The Embers Of Sorrow

[Allennia]

The Embers Of Sorrow (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZvUslQLvTg&feature=related)


What can we take on trust
in this uncertain life? Happiness, greatness,
pride - nothing is secure, nothing keeps.

Euripides, Hecuba

Closed. Chronologically set after Dealing With Idolatry, Forewarning of Calamity and the events of Scara Brae.



It had been a long time since Abhorrash had enjoyed the simple pursuit of sunbathing. He had returned only briefly to the valley during the long summer months to collect some of his possessions, scholarly books, personal effects and the like, but it seemed like an eternity since he had been home. Whilst in reality, it was merely months, his trials in the forest of Concordia and the strange and illustrious cities of Radasanth and Scara Brae had blown his mind wide apart. The things he had seen and the people he had met had drained him of all his curiosity and enthusiasm, and he wanted nothing more than to be shod of his responsibilities to the Magister, the Council, and the Lordship of his Household. Whilst he could not simply abandon them, back in the bending bough and the green leaves of the season’s zenith, he could think to himself again with nothing to do but look to the heavens and let his aching muscles relax in the heat.

He had not intended for his tower to be used in such a way, but the gourd shape did not lend itself well to the heat, and studying indoors was all but impossible. About his person, books rested open marked with parchment and pen, leaving a blistering trail of academic logic and cryptic reasoning for prying eyes to try and decipher. He had asked his sister to bring him water, and the crystal jug and goblets sparkled in the halcyon bolts, begging to be refilled. The heavy smell of cracking sand and the distant scent of pine drifted down from the cliff face above the village, and washed away the lethargy with a brisk uplifting aroma. “This,” the mage mumbled, “is bliss.”

Time passed until he could stay still in the torrent of warmth no more and he sat upright sluggishly and picked up the quill. His discourse with idiocy in the forest on his way north had proved a fruitless search into the obscure nature of the fables of his people, but he had learnt something in Scara Brae from a young mage that had rekindled his view of the state of things. To say that he had been looking at it the wrong way as an understatement, he had categorically misunderstood everything about the nature of the Library, the vast repository of knowledge that sat beneath the Council Plateau. It had been his people’s charge set in stone long ago to ensure that no soul ever opened the great seal, that no soul ever learn all the secrets of the universe and beyond. “Jurran dictates the Library to be a source of good, a wellspring of power to draw upon in times of need. What if the ancient fiends that dwell in its depths have permeated into the world, and have corrupted his mind to rest his will on the hinges?” He shook his head with disbelief, and continued to read from the passage he had marked with a scrawling line of annotation.

Since the Magister’s disappearance during his first exploration of the wider world, and the Council’s repeal of the Isould majority in the government of the valley, he had considered, and accepted the fact that he had been duped into believing his former master’s every word. He had played the role of the gullible fool far too condignly, and he punished himself with a vigorous and continued state of research, not leaving his study or even the lofty heights of the viewing balcony for anything other than the direst of emergencies. He had chosen to place the burden of proof on his mind, and he would not rest until the political turmoil Jurran had left behind was sated, and the prosperity of the House Isould line was restored to its rightful place at the head of the Seven Sons. He would not rest until the daemons in the abyss and his former master paid for their machinations against Althanas proper.

[Allennia]

He turned the page idly, waiting for inspiration to strike. Three hours had passed since he had risen from his slumber and it was still early afternoon. Whilst the sun above the village had dimmed, its warmth weakened by a thin veil of whispery clouds it was still potent enough to draw the villagers out into the open air. The soothing sound of the many streams which ran from the cliff tops to the valley below and the chorus of polite conversation from the market square reminded Abhorrash that he was at home, that he was safe, and that he was where he was understood. It did not make the task at hand any easier, but it made the process bearable.

Each page in the Grimoire of Meshach was a sprawling and conceited maze of parables and fables and myths and ramblings. Truth be told, the Lord Isould saw nothing in the words except lunacy, but it was part and parcel of the background reading required to understand the machinations of his people. Long ago, it had been on the back of this book, and the many books scattered across the balcony that the first council had bound the library shut. In their words and veiled power, was the instrument Jurran sought. “If only I could traverse time itself to ask the progenitors their take on the matter,” he mumbled, sucking his thumb between thought and day dream.

