Ezyk opened his eyes and saw a strange symbol carved into the ceiling, converging in a spiral directly above him. To his right and left, four golden sconces burned with green flame. I can’t move. A spike of panic ran through him. Ezyk looked and saw his wrists and ankles secured to the floor by manacles embedded in the stone floor.
His palms throbbed with pain, and Ezyk saw the white of bone from his unresponsive hands. On the walls around him was a pattern, similar to the one on the ceiling, going onto the floor and converging about the center of his chest. He tested the restraints, but he couldn’t even make them shift. Ezyk heard footsteps approaching in the distance.
The first to duck their head into the dimly lit stone room was and old man, wrinkled and bald, thin as a twig, yet with absolutely no sign of frailty. He moved with an easy grace, standing straight, and walking smoothly. Following him, Ezyk’s breath caught as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen stepped in.
It was her shoes that he had heard first. She wore fantastical silk clothes that made him realize that Steffon was just a threadbare country noble. They covered every inch of her but her face, and flowed around her feet as if they were alive. The curve of her body showed through as she moved, drawing his attention. His eyes flitted back to her face, and Ezyk saw that she watched him with a smile. The woman winked, and a flash of pain went through his head.
The pain allowed him to stop looking at her, in time to notice the third had not entered. No, the man was already at his sconce, having silently moved through the darkness, drawing none of Ezyk’s attention until he had come to stand at his position.
Strangely, the third man did not seem to belong, he looked like he ran an inn at night and babysat his grandkids during the day. He was a modest height, his face so unremarkable, it was remarkable. But Ezyk hadn’t seen him enter, causing a small shiver ran through Ezyk’s spine.
A fourth entered the room, stooping his head deeply to enter. The man was seven feet tall, his features seemed carved from rough stone. He wore armor laced with enchantments, fit for a general of the ancient world. At his waist hung a sword nearly five feet long, lending to his presence that dominated the room. It felt as if the floor itself had begun to slope in his direction. Ezyk could feel his footsteps in his chest as the giant came to stand at the last sconce.
The four arranged themselves in front of the sconces and held their hands up, beginning to chant. Meanwhile, Ezyk’s struggles grew more and more frantic. He thrashed and pulled at the restraints to no avail, only bloodying his wrists in the process.
The four paid him no attention, and continued chanting. As one, they took up daggers, and cut their palms, holding them above the sconce. As he watched, their blood pooled out from beneath the sconces. They must be hollow. He thought idly, his mind unable to fully come to grips with what was happening to him.
The blood entered the pattern on the floor beneath him, and began to swiftly run along it. Ezyk knew that when the pattern was filled, the spell would be complete, and whatever happened wouldn’t be something he wanted to be here for. He resumed thrashing, the pain in his wrists reaching a crescendo.
Ezyk’s wrists began to form drops of blood oozing through his broken skin, giving him an idea. If I add my blood, can I render this spell harmless? One way to find out. Ezyk summoned his grey trance, and calm flowed through him. He began to saw his wrists against the manacles, ignoring the pain. Eventually, a single drop of blood dripped from his wrist into the spell beneath him, just as the pattern was completed.
Ezyk’s consciousness split. He felt as if he were somehow present and not present. Below him was his body, still sawing away at his own wrist, and above him was what looked like a small mote of light, similar to the first spell he had ever done. It was filled with such power and familiarity, he knew it was his soul.
He watched the man with the plain face walk towards him, dagger in hand. He watched as he knelt with his hand on Ezyk’s shoulder, before he planted the dagger in Ezyk’s heart. The split ended, and Ezyk looked down at the hilt protruding from his chest. Ezyk was unable to speak, unable to breathe. The world swam, and then went white as Ezyk’s tongue fumbled on the foreign object in his mouth.
Ezyk sat up, screaming. The pain in his chest hadn’t gone away completely yet, and he clenched his hand over his heart.
“Easy boy, easy,” O’tambwe said, putting his hand on Ezyk’s back. “Take deep breaths.” He handed Ezyk a mug filled with a syrupy beverage that smelled faintly of cinnamon. Ezyk took three deep, shuddering breaths before he could drink.
“I guess you didn’t go in your sleep, then?” Otambwe asked. Ezyk looked at him, then back to his drink, shaking his head.
“No, I was murdered.” Ezyk said.
“Murdered? Killed in battle?” O’tambwe asked.
“No, I was strapped down in the center of a stone room with some kind of magic spell on the ceiling and floor,” Ezyk said. “Four people came in and filled the spell with their blood, and then one of them..” Ezyk glanced at O’tambwe and trailed off seeing the expression on his face. He’d never seen O’tambwe look so grim.
O’tambwe took his hand away from Ezyk and stood. “Four people? Can you describe them?” he asked. Ezyk went about describing them. The most detail he could remember was about the woman and the giant man.
