The Dragon Hunter and the Mage (65 page)

Being handpicked by Arch-Mage Persea meant one became something of a legend. Nobody knew exactly why some students were chosen and others not, but everyone just assumed it was a sign of being somehow gifted.

The elite group couldn’t have been more disparate. About the only thing they shared was their opinion of the woman. For the first few years, none of them had had any clue about the purpose of Persea’s private little class. Most thought there was nothing more to it than Persea wanting to personally oversee the training of the best students of the Academy. Eliran had always known better, but nothing could have prepared her for the day when she found out. They were to become Persea’s assassination squad. “Archon Hunters,” as the Arch-Mage herself called them.

For some inscrutable reason, no one had tried to quit the group after finding out their purpose. Eliran suspected the chance to be taught by Persea was simply considered too valuable for any of them to pass up. Her power was, after all, awe inspiring.

Sometimes it was hard for Eliran to believe her mistress could actually do those things. Not to mention how effortless she always made everything look. No matter how much Eliran resented her mistress, there was no doubt in her mind that she wouldn’t have become half the mage she was without those private lessons.

For Persea, failure was always on purpose. She never cared how hard you were trying. Never gave you any credit for it. If you failed, it was because you wanted to, and that meant you were worthless. She never used physical pain. She didn’t need to. Her method focused on torturing the spirit. A gruesome approach that had broken a handful of Eliran’s fellow apprentices and something Persea had always been all too comfortable with.

The hairs on the back of Eliran’s head prickled and the double door swung silently open. On the other side, framed by two statues of Ava, each holding a torch, Persea sat at her desk, scribbling. She didn’t even look up. She simply commanded, “Come in.”

With a sigh, Eliran walked inside and sat across from her mistress, the study’s door magically closing behind her.

The Arch-Mage continued scribbling, saying nothing. The study was packed full of books and parchment rolls, some carefully lining book cases, others piled on top of each other over the floor. The pungent smell of mist flower tea floated about the air, a smell Eliran had learned to associate with her mistress.

When was the last time you slept, old woman?
she wondered.

Eliran tapped her fingers anxiously on the arm of her chair. “You misspelled a word there,” she eventually said.

“Don’t be childish,” Persea replied without stopping. “I need to finish this.”

Eliran rolled her eyes. “Then it was a good thing that you called me right away. It’s not like I just returned from the other end of the Empire and really needed to rest.”

“I will be even busier later,” Persea explained, finally finishing her manuscript and placing her quill down. “Besides, you can rest when we’re finished.”

“I’ll believe it when it happens.”

Persea shook her head in disapproval. “When will you grow up, Eliran?”

“That’s a great question, mistress,” Eliran replied. “But I have a better one. Try this instead. ‘I’m so sorry I nearly got you killed, Eliran. How are you? I hope you, at least, had a pleasant journey north.’”

“Oh please. You think I wouldn’t know by now if you weren’t fine? You had a rough mission. So what? You think you’re the only one?”

“Why did call me here, mistress? I look like a scarecrow, and I feel like a herd of cows just trampled all over me. Will you do me the courtesy of getting this over with?”

“Gladly,” Persea replied, reaching into one of her desk’s drawers. She picked up a heavy looking object and placed it down on the table.

Eliran leaned forward. It was wrapped in purple silk, and Persea delicately peeled the cloth away, revealing an exquisite dagger. It as beautiful as it was menacing. The golden handle was shaped like a Dragon, with its wings serving as the guard. Instead of one, it had two parallel blades. Glowstone shards sparkled along its entire length.

“What is it?” Eliran asked, unable to mask her curiosity.

“Your next job.”

“Oh, Goddess!” Eliran threw her arms in the air. “You are unbelievable!”

Persea raised a hand, begging for silence. “If, and only if, you want it,” she said. “This one is optional.”

Eliran furled her eyebrows suspiciously.

“Whoever is going to do this is going to need to be extremely motivated,” Persea continued. “If you don’t want to do it, then
I
don’t want you to do it either.”

This definitely did not sound right. Since when did what
she
wanted matter to Persea?

“You still haven’t told me what it is,” Eliran reminded her.

“A Fyrian ceremonial dagger.”

“Well, it definitely looks like one. What’s so special about it?”

The Arch-Mage extended an arm towards the dagger. “Touch it.”

Something in the way Persea said that made Eliran think this would be a bad idea, but she reached out anyway, albeit hesitantly. Her fingers brushed against the handle, and she immediately snatched them back as a jolt of pain shot through her arm.

“Fire take this!” Eliran cursed.

Persea chuckled. “Quite a kick, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Eliran echoed bitterly.

“Well, go on. Grab it properly.”

Eliran was pretty sure this was going to hurt like crazy, but now she really wanted to find out what that thing was. Trying not to think too much about it, she grabbed the dagger firmly in her hand.

The pain instantly snapped through her whole body, as if she was being bathed in molten lava. The world went black, then bright explosions flashed all around her.

A large hall. A circle of hooded figures chanting incoherently. A Dragon roaring. A woman screaming. The dagger in her hand. She prayed something in a foreign language. She stabbed something or someone. Blood ran everywhere.

The pain became too much to bear, and with a jump backwards, she forced herself to drop the dagger. Persea’s study reappeared. She was breathing heavily, and her heart was pounding. She realized she was standing, her chair having tumbled to the floor beside her.

