Chapter Fifty-Two: An Echo of What Was.

  Selriph drew his estoc in a blink, brandished it at the wooden figure, ready to unleash a precise thrust towards the core of the frame. In his other hand, purple arcs of electricity crackled between his fingers, ready to coalesce into an orb that would meet the same target.

  The animated mannequin, however, simply sat down in an open chair, in a casual pose, unperturbed by the apprehensive posturing of his visitor.

  “You are cautious, commendable. It must be how you survived your trek here,” the otherworldly voice rang in his mind, masculine, yet devoid of any human inflection.

  “What would you know about my journey?” Selriph’s brows creased, arcane energy welling, ready to be unleashed.

  The figure’s reply didn’t come with any expected fear; instead, the voice came intoned with monotone curiosity—if it could even be interpreted as such. “Ah, you certainly are the one, with your arcane signature. I’ve felt you since the previous sun cycle.”

  “The previous sun cycle…?” Selriph uttered the whispered question more for his own mind than the wooden figure before him.

  “Your magical feat lit up like a beacon in this sea of frost. The tool that allowed you to survive the avalanche.” The ethereal words accompanied the movement of the wooden hands—devoid of any fingers—scratching curiously at the base of its featureless facade.

  “You…? Did you cause that cursed avalanche?!” Selriph’s voice laced with venom, and the wisp of electricity fully formed into a crackling sphere, ready to be unleashed.

  “I know you have had an arduous journey here, but please. Let us be acquainted without the same barbarism that overtook souls that once roamed these halls.” As the human-like doll leaned into its chair.

  “Answer my question first.” Selriph’s voice was unnervingly low, of steel and command.

  “No, I had nothing to do with it. For a time, that was our first line of defence when the purge came. Now, whatever stirred was a result of the whims of nature and the restless remnants littered there.”

  “Fuelled by the college’s arcane energy? From your artefact up there?” The youth’s hostile demeanour dulled as curiosity made way.

  “The college grounds will always radiate mana. That is where we make our home. My curious little creation up there serves to collect it into this.” The figurine gestured behind it, towards a swirling font of blue energy, collected in a wood-carved basin.

  For seconds, silence permeated the room, the hum of mystical energy the only audible backdrop. Selriph electromancy faded as his mind processed the implication of the words—exchange by lips and telepathic means.

  The youth’s mind processed a torrent of information. What was before him was something, or rather, someone who had once roamed the walls of the college. It explained the presence of the crystal above, likely some means to collect energy and fuel its state of undeath.

  Or rather, the echo of what he used to be.

  “It appears your understanding has effortlessly dawned on you, given your intelligence,” the ethereal voice said slowly, like a kind teacher offering praise.

  Selriph nodded, not so much in agreement, but in understanding. “You are the owner of this tower? Or at least what is left of it, you inhabit that vessel now.”

  “Yes.” The reply came briefly.

  “And this arcane…mechanism you have? Does it fuel your current form?” Selriph’s eyes were tracing the glowing veins of energy upward, which extended beyond the ceiling.

  “That is also correct.”

  “So, was this a test to assess if I could locate you? Or are you simply confined here?”

  “The answer to both of your questions is the same.” As the animated figure gave a subtle nod.

  Selriph sheathed his estoc, his initial wave of hostility placated by the uninhibited river of factual, forthcoming information.

  “What happened here… how did you end up like this?”

  The figure tilted its head thoughtfully, paused, and then responded, “To tell that tale, I need something in return. This isn’t transactional, but I would need to show you.”

  “I am not obliged to give you anything. My need to descend the mountains supersedes any curiosity I possess—I have discerned enough.” As the youth began to pace cautiously back towards the stair landing.

  “Extremely cautious, commendable. But you wouldn’t have come here if you weren’t seeking something.”

  Selriph’s vision flashed to his disabled steed, sprawled in the entrance chamber, covered by the white coat of a mountain bear.

  “Yes, even physically confined here, I can perceive your presence and those of your… animal companions.” The figure’s movements were smooth and flowing, which was unsettling given its artificial appearance.

  Golden-blue Arcane wisp, a wordless answer.

  Selriph shook his head. “Answer plainly; can you heal her?”

  “Curious indeed, to refer to your steed in such a manner—yes.” Another curt nod escaped its face.

  That’s… extremely convenient. But…

  “You cannot expect me to bring her here. Nor would I expect you to do it out of pure altruism.”

  “That is correct.”

  Selriph balled his hands into a fist.

  “What is the price of this knowledge? This boon you offer?”

  The figure rose from its chair, taking slow, cautious steps, its shoulder hunched, its hands placed over each other in a gesture of earnest plea.

  “Let me roam these halls once more; in return, I will mend your steed.”

  The youth’s pace was almost perfectly in time with the clatter of wood on stone. Between him and the lifelike vessel—the mannequin—a living tether of arcane energy trailed from Selriph’s hand to the beating core.

  “I trust this does not tax you?” The voice from the figure seemed to pass straight through the mystical link connecting them, with crackling energy noises included.

  “I will last long enough for your stroll down your promenade of recollection.” Selriph’s attention flickered to the distinct frequency of his own energy melding with the figure—laid bare.

