Chapter 54: The Ocean-Eyed Answer

  Selriph pictured it all—the scene played vividly in his head: Ereknul processing his rejection, the wooden figure’s arms glowing with arcane energy, ready to incapacitate the young mage, who was destined to become his vessel.

  Feel any buildup in his magical signature. He will probably try to disable me in one shot—I have a living body, and he won’t be able to match my raw output.

  The mental image of Ereknul’s wooden form, a bolt of arcane energy—chains, perhaps a bolt intended to slam the youth into a wall.

  You know how his magic feels. The frequency. Surgically slice through it with a concentrated pulse from my left hand. Then, unleash a concentrated concussive bolt of lightning into his chest.

  He imagined the study door and the stairway beyond it.

  He’ll either defend himself or be struck, and either way, the symbols will probably ignite, causing the door and bookshelf to close. Make a break for it; don’t hesitate.

  Then came the sound of hastened clattering underfoot — up the glyph-adorned spiral staircase to the peak of the wizard tower.

  Ninety-four steps precisely. In that time, the bookshelf above will probably shut, so be ready for another magical attack and go through it...

  Finally, the image events in his head landed on the Greyspire Academy’s entrance—where his steed and canine companion lay in wait.

  Then get to Nightwind and Emmett, make a break for it—don’t tarry. Just brave the storm, form a swirling barrier of frost and gain as much distance from the college as possible.

  Selriph opened his eyes as he breathed out, gazing at the staircase on the far side of the library, past the curved counter. The surrounding shutters rattled incessantly, as if in irritated anticipation of the coming confrontation:

  One that gave the nascent mage an unmistakable sense of foreboding.

  Selriph had sensed it the instant he had walked into the library. How long had the crystal been emitting energy? Who knows?

  However, the unmistakable sign of cryomancy—a cold aura — was undeniably there, originating from the boy and reaching through the ceiling, down to where he stood.

  The timing of the storm—just when Selriph had intended to leave the college—its persistent state even now.

  Only one possible cause, one that he did not want to admit.

  Surely I am overthinking it? Maybe he is just casting a frosty barrier to protect the tower… After all, with such an intense storm, it might explain its relatively unblemished state after a decade.

  Selriph, head shaking, couldn’t decide if the situation he found himself in was a plot or merely a coincidence; he closed his eyes again, seeing the study above with the mysterious crystal at its heart.

  Either way… we will find out soon. If the storm is indeed his doing, perhaps it is best to disable the crystal; send a blast of energy into it—then head back out.

  A deafening explosion played in his head—the stone shaking beneath his feet as the centuries-old tower began its inevitable collapse, joining the crumbled state of the rest of the college.

  Remember, another forty-three paces back down to here; keep your footing. Head westward, to the door and then make a break for the academy’s entrance, no matter what happens…

  The cold air against his scarred cheek brought Selriph back to the present, his fingers closing around his estoc, seeking its reassurance.

  Here goes nothing. I have prepared to the best of my ability.

  The young person climbed the winding stairs to the mage’s tower above, recounting each step to verify the number. Sure enough, after eighty steps, he saw the cyan-blue glow emanating from above into the spiral staircase he was ascending.

  Fourteen more steps and he found himself at the landing; the messy study greeted him along with its centrepiece, the glowing arcane crystal, pulsing with magical energy.

  The youth’s eyes creased; the crystal was encased in a soft, velvety shell—not unlike the arcane protection that old man Vick had used around the two stone dummies all that long ago down in the ratways.

  An indescribable knot twisted in Selriph’s gut as he witnessed the sight; it confirmed his worst fears.

  I see… this proves it. Not only that, he conjured a barrier, so I couldn’t just destroy it.

  Ereknul called the storm—by what means, Selriph could not say.

  Such a feat—producing inclement weather—should require a massive magical output. One that would likely be classified as a fifth, sixth, perhaps even a seventh-tier feat.

  Yet, the magical output in front of him was anything but. A marked presence, a weighted pressure on his magical senses, yet nothing that oppressed.