“What in the mother’s name just happened?” Eliran asked.

“Take a guess,” Persea prompted.

“It felt like… a memory?”

The Arch-Mage smiled widely. “Exactly! Her name is Astoreth, and she is a Head Archon, just like Sohtyr.”

“A Head Archon? How good of a memory are we talking about?”

“It’s fragmented,” Persea replied, “but surprisingly long. This Astoreth must have used the dagger extensively, and performed some intense magic with it for her to imprint this strongly on it.”

“How did you get it?”

Persea turned sideways, looking away from Eliran. “Apodyon and Ursula were following a lead near Aparanta. I knew it was someone big, but just like with you, I couldn’t know it was a Head Archon. This Astoreth killed Apodyon, but Ursula made it out alive.” She stepped over to the dagger and picked it up from the floor using the purple silk cloth. “And not empty handed.”

“Apodyon is dead?”

“Yes, but we shall make it count,” Persea replied. “Eliran, this memory has dozens of names, locations, everything.”

“And what exactly do you want me to do with it?”

“I want you to take it,” the Arch-Mage replied, “and I want you to hunt down every last one of these Head Archons.”

“You’re kidding me?” Eliran said. “You want
me
to single handedly defeat the entire Circle?”

“You’re the only one who’ve ever killed a Head Archon. You know their magic, what they’re capable of.”

“I told you, the
Hunter
killed Sohtyr, not me. This is a job for someone like you, an Arch-Mage.”

“And I would do it if I wasn’t certain both the Academy and the Rebellion would unravel if I left them for a single moment. This is too much of an opportunity to ignore. We can take this war to them, Eliran.” Persea laid the dagger on the desk and held Eliran’s arms. “You are much more powerful than you imagine. If only you allowed yourself to reach your full potentia
l
‒
‒
”

“There she is,” Eliran said, yanking her arms from Persea’s grasp. “The old tutor, back for some more derision.”

The Arch-Mage rolled her eyes. “Of course. What did I expect?” She paced around the desk and back to her seat. “Anyway, I told you it was your decision. Do you want the mission, or not?”

Eliran gave her mistress a cold stare. “I will not be leaving immediately. I want some days to rest.”

“Obviously.”

“I want to do this my way.
And
I’ll need a bigger stipend.”

“You’ll have it.”

Eliran stared at the Fyrian dagger. “Very well then,” she said, grabbing the weapon.

The two of them exchanged a silent look, and Eliran turned away, opening the study’s door with a wave of her arm.

“Be careful,” Persea said to her back, then called, “Eliran!”

The young Sorceress stopped at the study’s threshold and looked back.

“I want regular reports,” Persea said. “Don’t you dare disappear for weeks like you did in the desert.”

Vigild’s steps echoed through the marble corridor. Golden streams of light fell obliquely from the tall windows. As he reached the end of the hall, two Legionaries standing outside the Emperor’s study saluted him with closed fists on their chests.

“His majesty has sent for me?” Vigild asked.

“He has your excellency,” one of the soldiers replied. “Grave news, it seems.”

The Chancellor frowned. “The nature of the news his majesty receives is none of your concern, soldier.”

The Legionary’s eyes glared back at him, and he straightened up even more. “A thousand apologies, excellency.”

“Open up.”

Averting his gaze from the Chancellor’s eyes, the Legionary obeyed, and Vigild stepped inside.

Tarsus was alone at his Dragon bone desk, a piece of parchment trembling in his hands. Red rimmed eyes met Vigild’s, and the Chancellor knew immediately what had happened.

“They… they left me,” Tarsus mumbled. “Vigild, my son and my wife… left me.”

Vigild sighed inwardly. “Now, your majesty, we mustn’t haste to any conclusion.”

“Fadan has joined the Rebellion, Vigild!” Tarsus snapped, the parchment shaking in his hand. “Our agents swear it.” His eyes wandered. “My own son wishes to overthrow me. And my wife has fled our home.” He dropped the report and placed his hands around his head. “Oh, Goddess… What have I done?”

Vigild perked up. “Your majesty,” he said softly. “You have done nothing.”

“I drove them away.” Tarsus’ pale features twisted in despair, and his eyes seemed to sink even deeper into their sockets. “I made them hate me.”

Oh, fire keep us!
Vigild thought. He didn’t have time for this silliness.  

The Chancellor strode to the Emperor and struck a finger on the man’s forehead, pushing and pinning him to the back of his chair. Tarsus’ body jerked and his mouth opened wide, a scream trapped in his throat.

“The rebels have brainwashed your son,” Vigild said.

The Emperor’s expression became one of rage, and he clenched his fists. “The lying scum!”

“The nobility is full of traitors.” Vigild pressed his finger even harder against Tarsus’ forehead. “They have corrupted your son and wife with treachery.”

“How dare they?” Tarsus slammed a fist against the table, the corners of his mouth twitching in anger.

“They seek to take the throne from you.” The Chancellor released the Emperor, panting from the effort.

There was a moment of silence as Tarsus seemed to reacquaint himself with where he was. “Vigild?” he said, noticing his chancellor beside him. “Vigild, I must fight these rebels with all I have. No matter the cost. They cannot get the throne!”

“You have sacrificed much, your majesty,” the Chancellor replied, laying a sympathetic hand on the Emperor’s shoulder. “But I shall do my best to alleviate your burdens.”