  The duo paced the halls of the classroom, the azure eyes of the mannequin observing the same sights that Selriph had appraised hours before. The aftermath of the mage’s purge was lit up by the soft glow of arcane energy.

  “Eldeitia gave those within its borders an ultimatum: devote their arcana to its divine whims, or perish as heretics.”

  Selriph’s brow perked. “And that caused the students to turn on each other?”

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  “Not just the students, colleagues, even those you thought were wise—loyal to magic as an art.” The voice’s previous neutral tone was coloured with a human emotion, likely amplified by the direct connection between the two souls.

  Spurred by the information presented to him, Selriph’s mind flashed to a sentence that Vick mentioned in the ratways.

  “The Empire is no friend to mages, not anymore. “

  Selriph felt a tinge of satisfaction, like one would after fitting the last piece of a puzzle. “I had assumed that such a purge took place, but to hear it from someone who lived through it…”

  “It was worse than any nightmare you could envision.” The figure placed his hand on the desk of the classroom, looming over the ruined sea of tables and chairs.

  “Why? I gathered that this occurred at the start of the Ironcrag war, but for them to go this far?” Selriph’s mind churned as it processed the loose trickles of information in an attempt to fill his bowl of understanding.

  “Tell me, young one, what is the most potent form of power?” The figure faced out into the classroom, as opposed to the nascent mage that stood at his side.

  “Knowledge,” Selriph stated, as if remarking on the sky’s hue.

  “And what would your precious empire want more than their supply of ores and metals for their hulking beast in the sky?”

  The realisation dawned on Selriph, almost like a stinging ray of sun, at how obvious it seemed in hindsight.

  For it was an impetus for his journey; the antithesis to the empire’s dogma.

  “To exert control over the acquisition and study of knowledge?” Selriph replied upwards, although he was confident in his reply.

  “Precisely, from the moment the Eldeitian Empire branded itself holy, its formerly noble institution eroded into the perverted form you experienced.”

  Selriph let out a chuckle. “Noble?! The empire contains only zealots. You mean to tell me—”

  “There was a time when it wasn’t so. The mage’s guild, free to pursue the pure art of arcane study, amongst many other sister organisations.”

  Selriph shook his head at the incredulous notion that Eldeitia was anything but the suffocating, bloated, pompous mass it was.

  Then he paused, his breathing low.

  “So what if it used to be so? Even if it is true, it hardly matters now, given its current form.”

  “Agreed, so tell me, where do you trek?” His voice expectant

  “And why should I divulge that to you? After this, you heal my steed, and I am off—our arrangement.” Selriph’s face a near-snarl at the prodding of information.

  “Eastwards, yes? You came from the western side of the range. Nalthrys? Or taking a ship out to another nation on the continent?” The reply came dry, undeterred by the scepticism.

  “If you are telling me to turn back towards Venthar, I will not entertain that notion.” Selriph’s voice was firm as he began to pace towards the exit, forcing the figure to follow in step.

  “I didn’t mean to suggest that. I would assume Venthar—given it still exists—would have radicalised after the war; any pursuit of the arcane would likely turn into militaristic paranoia.”

  Selriph turned back, his eyes widened at the congruity of the mannequin’s statement to the runaway’s motivations.

  The figure paced past Selriph, drawing one last glance at the classroom before gesturing to the corridor.

  “This exchange has sufficed. Come. Let me repay you in kind.”

  The mannequin stood over Nightwind, its wooden hands placed gently over the twisted flesh. Loose fabric and the pieces of wood lay next to the limb, undone by the hand that secured them in the first place.

  Selriph heard the faint sniffing of the dire wolf as it ran its nose up and down the legs of the arcane vessel. Each whiff from its nostrils intensified, accompanied by a low whimper.

  “Can you mend it?” Selriph’s voice.

  “If you had posed this query to most of the students who once roamed here? No, they would not have entertained the notion of pursuing advanced healing.”

  Selriph placed his hand on Emmett, stroking its fur. The dire wolf seized its curious eye, examined the eye, and looked up at its human companion.

  “I assume you weren’t a student?” Dryness accompanied Selriph’s rhetorical question.

  The animated mannequin did not answer; instead, it began to weave its hands in a circular motion. Two overlapping arches of golden-blue arcane energy formed over the middle of Nightwind’s thigh.

  Selriph felt it, the tug of arcane energy. The same sensation he felt when he touched the crystal in the tower.

  Selriph closed his eyes, matching the somatic gestures of the mannequin as a blue wisp of energy—almost like misty vapour- emanated off his person.

  The energy streams flowed towards the connection linking the living mage and the being suspended between worlds, resembling miniature icy streams that merged into the vast river Valdorea. As he immersed himself in this momentary symbiosis between his magical essence and that of the aged soul, he could feel the potency of the healing magic—far beyond that which he used to heal his wounds in the Shera Woods.

  As the mannequin began gesturing in fluid motion, as best as it could, the runaway mage’s skin felt a cool, soothing balm like static passing through his body. All the while, he felt the ‘warmth’ of his magical energy like feeding coals into a tiny furnace on a frosty day; some of the heat emanated back onto its source, warming him.

