Chapter Fifty-Three: Fate and Choice
“What manner of sorcery is this…We haven‘t even exchanged names. How do you know that?!” Selriph quickened his pace to the door, his hand placed tight around it—lest it snap shut, trapping him in the maws of yet another folly.
The figure remained motionless. “The current of the arcane is more than just your comfort.” The vessel conjured a flame, and then, a split second later, a spark appeared, both nestled in its wooden hands.
Selriph’s eyes widened at the display of pyromancy and electromancy—the elements he found solace in during his gruelling years in the templar behind closed doors, away from prying eyes.
“You glimpsed my mind…? When we were tethered?! That was not for you to pry!” Selriph moved closer to the figure with heavy steps, his voice filled with rage, his face tight with emotion.
The figure stared, unmoving, at the youth’s advance. “You are presuming I acted on purpose. In my state of being, I glimpse currents even your remarkable senses can‘t perceive. “
Selriph stopped, considering the words’ content and their lack of aggression. “Currents…? You mean to tell me…?” His mind drifted towards the implications.
“Arcane energy doesn’t just manifest in the physical.” The figure faced the conduit in the room’s rear, its arms moving with a blend of fluid and mechanical motions. As the trails of mystical energy floated towards the room’s wall, the glyphs softly vibrated.
“Like these glyphs, warding this sanctuary even from the most prying of mage-hunters—allowing me to preserve my existence when my mortal form expired—a non-material influence on the material realm.” The mannequin’s blank face swivelled to partially face Selriph.
“That much I could gather, which is why I could not sense this place before working the bookshelf’s mechanism. Do not drift from the point.” With Selriph’s hand outstretched, his palm glowed with blue arcane energy.
The voice that played in his mind was emotionless, yet there was an undercurrent of genuine pleading. “You have every right to be wary, but please, I beg you, when you hear me, don’t repeat the savagery that destroyed this place.”
“Only if you don’t provide a reason to.” Selriph’s voice came factual as he lowered his hand an inch.
“Very well, in my unique state of… purgatory, I can perceive something of great interest to your journey,” said the wooden mage.
Selriph did not speak, instead providing the temporal space for the figure to satiate his cautions and curiosity, one answered by an arcing motion drawn by its wooden hands.
There, a translucent, floating stream of arcane formed in the space between the youth in an organic body and the elderly spirit in an artificial vessel, the wisp of mystical energy floating like mist, slowly wafting towards Selriph.
“The current of time, ever flowing like a river. As mortals, we are carried along its whims, only able to perceive where we are at any point.”
Selriph’s mind drifted as the trickle of information began to crystallise; the mention of time, the likely ability to perceive the past, and possibly more.
“You mean to tell me you could perceive my past…? When I fuelled my arcane force to you…?” Selriph intoned with scepticism.
“Yes, those words you spoke to yourself when no eyes were upon you. Your mantra. It’s played just like a song — ever-present in your subconscious. As you well know, your thoughts are given form in magic; given your ability to cast without an incantation.” The figure’s voice came as it browsed through the bookshelves on the right side of the room.
Selriph lowered his hand, his mind teetering towards satisfaction at the answer. “Fine, I cannot fault you if what you claim is true. It suffices.”
Selriph turned his body intent on leaving. “If there is nothing else…”
“Patience, young one, the lesson isn’t over,” Selriph heard, followed by the distinct ruffle of parchment.
Selriph’s footsteps slowed to a crawl. “The last time I tarried to learn a lesson, I caused the death of nearly a dozen souls.” Selriph’s throat tightened with the faces of Vick, Hagan, and the burning corpses in the warehouse—his chest tightened at the acrid scent in his memory.
“And you will soon join them if you do not heed me.” Selriph heard the distinct sound of the unrolling of parchment as his foot found purchase on the stairs.
Selriph hesitated, looking over his shoulder, and could just discern the map-like details of the unfolded paper, while the wooden figure was positioned above it, staring.
“Are you insinuating…?” The youth’s voice was weighted, reflecting the growing knot in his stomach, not from any fear, but from processing the implications of the otherworldly words.
“Yes, just as I can perceive glimpses of your past, so too can I see your future,” the figure answered, unmoving.
His mind went to the Caer Eldralis library, much like his current location, where he remembered a furious tirade in Gerey’s company. A passionate rant about one’s fate, the supposed subservience to the gods’ whims and destiny, a concept Selriph found utterly detestable, given his disdain for Eldeitian truisms.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
That rhymed with a single line that he couldn’t forget: “That is your purpose, your calling.” Sir Harwyn Daryth’s words.
“You surely cannot be suggesting that our fates are set in stone…? That I am set to perish? What of the choices I make…?” Selriph’s foot left the stair landing as he turned back to face the figure, pacing closer to the unfurled parchment.
“After all, you chose to preserve yourself in this vessel; do not tell me that was predetermined.” Selriph’s rebuttal carried an edge of sarcasm, his finger pointed in accusation at the wooden construct.
“We share the same perspective; our choices determine our fate.” The answer was spoken—or rather, transmitted — in a voice that expressed warm agreement.
Selriph’s brows crossed each other at the unexpected answer, his mind ready for the expectant elaboration.
The figure pointed at the map. The unmistakable outline of the Holy Eldeitian Empire, without the Ironcrag highlands as sovereign territory, rested on the eastern border with the Nalthrys state.
Selriph’s eyes flicked back upward. This was the first instance when his mind couldn’t make sense of the morsel of a gesture.
