just because we were wrong, it doesn't mean we can't also be right. His inner sorcerer added. This must still be connected to the state of magick, why else send it to a sorcerer?

"So, She wants to save magick, that doesn't sound right?"

You've been wrong before...

"Well, not making sense is typical of the bloody divine, in that way it does make some sense." His mental gymnastics were working overtime. "And at least the nightmares are over!" A happy little skip step sent one of his pink slippers flying.

During the many sleepless months, his rocking-chair hadn't been his only coping mechanism. He also enjoyed night-browsing in the self-sorting libraries. It was the only area in Pentakl where he felt he could exist without the pressure to achieve. His school's recreational area contained countless rows of purple-stone bookcases. Crowned with little thatched roofs. An unusually nice touch for Pentakl.

Coming down the footpath from the Dalmicir tower, carrying some forbidden tomes he had borrowed, he saw that the glowing bookworms that lit up the maze hadn't come on. Loitar claimed they couldn't get them to work during the bright summer nights. Not that it was a big deal, but the purple glow was like the city's night-light. And quite a sight.

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"At least I remembered to bring back some books!"

Not being sleep deprived has its advantages, his well-rested third thoughts added.

There was no drop-off spot for the books. He could leave the them anywhere in the maze, and they would disappear off to wherever they were going. As the sorcerer he was, he never wondered about how it happened. He just expected things work out for him, as they always had before.

"I can never find what I'm looking for in here," he said inhaling the smell of old books and gear-grease. "But I can always find a good waste of time."

Wasting time and the fact that others rarely came here, made the library one of his favourite spots. The shelves were always re-sorting themselves in some unknown pattern. Not once had he ever seen the self-sorting. However, he often heard a whoosh-whoosh noise he attributed to the act. Most claimed they had no interest due to the lack of magick books. He suspected it was more to do with fear of the unknown, and the fact that it was easy to get lost in the libraries. Sorcerers had disappeared entirely. He tried asking Drik about the self-sorting once, since the Pedran school built the library. The only answer he got was magick.

That dumb rock can't even do any proper magick, his insecurity thought.

"Whoever decided to call Troll hearts ingenious rocks should have their heads removed!"

The recreational areas were one of the first things he had ruled out, after he was told about the disappearing sorcerers. Each one had its little risks like vanishing or getting killed. Still, as long as every incident was neatly logged, it wasn't considered a problem.

Now that you're back to your decrepit old self, you should give finding those sorcerers another try, his hobbled sense of duty prodded.

Ignoring his duty, he wandered around searching for the restricted-section. All attempts to map the maze had failed, even markings made on the shelves vanished the next time it moved. The only reliable way to find the restricted-section was to keep browsing until you were thoroughly lost. Not an issue for him since he wasn't afraid of getting lost. Besides, the library contained books on every non-magickal subject he would never understand. Making it easy to forget about time and place.

Flipping through the pages of a particularly boring book about some strange language called algebra, he started talking to himself. "I suppose the council can't doubt me if I say I had a p-wyrd? I mean, not even a headmaster would lie about that? Would they?"

Reading around promiscuously, he went 'hmm' and 'aha' as he flirted with a number of subjects. Forgetting that he was looking for the restricted-section, he realised he was already there. Even so, he kept up his rambling. Heading for the exit by showing no intention to leave.

On an impulse, he decided to go to the morning meeting early. Real early! It would deprive Moronatbeluthe the pleasure of reminding him. Also, by being the first one in the chamber he could take the moral high ground.

If you're going to tell them about the p-wyrd, you'll need all the high ground you can get, his inner sorcerer thought.

Crossing the walkway to the council building from his office, he was stopped by an unfamiliar sensation.

"Am I in a good mood? I don't like it, there is no way it will last."

Still, he couldn't help it. Sulenthvorenth would be outraged that he hadn't been the recipient of the p-wyrd. Xefef lived for that kind of undeserved recognition. Pushing the iron door to the chamber, he was almost enthusiastic. But as soon as it opened, he saw he was correct about the fleeting state of his mood.