Chapter Fifty-One: Nothing but Ash

  Selriph’s return to the world of consciousness was not brought about by the sting of the morning frost. Neither was it from the blinding white light that filtered from the cracked, domed ceiling. Nor was it the sensation of the living duvet pressing down on his ribcage.

  This time, what roused him was a pain in his stomach, a low growl of protest; a series of tight knots that hovered in the empty void in his abdomen.

  The unmistakable pang of hunger.

  “Ugh,” Selriph groaned, still half-asleep. He groggily gave two light pats to Emmett, who, instead of overtly aside, lazily rose to its feet as the boy unsteadily got out of his bedroll. Then the wolf settled back down, in unmoving rest, its eyes closed. Once more, a neutral, but relaxed portrait.

  Damn, exhaustion claimed me before I could eat yesterday…

  The boy dragged in a lethargic shuffle towards his bag, extracting a carefully wrapped package of tallow. The frozen ration resembled white chocolate—though it obviously wouldn’t hold any sweetness.

  Bundled in another set of parchment were the last pieces of the rock-hard meat from the frost troll, days old, but preserved by the elements.

  Selriph bit into the tallow. Its tasteless, yet fatty texture coated his tongue as the warmth of his body rendered it into a paste-like substance in his mouth. Far from culinary ecstasy, but nutrition and sustenance nonetheless.

  A soft, red glow emanated from his other hand, in his palm and fingers that wrapped around the last unidentifiable chunk of frost troll meat, which coerced it out of its frozen state, enabling him to chew upon it.

  That’s the last of the rations from the Shera Woods and the frost troll. Now we only have what we got from that mountain bear…

  Selriph eyed the large, hearty parcelled-up collection of raw, frozen meat, which he had butchered from the mountain bear—what was left after Emmett had indulged in its share the previous day.

  No doubt, the wolf would see fit to provide itself with another generous helping later, when it had stirred from its slumber. Its dreams were surely full of its carnivorous activities, potentially mixed with memories of the woodsman, if it was able to recollect and dream at all.

  The youth began consuming the jerky-like meat; his teeth ached at the sheer force required to bite into it. His eyes landed on his majestic black steed. It’s breathing light, in an equally deep slumber to its canine acquaintance. It remained stationary, a convenient aid in its healing.

  That was also the problem on display; until Nightwind’s injuries recovered in full, it was unlikely they could make any modicum of progress in their descent down the mountain. It had taken thirty gruelling minutes to navigate the horse to this relatively proximate sanctuary after they had chanced upon the college.

  In that endeavour, Selriph found his concentration stretched thin; the human ward had to steady the ethereal ‘splint’ while also using arcane levitation to lighten the burden on the horse. The act took a toll on the youth more than he’d ever admit.

  Selriph had no illusions that the improvised splint was nothing more than a glorified amalgamation of torn fabric and loose wood. It was no medical marvel—useless for continuing their trek.

  This isn’t good… Nightwind could likely survive another few days without food. But with the blood loss, she is sure to be weak.

  Selriph appraised the parcel. One, two, maybe three kilos of meat?

  Not going to last us over two days here … we have to trek down, that way she can graze on the tundra.

  The horse emitted a low, slacked, sputter, yet still, immobile.

  But for now, we are confined here.

  Selriph gazed past the decaying wooden doors, the piercing wind whistling through the openings.

  Emmett and I could venture out in the day to hunt for prey, but what were the odds we’d find another lone bear, let alone vegetation?

  The youth withdrew the shoddy, leather-bound notebook from his pack, as well as the rock-like piece of charcoal that acted to scribe information. His hands flipped to a page that detailed his various nightly experiences—a tool for exercising lucidity and recall, documenting the strange experience he had in his dreamscape.

  His mind played with the images from yesterday’s dream, a congruent vision to his considerations.

  First, the bustling mess hall, where students lined the tables filled with fresh, steaming food.

  Impossible. If the Ironcrag wars happened over a decade ago, then it stands to reason that magic fell under the empire’s internal boot in the same period. No food could last that long…

  Selriph traced the faint memories of his lucid waking dream, the halls that seemingly loosely resembled the college they walked—not entirely, given the fickle nature of such an experience.

  The terrarium and other parts may hold some lichen or moss… if it comes to that.

  His recollection eventually reached the end of the dream—the library and the mysterious robed figure that called out to him. The boy did not attempt to ascribe meaning to it, although it would indeed be fortuitous if such a being existed in the repository of lore.

  What mattered was what could remain in there, given the relatively unmarred state of the mage’s tower in the section of the college that no doubt housed the library.

  But that’s impossible… nothing would remain.

  His mind drafted an image that was antithetical to the one in his dream—the library, instead of its pristine, homely condition, would be ruined. Ash and soot where tome and parchment would lie-the fate of ‘heretical’ knowledge.

