Book of The Dead

“Did I pass?” Tyron asked, glancing between Regis and Gilden.

He thought he’d been quick, but honestly couldn’t say how much time had passed. Getting absorbed in a complex piece of magick to an unhealthy degree was one of his flaws, and one he didn’t know how he could work on.

Magister Gilden chuckled.

“Well, if we had any doubts as to your talent, those have been assuaged. You certainly figured that out a lot quicker than I did.”

“Oh, are you an Arcanist then?” Tyron enquired politely.

“I am, though I didn’t train under your esteemed Master. I have to ask, why did you put down the glass and begin to use your fingers?”

How much could he say?

“Recently I had the fortune to work on a rare enchanted item. I had to decipher the script inside the object without breaking it, and getting a good line of sight was difficult, so I used my fingers to examine the script. I’ve continued to use the practice since it seems like a useful skill to have.”

“I’m impressed you can discern the difference between the lines.”

“Fascinating. Well, at this stage you have earned the right to learn a little more about what we may wish for you to do. Though I must stress at this point, Master Almsfield, that your tests are not yet over. Your aptitude for the art of enchanting is high, but we will need to thoroughly examine your abilities before we are prepared to commission you for work.”

“Of course,” Tyron nodded, “there can be no room for error in the work of the Magisters, I totally understand.”

“Good. For the most part, we train our own Arcanists to manage the many enchantments used within the tower. The defensive arrays, such as the ones you passed through, the reinforcements, the power arrays, so on and so forth. I am one such Arcanist as well. Naturally this allows us to hold as many secrets as possible close to our chests, but occasionally we need outside expertise to work on more ambitious projects. It is at such times we will reach out to non-affiliated specialists, such as yourself.”

Magister Grindel extended a hand along with the compliment and Tyron permitted himself a small smile.

“Over the years, we have called on Master Willhem and Master Halfshard, along with a handful of others at the peak of the craft, to complete work for us. Should you prove capable enough, we would like to add you to that list of trusted craftspeople.”

“I’m honoured you would consider me,” Tyron bowed in his seat. When he straightened, he bore a pensive expression on his face. “If I may ask, do you have a project in mind for me? Or are you simply… enrolling me? I don’t mind either way, I simply want to stress my limitations and proficiencies. As someone who doesn’t have Arcanist as a primary Class, my growth potential in the field is limited, and my build is relatively narrow in focus.”

“We are aware of your choices and abilities. Master Willhem was able to answer our questions on that front. In terms of a project we have in mind, it’s too soon to be talking about something like that. Perhaps there is, perhaps there isn’t. For now, we will progress you to the next stage.”

“Will I complete the full process today?” he asked.

“Oh no,” Magister Gilden replied as he pushed back his chair and stood with a sigh. “We have one more stop today, and then you’ll be able to go back to your shop for the time being.”

For the first time in a while, Regis Shan spoke up.

“Do you want me to accompany you, Magister Gilden?”

The older man hesitated a moment, then shook his head.

“Best not. Head back to your rooms and continue your studies for now. Thank you for your help today, Initiate.”

Regis bowed low at the waist, turned and walked through the door without so much as a glance in Tyron’s direction.

Well fuck you too.

If his senior noticed this cold treatment, he didn’t react, instead he stepped into the corridor and gestured for Tyron to follow him, which he did.

“These passages are deliberately obtuse. Without a guide, it’s very easy to get lost. We need to head up a few floors, so follow close behind me.”

“Up a few floors?” Tyron asked. “Into the tower proper?”

Gilden began to walk at a brisk pace and the Necromancer hurried behind him as his guide talked over his shoulder.

“These floors are still part of the tower. Work gets done here, even if it’s a bit inconvenient. As a matter of fact, the tower extends down beneath the surface level quite a ways, so there’s a lot that goes on outside the upper floors. We’ll head up to the fifth floor, that’s about as low as they’ll go.”

“They?”

“The person you’ll be speaking with.”

“Should I be nervous?” Tyron laughed.

Gilden turned just enough to eye him over his shoulder as he continued to walk.

“I am,” he said simply.

Tyron didn’t speak anymore as they made their way through the maze and up the stairs. Eventually they came to a simple, if sturdy, wooden door. Once they reached the fourth floor, the layout of the tower changed to something more conventional and comfortable, but here on the fifth floor, things were more spacious and… commodious. Tapestries hung from every wall, rich, woven carpets ran down every passage and spherical light globes were fitted to ornate iron sconces mounted on the walls.

Magister Gilden looked as if he were trying to control his nerves, something that didn’t do Tyron’s attempts to maintain his cool any favours. Who were they going to meet? Some upper crust Magister in charge of enchanting in the tower? How was that intimidating? Obviously it was someone important, so he schooled his expression and steadied his breathing.

Gilden knocked.

“Enter,” came a female voice.