  The golden light began to fade into the dark hair of the horse, while its thin skin and limbs transformed into a healthy, plump pink. Beneath the surface, amidst the mysterious energy, Selriph detected the unmistakable sound of bones mending.

  The horse whinnied, perhaps sensing both discomfort and relief, as its leg, previously injured, mended at an incredibly rapid pace due to the energy now present. Where the body bore bruises, small flickers of gold energy would come into contact with them, then vanish as though they were never present.

  Emmett paced over, its figure passing through the vapour like energy, placing its comforting paw over the gulper horse’s head.

  Then the gestures began to slow, as black hairs, darker than ever, grew over the once exposed thigh bone.

  When nothing remained of the injury that had threatened to pull the horse into the afterlife, the last of the healing energies faded, and Selriph and the mannequin ceased their movements. A slow, soft exhale from the boy, which would have been mirrored by the elderly person—if it had a living body.

  As the youth became engrossed in the results, the mystical bond between the young and old spirit faltered. Selriph composed himself and channelled his attention to the vital energy he was imbuing the mannequin with.

  The horse stirred, flexing its legs as it righted itself upwards onto its abdomen. Then it extended its hind legs—now both functional and mended up.

  The steed stumbled, reacquainting itself with the foreign act of standing, not just because of its regained vigour, but because of the fact it had not trekked on solid ground for days.

  Nightwind stood there, the light from the domed ceiling making her look like a divine steed.

  The creature’s legs clawed at the cold stone, and it wobbled a bit as it got used to the act of standing once more.

  Selriph paced over to Nightwind, placing a hand on the horse’s back. “You all good girl..?”

  The horse turned back towards its rider, its usual, unreadable expression marked by a slight flicker in its eyes. Gratitude? Relief? Or perhaps it was just the youth attempting to attribute human emotions to the steed.

  Either way, his trusty mount was on its feet. They could resume their trek.

  This is fantastic. With any luck, we could get out of the snow line by tonight if we make haste!

  As Selriph turned the mannequin, he cleared his throat and transitioned his body into formality — an end to his enthusiastic celebration.

  “Thank you, truly.” The boy’s voice tinged with the first hint of genuine gratitude for weeks.

  “Of course, young scholar; now, if you please, could you escort me back to my tower…? The voice that played in his mind was light and airy, expressing a quiet happiness.

  Right… he needs to be returned to his arcane source. Can’t leave just yet…

  Selriph guided the mannequin through the northern wing, back through the empty hallways where a grand board once stood. Back through the terrarium that linked the two halves of the college. Back through the empty hallways to the mess hall.

  And finally, to the library and up the stairs, into his personal study.

  There, the figure invited him to sit. The educative posture of the mannequin and the bearded figure in his dreams—possibly mirroring the person’s previous body—were almost imaginable to Selriph.

  Selriph followed, coerced by some unknown mix of politeness, gratitude, and compelled by the polite gestures of the faceless figure.

  The wooden figure paced over to the shelves, withdrawing a few items and parchment. Its hands traced the walls as the glyphs lit and faded, responding to an unknown command.

  “If there is nothing else… sir,” Selriph pressed his leg into the chair.

  “There is one other matter, not for me. But for you.” Its face turned to Selriph, offering the parchment and tome.

  The youth’s palm extended in a polite gesture of refusal. “If you are offering me to stay here, I have to decline. I admit, the thought of being educated here entices me. But…”

  Selriph’s mind flashed with the vision of his lessons with old man Vick, whose body was likely no more than a pile of ash by now. The days spent in the ratway, Selriph, the indirect cause of his certain death.

  “Let’s just say experience has taught me to make haste. Besides, my steed will find no sustenance out here.”

  “You learn from your experience; it shapes you. You truly are intriguing; you align with the true tenets of what it means to be a mage.” With a delicate touch, the wooden limbs set the book and parchment on the table, subtly highlighting the figure’s complimentary remark.

  Why the flattery now? What is this leading to?

  Selriph stood up, weight in his step, and he stepped away from the figure, attempting to keep his movement casual and non-confrontational.

  “Discard the preface.” Selriph’s voice was low, yet pointed and straightforward.

  “You remind me of someone who roamed here. Very well, indulge me for a moment. I agree with your course of action: pursue studies in Nalthrys.”

  Selriph’s brow furrowed, unsure how to respond to the mannequin’s ethereal remarks.

  “And your noble pursuit of something so pure.”

  “Pure…? That would be the first—”

  Hold on, I never mentioned my motivations…nor my experience in the ratways…! Is this just a conjecture? Or could this…?

  Selriph stepped back, red and purple energy welling into his hands in defensive anticipation.

  Then the familiar words came—something he whispered to himself every chance he had within the cold, unyielding walls of the Templar compound.

  A mantra only he knew.

  Away from prying eyes, from curious ears within the wall.

  “Pure indeed: to seek a place of magical study, without shackles. Truly noble.” The mannequin spoke, pressing a wooden hand against its chest with a soft, hollow tap.