  Selriph walked up towards the crystal, his fingers hovering just within reach of the ethereal shield.

  I can disable this… it would take five? Maybe ten seconds to do so. More than enough time to destroy it thereafter—before his vessel can come up the stairs.

  As his fingers brushed against the barrier, a sharp pain rang through. Another vision played in his mind—somewhere between memory and imagination. The halls of the academy below were filled with corpses, with figures in academy robes posed in aggressive death stances towards one another.

  Students, faculty—family in all but name; murdering each other in cold blood.

  Selriph shook his head as he jerked back—his restraint catching up before his body moved to execute what he had just envisioned.

  No… don’t be hasty. If I end up destroying this crystal, I effectively kill him. I am doing the same mindless murder that once stained these halls; it’s best to talk about this in a civilised manner.

  Selriph’s gaze traced to the bookshelf, its vertical ‘maws’ parted in welcome, runic glyphs traced the inner set of stairs into the study, the sanatorium below.

  Just stay close to the stairs—I have prepared for this…

  Selriph took a deep inhale, closed his eyes to prepare for a moment, before heading down to Ereknul’s abode.

  The nascent mage entered the familiar study—books piled in neat stacks on the two tables, the shelves lined with parchment and books.

  Everything was the same as the first time he entered, except for two things.

  The first was that the door was opened, or rather, was held ajar by two mounds of solid earth at the ends of each door, tracing all the way to its hinges.

  The other? The glyphs in the room itself were aglow, humming with the same cryomantic energy—whatever its purpose, barrier, or herald of the storm—as the crystal in the upper chamber.

  There was one other mundane oddity; the wooden mannequin, which greeted him from beyond the shelves, now stood in front of the small crystalline conduit at the far end of the room, its metallic veins glowing with arcane energy.

  As Selriph stepped beyond the boundary of the doors into the room, a subtle pulse of arcane energy pressed through his body—his body felt colder, a nonphysical sensation that added to the void that he felt from his passive aura suppression.

  Then the voice came into his head, tinged with warmth, despite the academic undertone.

  “Ah, you have returned. I trust you have made a decision?”

  Selriph willed his fingers from balling into a fist as he replied to the otherworldly voice.

  “I have nearly reached a conclusion. However, your actions and the surrounding evidence predispose me to a certain answer, one that you might not find desirable.” Selriph’s voice intoned with propped politeness, his High Eldeitian accent in full display.

  “Ah, of course.” The wooden figure turned to the young mage. Its wooden hands left the conduit as the overwhelming hum of cryomantic energy, along with the cyan hue of the glyphs around the room, faded.

  That indescribable weight, now like a soft cold blanket, remained. Nevertheless, there was a significant decrease in the pressure and density of magical energy.

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  The voice spoke once more, its swirling azure eyes locked onto Selriph. “Forgive me, this was my only means to convey my intent—regardless of your decision.”

  Selriph’s reply came with a tinge of snideness. “Given that you are effectively admitting to conjuring this storm—possibly even the avalanche that nearly rendered death unto us—you are bold for admitting your intent.”

  The figure sat in the chair—a gesture to reflect casualness, to defuse the tension? Or perhaps it didn’t feel threatened by the young mage’s growing irritation. “I cannot communicate unless you are close enough to me.”

  Selriph shrugged his arms upwards, clearly unamused by the reasoning presented to him. “You did not need to communicate with me; you have no right to keep me here—I should be allowed to leave of my own volition.”

  “And so you can,” as Ereknul’s vessel—its wooden hands — pointed at the open door behind Selriph, held in place by earthen mounds.

  “You are free to go once I hear your decision. The door will not shut behind you, even if you provide me with an undesirable answer.” The voice was still, devoid of any emotion.

  Selriph stepped back, his feet placed on the boundary with the door. “Then you won’t mind my asking my questions from here.”

  “Of course, now, please. I will answer truthfully to the best of my ability,” as the wooden mannequin adjusted itself in its chair.