After a brief pause, the Magister pushed open the door to reveal a comfortable sitting area that led to an ornate desk, behind which a woman sat, with perfect posture, reading a document placed in front of her.

“Take a seat,” she said without looking up, “I will be with you in a moment.”

Following his guide, Tyron entered and tried not to stare at the opulent display of wealth inside the room. Everything glittered with the sheen of magick, even the clock. Almost everything in the room was enchanted to one degree or another.

He looked down.

Even the rug was enchanted. He pressed his shoes firmly into it and felt a hint of warmth. It generated heat to keep their feet warm? Put on some damn socks!

He sat and neatly arranged his robes before he allowed himself to lean back slightly, his gaze focused on the person he was here to meet.

It was difficult to say how old she was, not young, certainly, and he noted she did not wear a Magister’s robe, which he found curious. There was a certain elegance, a dignity in the way she moved, even slight motions like turning a page were executed as smoothly as a dance. She had brown hair that fell in gentle curls to her shoulders, and wore a simple styled dress decorated with far too many gems.

He couldn’t help but wonder who this could be, but then she placed her paper down neatly, folded her hands on the table in front of her, and looked at him.

In an instant, he felt pierced by her icy blue gaze, as a terrible weight fell upon him.

A Noble!

Not just any noble, not like Regis, or Ammon, or Lady Shan, lordlings and lady’s without title or authority. They didn’t have the wealth, or the power, or the Class.

After a single second of being the subject of her stare, he knew that this person, whoever she was, did. She possessed the Divine Right to rule.

Desperate to break eye contact, he bowed low in his seat and kept his head down to conceal the sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“It is an honour to be in your presence,” he managed to say smoothly. “Your humble servant is known as Master Lukas Almsfield.”

After a long pause, she spoke.

“You may rise.”

To be perfectly truthful, he didn’t really want to, but he did, and met her gaze once more. She tilted her head slightly to the side, the merest hint of a frown on her face.

“I am Lady Erryn,” she said. “I am responsible for ensuring the smooth operation of the tower and act as a liaison between the court and the Magisters.”

He bowed once more.

“A pleasure, Lady Erryn.”

When he straightened, he found she was still frowning at him, and he began to feel even more nervous.

“Break,” she said.

Wham!

Sharp pain exploded. Tyron’s head reeled back as his hand flew to his nose. Was it broken? No, there was no blood. In fact, there was no injury at all. What had happened? He felt as if she had punched him in the face.

Actually, that wasn’t quite it… she had punched him over his face. She’d attacked the glamour!

There were mirrors all around the room, but if he so much as glanced at one to check it remained in place, that was as much as confirming he wore one. He straightened and turned his eyes directly on the noble.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to keep all the heat from his tone. “But I do not believe I have done anything to warrant such an act.”

She still stared at him, her eyes endlessly cold.

“I apologise,” she said finally, though she clearly didn’t mean it. “We must be careful, in our work, to ensure those we engage with are beyond reproach.”

It was all he could do not to slump in his chair. Whatever the Crone had done to reinforce his glamour, it had held. He needed to buy Elsbeth a cake or something.

“I will do my best to meet your expectations,” he managed to say.

“Your word is freely given and welcome, but does not suffice for our security. Additional steps need to be taken.”

“Well then… what do you require of me?”

“That you listen.”

She turned and nodded slightly to Magister Gilden, and he turned his face away, then her stare returned to Tyron and he felt locked in place.

“By my authority, you will not speak of what you have learned here. You will not share what has been discussed, what you have seen or heard, through any means. Should you fail to heed this command, your heart will cease to beat, and you will die. Divines make it so.”

Tyron felt the weight of her authority come crashing down on him like a mountain. It bypassed his resistance, slipped beyond his defences and wrapped around his mind without him being able to do a single thing about it.

Divine Right. The highest power of the Nobles, afforded to them by their Classes that were handed down by the Five themselves. He had never felt it before, but he knew what it was. Magnin and Beory had known all about it. There were reasons why they avoided the capital like the plague.

After a minute in which he felt he was suffocating and suffering a migraine, Tyron slowly began to recover. He was still seated on the chair, a hand clutching at his heart as he sweated profusely.

“You may go now,” Lady Erryn said, once again reading through her papers.

Magister Gilden stood immediately, and Tyron staggered to his feet.

“By your will,” he managed to say, before he turned and followed his guide.

The trip back to the shop was lost in a haze to Tyron, but he made it back somehow. He collapsed into his bed the moment he could, his head still pounding, and his heart still thudding in his chest.

The Divine Right. He hadn’t expected it to be so terrifying.

But even more than his fear, there was anger, like a roaring bonfire burning in his chest. He was certain. Absolutely certain. He had sat in the presence of the person who had overseen his parents’ murder.

Lady Erryn.

What an undead she would be.

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