He remembered an old man, and one more… whose face seemed to blur, becoming first the man who ran the cafeteria, then one of Ezyk’s more boring teachers. He said as much to O’tambwe, who sat down beside Ezyk.
“Listen to me, Ezyk,” O’tambwe said, his voice grave. You mustn’t try to avoid that place. Fear cannot change fate. You must try to overcome that place rather than run from it. That is the only advice I can give you.”
O’tambwe began to say something more, then stopped. Finally he spoke again, a pained expression on his face. “I leave it to you to pack for your departure tomorrow. This letter recommends you as a wizard graduate from this school. Good luck.” O’tambwe pulled a gold-trimmed letter from his robe, placed it on Ezyk’s desk.
“This backpack has a change of clothes and enough money to get you to your station,” O’tambwe said, pointing at a backpack he’d deposited in the corner of the room. “Naturally it has your spellbook in the back. Make sure you record your spells carefully, there’s a few dozen blank pages in the back and… good luck.” O’tambwe turned and left the room, leaving Ezyk alone.
Ezyk swung his feet out of bed, began standing. Pain shot through his heart and he fell back to the bed, the air forced from his lungs. As soon as the pain came it was gone, one final reminder of his vision. Ezyk tentatively took a few breaths, but the stabbing pain didn’t return. Tentatively, Ezyk tried to stand, and this time made it to his feet.
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A nagging nervousness plagued him as he moved about his room, squaring away his living space for the exodus from the academy. He would be alone now. O’tambwe would stay in the here, teaching magic, and Ezyk would be adrift.
Somehow he would wind up stabbed in the heart. Ezyk had known O’tambwe for over ten years, and he’d only rarely been wrong, but Ezyk couldn’t imagine a way to overcome that.
After the room had been stripped of all signs of his occupancy, Ezyk laid down on the bed above the sheets so he wouldn’t have to make the bed again. He tried to sleep, but couldn’t bring himself to feel tired. Fear swirled around inside him as he tried to picture his future.
O’tambwe had told him that most of our fears about the future are our own insecurities manifesting themselves, not likely events. But what he had seen… that was going to haunt him.
Ezyk woke to the sound of running boots. His eyes shot open just before a pounding on his door. “Ezyk! Wake up!” Jaque said, continuing to bang on the door. Ezyk leapt into his pants and opened the door, blinking gummy eyes.
“What is it?” Ezyk asked, not terribly happy to be woken up after hardly getting any sleep the night before.
“You have to come right now, something’s wrong,” Jaque said breathlessly. “The dean wants you in his office, right now.”
Ezyk blinked at him. “You said ‘right now’ twice.” He said.
“That means get your ass over there now!” Jaque said before running off towards whatever class he had been playing around in before he got stuck with messenger duty.
Ezyk looked up at the sky, his brows furrowing. The stars shone brightly down upon him, with no sign of dawn to the east. It sank in that he had places to be, so Ezyk threw his uniform on, and sprinted to the Dean’s office. No one else was awake yet, so what was Jaque doing up? When he arrived at the Deans office, Ezyk slowed to a jog, reaching the door just as his breath was beginning to come back. At Ezyk’s knock, the door opened.
The man who opened the door was of average height and average build, totally unremarkable. He was also the man who had plunged a dagger into his heart in his vision. An echo of the pain caused Ezyk to have a short coughing fit, forcing him to stoop down and clutch his chest.
“Are you alright young man?” the murderer asked. Ezyk wanted to run, but he knew that would only make the man spring upon him, like a predator in the wild. “I’m alright. I just ran all the way here.” Ezyk said as soon as the pain had diminished. He took a deep breath. “The dean wanted me?” he asked. “Yes, come in.” the murderer stepped aside, to allow Ezyk to enter the room. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, to take the three steps into that room, instead of running, giving the man a reason to chase him. Ezyk imagined this was what it felt like to walk to your own execution.
Inside the Dean’s office were the dean himself, and most of his senior staff. Neya was crying in a chair, attended to by one of the more matronly teachers who had very little in common with her. Dean Richmond stepped forward and took Ezyk’s hand. “Ezyk, your father is dead. I’m sorry.”
Nothing Ezyk had imagined could have come close to the dread he felt now. Reality was much worse than his fears. “What happened?” Ezyk asked, feeling numb to the core.
“His heart gave out while he slept.” The murderer offered. Ezyk had been careful not to put his back to the man, but was startled to discover the plain faced man had shifted to an entirely different place than Ezyk had thought he was.
“If it gave out while he slept, why do you…” Ezyk’s voice trailed off as he lost the will to speak.
“Why do we already know?” Dean Richmond asked. Ezyk nodded mutely, staring at the wood grain in the dean’s overpriced desk.