“You will venture east to Nalthrys—your fate determined by your actions, your attachment to your ideals, and your companions.” A circle was drawn in the air as the figure’s hand lingered over the border.
My companions…? Emmett and Nightwind…?
“Surely you cannot mean that the wolf and the horse will cause my death.” Selriph chuckled, although his face maintained a stoic expression.
“No, but you navigate to the border in a manner that accommodates their presence,” he figured, pointing to the map on the desk—towards the Greyspire Mountains.
Selriph calmly countered, “Nalthrys is the most logical place.”
The mannequin tapped its fingerless palm on the table. “Why travel through the mountains? You didn’t go via the mountain pass, nor did you choose to stow away on a ship. Easily done with first-tier magic, trivial for your abilities.” The response was delivered in a monotone voice, even though its rhetorical nature was evident.
“It wasn’t that simple—inquisitors, agents of the empire that can detect magic. I am a wanted face. Simple concealment would not suffice.” Annoyance coloured Selriph’s response, given he’d rehearsed these possibilities in his mind numerous times.
“Finding passage via the sea is well within your repertoire; your magical signature is all but inert—remarkable control. I only sensed you because of your display of cryomancy,” the voice almost intoned in genuine compliment.
Selriph’s words caught him as the truth of the old mage’s words began to erode at Selriph; he could have taken such a course of action; between shadow veil and muffled footsteps—already scribed in Varnel’s tome—sneaking around a port would have been challenging but not insurmountable.
A rebuttal came, this time lacking conviction, almost intoned as a question: “But stowing away would add an element of randomness—who knows where I could end up on the continent?”
“A faceless among many in lands unknown. With no eyes upon you. What challenge would there be in finding the continent-spanning guild?” it asked in educative inquiry.
“I…” Selriph’s eyes gazed to the side, to the walls, unable to muster words.
He … he is right. I am only in the middle of this frozen hellhole because Emmett saw? fit to follow me. I could easily have abandoned the horse after making it to a northern coastal city.
Selriph’s eyebrows jerked along with his neck, jolted into realisation.
Why did I decide I had to cross over a land border…?!
The animated figure repeated the words as the boy unearthed a long-buried fact;
“Your attachment drives your action—your fate.”
He had grown attached to his animal companions—he felt responsible, or rather, wanted to complete this journey with them.
He would have dismissed it as sentimental hogwash, as he often did in his tirades.
“I.. concede the validity of your words. But what you are proposing beyond that still doesn’t hold weight,” his voice soft, conceding.
“Doesn’t it? In the same manner that led you here, so too will the rest of your journey play out the same.” The wooden figure traced along the eastern border of the Nalthrys state.
“Until you reach the noose awaiting you, it is almost certain from what I glimpsed.” Its swirling azure eyes were glowing, meeting Selriph’s ocean blue.
“Almost certain…? You leave no room for doubt.”
“A blade to your neck, your figure drenched in blood—your garments tattered, surrounded in a suffocating void of darkness.” The otherworldly voice held a serious tone, sounding like a warning as a spark of magic crackled in its arm, the events unfolding in a hazy, static tableau given life in the distinct blue form of the arcane.
“I am no seer, but what I glimpsed leaves little room for interpretation.” The voice came with a hint of sympathy.
“I fail the crossing…? Get captured…?" Selriph recoiled, realising his dedicated efforts might not bear fruit. Apprehended, executed—a mere stroll away from freedom.
“It can’t be… You lie… this has to be an illusion.” Selriph seeped away further. Yet somehow, the weight of what he witnessed felt real, felt true.
“I have only told you the truth. Here is another; I do not wish to see you perish, not like the students I failed to protect.” The old wizard, the mannequin, head hung low—a trickle of blue arcane energy, almost like liquid in its consistency, slid down its face.
“And what do you suggest? I abandon the horse and the oversized canine? Take a ship across the oceans to a storybook ending?” A hint of amusement crept back into his tone, masking the gravity that would be involved.
“That is one path to a solution—one you would not take.”
Would I …? Do I really lack the stomach to abandon—no, kill Emmett and Nightwind? They are just animals after all, beasts.
The events of his two treks played out in front of him, his memories shared with steed and canine companion. The wolf’s life-saving intervention against the twins, its furry, cosy, protective embrace in the frosty nights in the mountains—a true sign of companionship, an echo of when it had a place to call home.
The nightly steed, a constant companion. Despite its pointless wandering, that led the frost troll to them.
Selriph had to admit he liked the jet black horse—shunned and neglected in a previous life, yet infinitely valuable in his eyes.
At least enough that when it ended up in a mangled state—better abandoned, it was tended to by its owner.
For a moment, silence hung over the two souls in the room. The only sound was the faint hum of the glyphs—just like the ones in the ratways below Caer Eldralis, a cold blanket masking their Arcane presence from the rest of the world.
Then the boy broke the silence with the barest whisper. “No, you are right… I would not take that solution.”
Selriph swore he almost saw a faint smile on the mannequin—in the same likeness of the face in his dream, one of approval.
“You are a kind soul. Thankfully, there is another choice you can make—one in this moment.”
“What do you mean…?” Selriph looked into the ‘eyes’ once more.
With anticipation, the figure put its hand over its heart, the magical centre containing the spirit of the bygone mage. As the core detached, producing soft clicks that blended metal and wood sounds, it gently landed in the wooden figure’s palm, now only powered by the magical bonds tethered to it.
“I offer my knowledge, my skills, my very being. All you have to do is take me on your journey. “
Take the offer?
