The Exodus Sagas: Book I - Of Spiders And Falcons (27 page)

Aelaine waved her hand next, the light moving from one professor to the next, Enira D’Fallow, the quiet one-eyed witch of Caberra they called her. Homely, heavy-set, long frizzy brown hair with streaks of gray and her brown eyes deep and penetrating, save for the left one had gone mostly cloudy gray from a recent incident that many had ideas about, but none knew the truth, not even Gwenneth. “Professor Enira D’Fallow.”

“You all know what it is I teach and most of you could say my classes were the least of your favorites. The feeling at times was mutual. Who cares to learn the history of the fey, the elven myths, and the origins of magic blended with emotion and drawing energies from them? Who came here to study the arts of seduction, of sensing what is on the heart of another, or tales of bending another’s mind to agree with your own? Few in comparison to the classes that invoke lightning from your fingers or hurl lines of flame from your palms, or cause spectacular displays and illusion. Yet a time will come for each of you, when oppressed, when suspect of another, or wondering if those you serve may be influenced by the magicks of another. Whether a rival wizard, an elven trickster of the heart, or an ancient dragon scheming from afar, you all know full well how to detect, identify, enchant, or break those that could be held sway by another. When the arcane touches the emotions or mind of someone, you would be well to recall my classes. I bid you farewell.” Enira floated back in line, even faced, showing little much more than a stare from her intimidating eyes. Gwenneth Lazlette had always liked Enira’s teachings and thought to herself how many times she practiced on the new arrivals, getting them to do strange things in class. It was a secret the two of them kept to themselves and Gwenne was sure Enira was fond of her as well, yet would never speak of it aloud.

“Professor Dasius of Caberra.” Lady Aelaine, graying hair beginning to wisp in the cold wind and snow from the eastern breeze, moved her hand to the left again, placing light above the shaved head of the tan and smooth faced man. Despite Gwenne’s distaste for him, most women found his grace and charm, mixed with his swift Caberran accent, to be quite alluring even in his old age.

“For those that seek adventures, I wish you well, and a safe and rich journey. To those that serve mighty kings and queens, my hopes go with you to whatever grand realm you travel to. But a special place in my heart, for those that have love of the past and seek the answers to tomorrow’s questions by understanding all that has come and gone before us. The first practitioners of the arcane were little more than gifted warlock chieftains, from savage tribes, with natural gifts for sensing and using simple spells, most of which were killed outright if discovered. The ancient times, almost ten thousand years ago, several coteries or covens of wizards in the holy land of Altestan to the far north were recorded, some of their number rising in the hundreds. Megos, the bringer and keeper of magic believed in those times, was the son of a greater spiritual being that was said to be always oppressing the use of magic by mortals. So you see, our paths of the arcane and divinity were crossed long before the first academy or order of mages were ever formed or dreamed of. In the age of the fall of Alden, the great floods, and the pilgrimage to the south, most think it was for religious freedoms, slavery, senseless wars of conquest from the Altestani that drove our ancestors here. They are only partially correct. The Azoteth Sorcerers, still organized today, regulated the magicks and sorcerous traditions that were taught, and forced those of talent to follow their course of study. For many centuries, the arcane that was taught had no books available, no scrolls or writing were allowed. This insured the great northern sorcerers of what any arcane disciple could possibly know and the Azoteth sought out and destroyed the ancient tomes, as well as those that preserved them. Not until the first pilgrimage by a group of rebellious and secretive archmages began, did our art and knowledge have a chance to…”