“Lord Tanwood here,” Dean Richmond said, nodding to the plain-faced man. “Came in this evening with another option for you other than expulsion. I went to O’tambwe’s room to discuss it and well…” he shrugged.
“If you need to sit, you’re welcome to.” Dean Richmond said, motioning to the seats where Neya was venting her grief.
“Thank you.” Ezyk mumbled. He sat down. His mind began repeating the last few moments, like a dog chasing its tail. The murderer had something to do with it. O’tambwe was the healthiest 60 year old man Ezyk had ever seen, damn near indestructible.
Why was the plain faced man here? Was he after Ezyk already, or was he after O’tambwe and Ezyk was an afterthought? Ezyk shook his head. You don’t strap people to the center of magic spells, bleed yourself in some arcane ritual and stab them in the chest as an afterthought. Still, what had Ezyk done to warrant this?
After a few minutes discussing amongst themselves, the dean and the man who would stab Ezyk in the chest reached a decision, Dean Richmond approached Ezyk.
“Lord Tanwood here,” Richmond said, motioning to the murderer, “Is a colleague of O’tambwe’s, and would like to return the many favors O’tambwe has done for him. He has offered to provide an apprenticeship for both you and Neya.
Alarms trumpeted through Ezyk’s mind. Entering the dean’s office with Tanwood had been brave, but going with Tanwood to such an obvious slaughter was stupid. Tell them what they want to hear, Ezyk’s mind whispered to him. Ezyk forced a smile. “O’tambwe would want to see us well cared for, what more could I ask for? I’m already packed to go. Before we leave, though, could I see O’tambwe once?” Tanwood nodded to the dean, who gave Ezyk permission.
Ezyk walked down the hall, his palms sweating against his clenched fingers as the dean and Tanwood followed close behind him. The entire amrch to O’tambwe’s room, Ezyk’s mind spun in circles between expecting O’tambwe to be waiting behind the door, and waiting for Tanwood to simply knife Ezyk in the back.
The dean stepped forward when they arrived and use his master key to unlock O’tambwe’s room, while Ezyk watched the plain man standing impassively in the hall, every muscle tight.
O’tambwe’s body was still in his bed. The room was exactly as Ezyk remembered it from his occasional visits. Wizarding paraphernalia lined the walls. Chisels, wires, compasses, crucibles and other devices littered the desks O’tambwe kept for his various projects. Some went so far as to spill out onto the floor.
O’tambwe lay on his bed with his eyes closed, as though he were merely asleep. His chest didn’t move though, and his skin was a pallid pale color for the black skinned old man. Ezyk had held a small hope until now, but even that left him.
The dean stepped in behind Ezyk, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone to rejoin the Weave. At least that’s what his people believed.” He said. That was small comfort to Ezyk.
Ezyk felt tears brimming up, prayed for forgiveness for a moment, and then he did what he had to do. Ezyk began to bawl, outright sobbing. He threw himself on O’tambwe and began weeping into his robes, which the old man never wore to bed. At this point, Ezyk was absolutely sure that O’tambwe had been murdered.
The Dean uncomfortably stepped outside, closing the door behind him. As soon as the door closed, Ezyk took out a handkerchief, covered his hand, and began searching O’tambwe’s pockets, wailing all the while for the benefit of those standing outside the door.
As quickly as he could, Ezyk stripped O’tambwe of anything he knew how to operate. After a brief check of O’tambwe’s cabinets, he looked at the tools at his disposal. Three clay balls dipped in white ink, one dipped in red. The Cock’s Strut, the gold necklace O’tambwe used to heal, and a smooth lodestone ring O’tambwe had used to fetch things for him. There were many more things on O’tambwe’s person, but without knowing what did what, even touching them them was a fool’s notion, and most likely why no one had dared to rummage through his pockets yet.
The lodestone ring, its interior etched with intricate runes, reminded Ezyk of the conversation he had had with his mentor just yesterday, and for an instant, grief threatened to paralyze him. Tanwood is going to kill me. I do not have time.
Ezyk swallowed the heartache and pocketed the white clay balls on his right, the red one on his left, deliberately making the killing spell harder to get to. He didn’t want to kill anyone in the heat of the moment. The necklace went into his breast pocket, and he slipped the fetching ring on his toe. The Cock’s Strut went in his left pocket above the killing spell.
Ezyk looked at O’tambwe one more time, winding down his sobs. He let his tears flow, knowing that that’s what the dean and Tanwood would expect. Ezyk turned and faced the door, knowing that there were many things here that could have aided him greatly, were he not so ignorant. It felt as though all the things he left behind represented all the time he should have had with O’tambwe. Time he would now have to turn his back on and close the door. Ezyk breathed deeply, and opened the door, stepping outside into the hallway with the murderer.