  Damn, do we even have a choice? Perhaps there could be a hidden compartment, like the one Gerey had.

  Selriph glanced out of the corner of his eye; the scroll that could heal grievous wounds was visible in his pack. While Selriph’s mere cantrip could only bind skin and surface flesh, and the potions a mere layer deeper, the fourth-tier spell inscribed in runes could easily heal the horse’s injury.

  Selriph let out a sigh, a mix of resignation and resolve, as he rose to his feet.

  If I can’t find something by today, I will have to use it; we will die here if we cannot move.

  Then the youth looked at the stairs, towards the section of the college yet unexplored.

  Best be thorough; perhaps even a fragment of healing knowledge remains there.

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  Selriph paused, gathering his things before heading to the stairs.

  His hand tightened around his estoc, the red pyromantic glow of his luminescence as he ascended the stairway.

  To the college’s northern wing, drawn by the lingering magical energy, and with the hope of discovering any knowledge that could assist his horse in its recovery.

  They were really thorough…

  The sight before him threatened to reignite the wave of uncomposed anger that overtook him when he first entered the college. Now, he found himself in a large room on the third floor of the northern wing—wholly dedicated to one thing: arcane study.

  At least, that was its former function. The row of shelves in the library was nothing but ashen remnants. Put to the torch by the holy, or rather, ‘sanctioned’ flames of whatever vile forces Eldeitia administered in this sacred place of arcane knowledge.

  The youth no longer found comfort in the weak red light emanating from his hand. The ember luminescence, which danced on the library walls, seemed to remind the space of its fiery trauma.

  The scribes and librarians’ awful screams filled Selriph’s thoughts, not because they feared for their lives, but because of the abject distress they would experience from witnessing the centuries of knowledge that would be callously destroyed by fire.

  Selriph clenched his hand. The red light vanished, giving way to the calm blue radiance of neutral magic. Even though the air inside the dilapidated building was frigid and stagnant, and the wind’s shrill wails echoed through the broken windows, the boy didn’t feel cold. Instead, he experienced a comforting solace, as though the walls themselves acknowledged the tactful adjustment of his illumination.

  The youth’s steps clattered faintly into the library, disappointment filling him like the inevitable rising of the tide.

  There were no books or scrolls left, a reality as evident as the light of day that filtered in from the library’s edges.

  His hand instinctively went to a small, improvised bundle that hung next to his main pack, a rough assembly of different cloths, filled with the moss and lichen he had scavenged on his ascent.

  At least Nightwind will have a meagre morsel…

  His gaze refocused as his exploratory pacing brought him in front of an arched counter. Beyond lay stairs, which no doubt led to the only standing tower, likely belonging to the former owner of the library or someone from a high station in this college.

  The state of the dead bodies around was what he found peculiar. This anomaly was not confined to this room. Rather, it was prevalent throughout every place he visited, only coming into his attention now that his mind had found curious focus upon it.

  A detail that seemed mundane at first — the corpses that bore any remnants of the deep blue robes—standardised uniform of the college—would typically be in a death pose of slumped antagonism. Either facing empty air or one of their murderers—common foot soldiers, and the occasional abandoned remains of a templar, holy knight, or paladin.

  Selriph walked to the window. The sun appeared to be perfectly framed in a welcome portrait of this curious sight.

  Two corpses, slumped in death, yet juxtaposed, or rather, in hostile opposition to each other. One body had been subjected to flame, although the remains of the garments remained barely identifiable; the other had a fractured ribcage, untouched by fire, but supported by the remnants of the earthen constructs that struck the lethal blow.

  Both corpses bore the academy robes.

  This one-off occurrence would have been a passing matter; however, Selriph had noted that he had seen at least two dozen similar arrangements.

  There was only one logical conclusion that could crystallise in the face of what he had observed.

  Did the Eldeitians make the mages turn on each other…?

  The question lingered; its significance churned dread in his mind. Former comrades of study sicced on each other during the fateful day, perhaps coerced by the false promise of mercy if they turned on their retinue.

  It can’t be… perhaps I am overthinking this. Maybe these were Eldeitian agents masquerading as students…?

  He dismissed the idea with a shake of his head, turning his attention back to the stairs across from the counter; their function was now clear, as a place where tomes and scrolls would be exchanged between the librarians and the students.

  Selriph closed his eyes, feeling the ambient arcane energy around him, twisted, somehow bearing the scars of the events that took place, like a clean tapestry of fabric that bore holes.

  And above, where the stairs led, was a dim beacon—a concentration of arcane energy, or perhaps the source of the faint static in the air.

  Selriph traced his mind’s attention upwards; no life signatures or arcane-endowed individuals except for himself.