Gwenneth sensed change again. The path that the powerful tomes to the east of here was on began to glow, faintly, but noticeable to a well trained wizard that would be watching the area at this moment. The small footsteps glowed for a second or two, and then the faint glamor was gone. Another set of glowing tracks headed west, toward Vallakazz, as the real steps that the books were on were magically covered up. Suddenly, two glowing figures, an elf and a satyr, appeared to be walking the tracks toward her city, yet Gwenneth could tell that they were created illusionary doubles by the way they moved and the tracks guided them as opposed to them leaving the tracks from their steps. Even a glow from a leather pack, three glows precisely, all magically orchestrated, all an illusion to lead someone or something from heading north after the real relics, and leading them here instead. To an untrained eye, the figures from a distance would have prints to follow in the snow, and look and appear real and alive. To a skilled wizard, still difficult to tell, yet multiple auras identical would cause suspicion. Only a powerful student of the arcane arts would be able to tell exactly what this was and keep trail on the real beings. From what Gwenneth had heard of this Salah-Cam, he would most likely see through it. Yet how could he get word soon enough to his hunter, with all the enchanted tools of a highly paid mercenary and get word to him quickly? The prodigal child of the High Wizard smiled at her mother who was paying no attention whatever. Gwenne looked again at the professors, spotting Middir whispering under his beard, silently, yet concentrating on something. Certainly it was he that was meddling with the pursuit of these elven artifacts. She frowned, maintaining concentration all the while, but realizing that he had just assured their escape and that she would not be able to take part or see the Elven books of High Magic. Nor was she asked to help with the task of assisting the elves, and her blood began to rise in hurt pride and anger.

“…which means, my young wizards that you have the weight of thousands of years of tradition and history to fill with those robes you wear tonight. May the truth find you in your research, and may your research always find you the truth. All my best wishes go with thee, farewell students.” Dasius, gaining a little applause from his poetic verses of history, bowed deeply, close to the floor had there been one floating this high above lake Pellicram.

“Professor Middir of Kivanis.” Aelaine stared a bit longer, making eye contact with the wizened elder, his white beard and hair braided in several places. The eye contact was met with a wink and a smile which seemed to fulfill whatever Aelaine was searching for as she turned forward, smiling as well.

Most anyone would think it was from the applause and cheers that announcing Middir always produced, but Gwenneth knew better. She now knew that her mother too, was part of the diversion and had not mentioned a word to her own daughter who had asked to help. A devoted wizard and daughter of the academy, she was paid little mind to in any matter more serious than that of a student needing more direct tutelage in order to keep up with the rest of the class. Her face was burning with anger and the crystals, now under her guidance in illumination, rotation, and levitation, flashed brightly for a second, luckily fitting in with the cheering crowds’ enthusiasm and no one noticing, except her mother.

“Class of three hundred forty four, good evening.” Middir had to wait again, claps and applaud from hundreds including the students, then it slowly withered to a dull commotion. Middir was the favorite professor here due to his caring nature, his friendliness and magnetic persona, his students would often keep in contact with him from afar for many years after leaving the Semanarium. “Did I
really
pass all of you? There must be a mistake, one moment please...” He turned as to leave, and then faced forward again, smiling wide, wrinkles creasing around his warm blue eyes. Laughter rolled through the air toward the floating wizards, and Middir raised his hand to end the interruptions. “Good evening. I have taught here at Lazlette for over forty years now, on and off, and never have I seen a brighter, wiser group of new wizards than this.”

“You said that
last
year!” one of the students from below the graduates surrounded by friends to hopefully hide his identity, heckled Middir. More laughter echoed across the terrace and open air of the west and south towers.

“
Did I
? Shame, I did like the class of three forty three, let’s not tell them they have been surpassed, agreed?” Middir’s smile from under a braided white beard stretching to his belt was met with more jovial chuckling and “
hoorah’s
” from the seventeen graduating this year, showing their pride to the favored professor. “And no,
young Zodriss of Armondeen in his second year,
I could not tell it was you shouting from the crowd. Hope your mop-arm is well rested.” More “
oohs
and
aahs
” followed by laughter and pointing at the young blonde boy from the northwest, his face turning red despite his smile. “What are you, twenty, twenty one perhaps, young and strong, I have
much
work for you.” Deeper “
oohs
” issued from the crowd, and young Zodriss bowed his blonde head and crimson flushed face to wise Middir.

