The hours passed as Lyeasrakardsul droned on about every detail. While making the moron answer what boiled down to trick questions, and lumber about replacing candles as they burnt out. If not for the leaky windows, the lingering smoke could've been an issue.

It was about two hours now since first he noticed the boy getting antsy. Even so, the old sorcerer amused himself with delaying the moron's attempts to fulfil his duty. All the while surprised that he was enjoying having someone forced to listen. But whether it was the listening, or the force, was unclear.

Shouldn't I tell him we already know what the meeting is about, he thought.

No, where's the fun in that, his provocation added.

When is the boy going to start showing some backbone? Lyeasrakardsul's feeble pity wondered.

Like his PA, he had a list of things others should handle. The top two items on his list was the Darkness and the disappearances of seventeen sorcerers. Three years ago, when the first one vanished, the task of finding out what happened to him fell on Dalmicir. But they had never even established if any of them were dead or alive.

There must have been another disappearance, that's what the meeting is about!

Of course, Sulenthvorenth loves being dramatic when there's a rare problem that isn't about his precious Xefef, his school pride thought.

The Dwarven headmaster had never understood the benefit, or humour, in reviewing past mistakes. Preferring to cover them up with shouting until his black beard vibrated with rage. His school's strongest magick was Voice, which they used to voice-beat enquiring opposition into submission.

Very useful for covering up errors, and in their rush for power, they're always making room for new and improved mistakes, he thought as he quizzed the poor boy in front of him.

Moronatbeluthe's thick forearm had now been in the air for at least fifteen minutes. But with his black eyes hidden under the mass of his brows, Lyeasrakardsul pretended not to notice.

When it came to the disappearances, dealing with the other headmasters required a light touch. If it wasn't for his exceptional talent for lying, he could've been in real in trouble. In his early years on the council, the lies upon lies had been a burden even for his memory. That was, until he came up with two simple tricks. One, tell them nothing unless you had no choice. Two, if you had to tell them something, tell the truth, and make them think you have lied.

But we can't tell them that if there was something to find, we would've found it already, a rare twinge of guilt added, tugging at his last heart string.

All the disappearances had two things in common. They always happened outside the Pentakl plain, and there was a baffling absence of evidence. Which suggested, that whoever was responsible could protect against being seen with magick. Another thing he couldn't tell the council.

So, following Dalmicir tradition, instead of acknowledging the problem, he went back to the moron and his story.

"Would you say the old sorcerer factions were well liked?"

"From what you say, I suppose not Master."

In fact, the faction's feuding kept them in an unlimited supply of unpopularity, since non-sorcerers were often the hardest hit. Even so, the feuds were a slow process, and sometimes centuries passed without serious incident. That gave the short-lived normals time to almost forget the last atrocity, before the next one hit them.

"And what would you think would be the result of people's dislike for magick?"

"I have divined that some nations tried to keep sorcerers out, but I thought that was just a misguided fear of the unknown?"

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That was the official Pentakl line. But ever since magick appeared, all nations had at one time or another tried to deal with their sorcerer problem. Yet, like the parasites they were, the factions always came back sooner or later. In part due to the advantage of the long lives endured by magick users.

"Did you know, Macbiar do not even know why we live a long as we do," he asked rhetorically.

"Yes! It is fascinating! Why do we live several lifetimes longer than other of the same race!" The moron was excited to have something to say.

"Do you want to hear my theory?"

"Please Master, I would be honoured!"

"I think it is because we are too stubborn to die, I know I am," he chuckled.

"That is a joke, you are supposed to laugh!" The boy obliged dutifully.

But it's not all joke is it? You think there's some truth to the stubbornness, like the factions and rulers.

A few rulers attempted to band the nations together against magick. But their problem was they were all too alike. All of them trying to cut the biggest piece of the cake for themselves, and no one interested in doing the work to make the cake bigger for everyone. That was why from any rulers point of view, it was always obvious that another ruler was stubborn and evil.

And it's tricky to cooperate when you're stubborn and evil. His stubborn and slightly evil lip twitched in amusement.

The boy's arm had now developed an actual quiver Even its thick black hairs were standing at attention, begging to be acknowledged.

"What? Do not tell me you need the bathroom again!"

"No Master, I was just wondering, about the nations and rulers--"

"Wondering what exactly," he interrupted.

"I-I do not mean to question you Master, but we can only divine as far back as the first Dalmicir sorcerer. And you are describing events before that time. So, how do you know?"

The moron's actually deduced something, his pride thought.

"You know our school's quest?"

"Of course Master, the quest for knowledge."

"Then it should not surprise you, that among the archive's many tomes, much of history is preserved." Even trying to be nice, he dripped with pomposity.

"Of course, but I do not see what that means in this context?"

"If you read more, you would understand! We have books from before the age of magick even started!" The condescension flowed out of him smoothly, like a puff of smoke.

Closing his eyes again, in his memory, he saw the fading pages of the secret tomes. They described the sorcerers' relocation. Maintenance on the enormous leather-bound books was rare, since the headmasters would have to do it themselves. As a result the paper was frail, and reading them was problematic.

The great tomes were only restricted to the three highest ranks. They contained the less subversive history of Empris. Which was usually false, since keeping up the ignorance of the masses was like breathing to the council of sorcerers. Also, no one wanted sorclings to start deducing things.

Like realising we were forced to relocate, he thought.

Two millennia has passed, but with our seven-hundred and eighty-three-years, it doesn't seem that long ago, his ageing bones added.

He was glad now, that he had taken up the challenge to find the truth. Well, not glad exactly, but a little less cranky than normal. Seeing as how he had chronicled more than his share of the great relocation, it made examining that time much easier.

"Do you not find it strange, that most sorcerers are unaware, that the Trolls of the Pedran school weren't added to our ranks until after the relocation?"

"Ye-es," the boy hesitated.

"You did know?"

"Oh, of course! I have read all about it." The moron was obviously hoping that there wouldn't be any follow up questions.

"Then put your arm down so I can continue!"

The faction heads were much like petty gangster bosses. They offered apprenticeships to young sorcerers. It was an offer they couldn't refuse, since a lone magick user was an easy target for mobs, as well as other sorcerers.

The factions themselves were completely dependant on tribute. Extorting it from the people in their territories. Not having to worry about where their next meal was coming from, gave them lots of time to indulge in their true passion. Competing with other factions.

The resolve to be the only remaining faction kept them fighting. Like it kept Macbiar looking for the key to immortality. The school was still at it in Pentakl's Institute, having already gone far beyond the point of reason.

"Master, I must object, is this important?"

"Fine! Tell me what is so important."

"Um, well, the thing is," the moron bumbled out, "there has been another disappearance."

"No! A disappearance? I never would have guessed."

"O-kay, but you will attend the meeting?"

"Yes! Now get out!" The athletic figure jumped up scurrying to the door in an un-sorcerer-like manner.

Oh, is that why you like the boy, because he's un-sorcerer-like? His curiosity snuck in.

You shut up, his inner sorcerer raged. We do not like him!

Then why did we help him get promoted to PA?

"Master," the boy was about to shut the door, "you do realise it is morning? You are going to be late."

"A sorcerer is always late when he wishes to be late!" He threw a book at the retreating under-bite.