  He opened his eyes as he drew his Estoc; the steel on leather rang through the room.

  Best be cautious…

  His ascent through the stairs brought about a tingle of magical static on his skin; it was unmistakable. With each step he took upwards, he was approaching the residual source of the mystical energy in the college—one that could have caused the avalanche by proxy.

  The sight that met him at the upper landing fell short of mesmerisation but was no less interesting:

  A singular arcane crystal, about the size of the dire wolf on the far side of the study—or what remained of it. Hummed with arcane energy, its blue glow was faint, pulsing between luminance and ambience at a regular rhythm.

  Selriph appraised the rest of the unremarkable surroundings—blackened remains of tome and parchment, a now routine sight.

  Of course, it would have been too much to ask of fate for the knowledge here to be intact.

  The mage stared intently at the crystal, much like a hawk focusing on a tasty morsel in a sea of filth.

  So why is this thing still standing…?

  Elaborate trap for the arcane-sensitive? That explanation had no root in rationality.

  Perhaps the purging forces saw it fit to mock the ruins by leaving this one piece standing? Unlikely, given the precedent set by holy doctrine and the thoroughness they had exercised in their cleansing throughout the rest of the grounds.

  As he paced towards the crystal, he felt the faint shattering of small pieces underfoot. Glass-like. His gaze shot downward. The blue glow shimmered in the remnants of crystalline fragments, from small shards to palm-sized bits.

  The same material that the male elf had used in his orb, and the one in the crystalline object before him.

  His palm landed on the crystal, expecting a warm, comforting buzz to meet his skin.

  Instead, what he felt was beyond ice-cold. The moment he touched the crystal, the blue glow in Selriph’s own hand faded, nearly losing all luminosity.

  Selriph jerked back. Where his palm had met the crystal, the glow that once adorned his palm was left there like a handprint in the stone, before it faded, melding into the material.

  Wait... It’s not outputting magical energy; it’s absorbing it.

  Selriph stepped back, his hand in a vice grip around his estoc, seeking its assurance.

  I don’t like this… should I turn back…?

  As he continued his doubtful gait towards the stairs, his eyes landed on the bookshelf just next to the crystal. All the tomes blackened, slumped.

  All except one—held perfectly perpendicular to the shelf’s base.

  Wait, surely this isn’t the same as the mechanisms Gerey had?

  Selriph’s curiosity took over, overriding any plans for a careful escape. His hand released its hold on the blade’s handle, and his body, almost without conscious thought, began to move slowly toward the book.

  Where he expected no resistance, he felt a spring-like tension as he pulled the blackened book.

  Click

  Arcane energy buzzed from the crystal next to him as previously unseen glyphs flared to life along the bookshelf, parting as the centre as it revealed another set of stairs running down the centre of the tower, the runes traced and followed the spiral downwards into the unseen unknown below.

  Then, he heard the mechanical racket and snicks of something below, what sounded like long-dormant doors shuffling aside.

  Furthermore, a distinct arcane presence below revealed itself, something that had concealed itself even from Selriph’s attuned senses until now.

  There is definitely something down there…perhaps it would be wise to turn back…

  Selriph glanced at the landing he had come from—this was the final chance to turn back. Or at least, acquire the dire wolf’s support.

  No… whatever is down there, the signature isn’t strong… if it comes to it, I can retreat if needed.

  His mind drifted to the horse, confined to lying down due to its injury.

  If there is even a chance that whatever is down there can heal Nightwind, I should at least try to investigate it.

  Thus, with a sharp exhale, Selriph began his descent down the glyph-lit spiral staircase, into the heart of the mage’s tower.

  At the foot of the structure, the brick walls bore almost no sign of dust and memory—clean, pristine, tended to. The wooden doors were ajar, and the space inside was reminiscent of the room in the Caer Eldralis library where he sought refuge with its aged librarian.

  With his arcane flame aloft, his attention was drawn to the meticulously arranged books and parchment that littered the shelves and surrounding areas. A singular couch next to a table sprawled with writings, indecipherable from this distance.

  Then, movement, as he noticed a humanoid figure stir from beyond the shelves.

  “Hello…? Who is there?” In the youth’s grasp, the flame shifted to orange, poised for release. His estoc-wielding hand coiled in tension, prepared to be swung with a swift gleam of metal.

  A mannequin with a blank face revealed itself. Its form was made of a wooden material, not unlike those that adorned the opulent streets of the capital’s shops of excess.

  In place of eyes were wispy, pebble-like orbs of mystical energy. In its chest, a radiant crystal emanated arcane energy, connected by a lattice of connecting metallic veins throughout the figure.

  Then a voice came from it — not physical, but otherworldly, as if speaking directly to the runaway’s mind.

  “Ah, good. You found your way here. I have been expecting you.”