“All jests aside, the finest wizards in the world are trained here, and you seventeen have certainly proven that once again. Only three academies of the arcane arts exist on Agara and the High Wizards of the other two both studied here at Lazlette. That should tell you
something
. Our art is a fragile one, fragile in that we are always in conflict with someone or something. Religions impose their beliefs on the lands’ people generating speculation and rumor as to what it is we do. Queens and warlords seek our counsel for their own ends, and sometimes our gifts of sight. The Azoteth sorcerers would burn our books and places of learning with the armadas of Altestan behind them had they the opportunity. You leave here to a dangerous world my friends. Yes, yes, the ancient relics, lost texts and scrolls of long dead progenitors of the arcane, and artifacts found on quests with kings and knights all sound splendid. Crafting your own spells and practices, creating the latest innovative potion, and fashioning the enchantments of Lord so-and-so’s armor may also bring you fame and recognition among your peers. It is not that easy,
it never is
. Our way of life is growing and protecting an art that is sought after, coveted, misused, misjudged, hunted, and powerful. You carry with you the name of this academy and its beliefs, no matter where you travel. Please represent us well. We wizards do not console or deal with
what
?” his hand pointed to the graduates.

“
Demons or the dead
!” the shout came in unison from many weeks of rehearsal in the classroom.

“We do not participate in the
what
?”

“
Necromantic arts
!” again, the students well versed in the morals of Lazlette replied together.

“We do not use our knowledge to gain
what
?”

“
Self serving power or monetary gains
!”

“Very good, very good. Enough of what you will not be doing in the outside world. Are you ready to show everyone here what you
can
do?”

“
Yes Professor!”

Middir floated back in line with the other professors, motioning to Lady Aelaine and winking again at Gwenneth. Even after hearing his ceremonial speech over twenty times, Gwenne felt inspired at every word Middir said like everyone else present.

“Thank you professors. As you know students, your very own crystal made from a chunk of stone must be formed, lit, engraved with your name, and placed into Lake Pellicram. It must be done without a single touch of your hand, in mid air, and it must be done
blindfolded
.” Another hushed echo of “
oohs
” went through the crowd.

Gwenne sensed again that moving mass of small magical auras. It was just outside the east bridge of the city and had stopped. Her arcane sight also felt the closeness of the powerful relic coming from the west, heading directly toward the west bridge. Gwenneth wondered why they all, whoever they were, traveled at night especially a cold snowing Chazzrynn night such as this. She concentrated on the task at hand, keeping the crystals moving and glowing above the lake. Her mother, Middir, and herself all stopped breathing for a moment, the same moment, and looked at one another. The auras on the hunter had disappeared, vanished in the blink of an eye. His steps toward the eastern gate fresh in her mind, perhaps minutes away, then gone, and all three of them had seen that very same occurrence. Gwenneth focused again, her eyes closed, sensing the magical impulses in the area, surveying north and south. Nothing.

Aelaine cast a quick glance to Middir, bidding him to do something and turned her head and nodded to her daughter to continue. Two white doves flashed into existence from the hands of Middir and Aelaine, one heading to the west tower, and one into the city, toward the keep. Gwenneth surmised that her mother was sending message via the summoning of an enchanted talking dove, to Kendrynn Shilde, captain of the city guard of Vallakazz. The other she knew, was sent by Middir to Angeline Berren, the personal bodyguard of the old professor. Angeline was always quiet, never spoke a word. Her head peered from a window on the eighth balcony, long wavy red hair, beautiful face, yet always a serious and stern look. She levitated, more fell slowly, and not using arcane energies that Gwenne could ever detect, her long hand and a half blade drawn out in the shadows of her descent to the ground. Many rumors existed of what she was, besides a human girl of about thirty two from Kivanis. Her silence, her strange powers that were not arcane, yet duplicated many effects thereof, and how she used them with ease in her armor of chain and plate. The rumors were that she was Middir’s child, yet looked nothing like him, that she was a former student that had been permanently injured in some way, or that she was some practitioner of ancient sorceries that the old man had sworn to protect. None of which any were certain of, yet Angeline was never far from Middir and never unarmed.