A breeze took his thoughts away for a moment. With a sigh, he stood upright and walked to the rail to look out across the valley in all its radiance. From the highest point of Isould he could see two of the other houses, and the central plateau that dominated the horizon. He wondered how many hours the Magister had spent surveying this same scene, plotting its ultimate demise with his greedy fingers clutched about the neck of his puppets and fools. Abhorrash took a deep breath to bring his thoughts away from anger and back to the serene and idyllic nature of his sanctuary. At the same time, the veil of words and quotations fell back into place. “It could not be so simple…” he said, somewhat shocked by the sudden revelation.

His gaze out across his kingdom had given him an idea. Long ago, the Meshach family had built the very study he was living in to separate the academic and magical pursuits of the first Isould Magister from the villagers. In this mausoleum of that ancient tradition, Jurran had spent many years, almost a decade in fact in solitude, studying the books and ancient machines which brought the dream worlds they often duelled in to life. There he had been taught the principle tenets of the Red Mage, how to conjure light and shade into the world to heal, protect and burn the opponent’s of the Seven. He thought that all this learning was to produce a strong heir to the Lordship of Isould, so that the valley could be protected. Jurran had another use for his willing disciple all these years; Abhorrash was being bred as a weapon, an unknowing betrayer of trust.

The whole day had been wasted examining texts he had read a thousand times, when all along, the answer he sought did not rest in the words of old, in the records of time and history. The answer rested in the building itself, in the school that bred Jurran’s corruption, and ultimately, the gulling of Abhorrash in his own citadel. He turned and strode to the stairs that spiralled downwards into the heated library, knocking the glasses from their tray in a flurry of lemon slices and cherry blossoms.

[Allennia]

The sound of Abhorrash’s boots echoed down the staircase as he descended into madness. The library had an open planned design and as he appeared at its centre, he could see all the shelves and machines and desks scattered around with little cause for anything other than practicality. On the far side, the books and shattered pine shelves from his departing lesson with Jurran still rested haphazardly across the chequered floor, and the window pods were still flickering with arcane and undying energy. The study perpetuated the myth that it was used, continued the daily routine of magical learning and idle pastimes, with or without its occupant.

“If I were my forefather, where would I hide a truth so profound, that it could shift the very dialog of nature…that it could form a new paradigm in life?” He spoke the question aloud, as all true madmen did when deep in thought. He trailed back and forth between the nearest book shelf and the next, running his finger along spine and mantle for some small spark of creativity. Nocturne Romantis blurred together with Pragmatics & Concubines and mingled with Grimoire after Grimoire of magical knowledge. The ancient shelves were thick with dust and the whirl of the solarium intermittently clanked through the silence.

An hour slipped the red mage by and before he realised he was wasting his time, he found himself at the edge of the scattered and burnt papers and the upturned furniture. The fireballs and energy blasts had flung back and forth between the two men, but they had left an aura in the air even now. He lifted the edges of his robes and knelt on the cold floor in a praying position, and let the folds drop harmlessly to his sides. Carefully and cautiously, he held out his gloved hand and reached into the fold between reality and the arcane, trying to scoop up the tendrils of the Magister’s unique magical imprint. He felt his own warm aura first, and pushed it aside with a mental purge. He felt the vacuum between the two planes and it was a cold and foreboding experience, one which blanched his mind and cast an omen before his eyes; a black cat, a white feather, whatever symbol the person delving deemed unlucky.

“Ah!” He exclaimed as the nauseating aura of power collided with his own. He pulled, and brought the glowing sphere back into reality in its radiant glory. The library glowed in an eerie and sickly half-moon light, as if the daylight from outside were absorbed by the energy. It formed a fluidic orb floating an inch above Abhorrash’s outstretched palm and span on a slow axis like a star. The light reflected two pin points in his pupils and he stared at it with amazement. He had never read or heard of anyone maintaining an aura, an ambient background to their spells for so long. It was uncontested as far as theories went, but already Abhorrash presumed the spell Jurran had fired at him long ago to have been a rouse, a deflection of perception.

“Could it be that Jurran had intended to kill me there and then?” He pushed himself upright with caution, careful not to dislodge the orb or let his concentration slip and his grip on the aura fade. “No…” he continued the dialogue as if his mind were two people. “He hid this here so that he could return someday unhindered, so that whatever protection rests on this abode would recognise him as an ally,” the first lesson he had been taught as a young knave and heir was that the library was enchanted to recognise only an Isould, or an ally of the house. With Jurran gone and his respect and kinship to Abhorrash’s father shattered after his death, he would not be able to return… “Unless the magic at work here thinks he never left…” The red mage shook his hand to lose the aura back into its craven hole, and felt suddenly and inexplicably sick and afraid.