  The answer came as swiftly as Selriph’s bladework. “The avalanche—your handiwork?”

  “No, I’ve only been truthful with you, as I mentioned; the surrounding magical energy agitated the uneasy spirits. I cannot exert influence in that manner in my limited state of existence,” the voice came, sure and confident.

  “If that’s true, how can you create a storm like this?” Selriph’s voice tinged with burning scepticism, the muscles in his neck tightening with tension.

  “That would take a lecture—one that would make even the most studious who roam these walls drift to sleep. In short, I encouraged the weather into its current state; I did not will it as such.”

  Encourage…? Is he somehow using magic to influence the surrounding atmosphere to create this localised storm?!

  Selriph’s senses became aware of the complex web of residual magical energy from whatever ‘spell’ had been cast. Cryomancy, yes, but also two other unfamiliar signatures—one that he had only briefly dabbled with in the tunnels under Caer Eldralis.

  Hydromancy and Aeromancy.

  “You… used magic to influence the local conditions around the college? To bid this tempest into existence?!" His voice expressed surprise, a blend of disbelief from the words he’d spoken and awe if the statement proved accurate.

  The wooden figure’s head tilted up and turned in a curious lilt. “Incredible, to come to that conclusion so swiftly…”

  No further words were required to convey the affirmative nature of Selriph’s assessment.

  Selriph’s shoulders dropped as the conclusion satisfied him, before he moved to his next query.

  “Next, answer me plainly. This ritual to implant you—that crystal — into me; how can I ensure you will not simply wrestle my body away from me? Plunge my consciousness into oblivion?” Selriph casually leaned against the door, though his words held significant weight.

  “Ah, cautious, thorough. This is why you have survived this long.” A curt nod came from Ereknul’s wooden form before it continued. “To put it simply, I can’t promise it. I must admit I do not know what that experience would entail.”

  The mannequin’s wooden hands cupped a tome just overhead, placing it on the desk before flipping through it.

  “Only one such account exists. Your being is housed within your heart and your head—your soul, as some would refer to it. A foreign, mortal entity cannot supersede you easily. You would have to consciously concede or… for lack of a better word, sleep.”

  Selriph’s right brow furrowed as he tilted his head slightly in confusion. “Sleep? You can take over my body when I am asleep?”

  “I didn’t express that very well. I’m sorry. You would need to fade away, give way to me. This is something that would require extensive control. If my experience with consciousness transfer is any indication.”

  “And I am to take your word for it…?” Selriph’s eyes narrowed.

  “The text in here, in Lauet’s hand.” The mannequin held the worn tome open, unreadable at the distance Selriph stood.

  Selriph placed his palm up in dismissal. “I will take your word as truth.” His feet tightened in his soles, affirming his anchor to his current position—mere steps away from the stairs, his exit.

  “Even without my former mortal eyes, I can see in your body that you still have questions. Please, continue,” the voice came this time with a hint of pleasant nostalgia.

  “The vision you saw, what you showed me in arcane form, how accurate is it? What did you actually see? No ornamentation.” Selriph asked, his voice stern, almost military-like.

  “I saw a blade to your neck, your figure drenched in blood and a swirling darkness. The latter is up to interpretation, but the former two elements were unmistakable,” the voice stated factually.

  “Did you see who held the blade?” The question came with precision.

  “Alas, I am barely acquainted with the strands of fate — introduced to me in my state of purgatory. My abilities are not as refined as those of the seers of your empire. Those who possess the sight, as they term it.” A note of disappointment coloured Ereknul’s otherwise ethereal voice.

  “By your admission, what you saw may not be concrete. The future isn’t cast in stone. Surely it is one of many possible futures?” Selriph’s voice is a mix of rebuttal and academic inquiry.

  “Indeed. That is the very heart of the matter.”

  Selriph cocked his head to the side at the unexpected agreement, his head cocked to the side as he awaited further elaboration.

  “You are not the first one to stumble upon this place. Two others came before you—neither had the extent of your arcane potential. Neither could sustain this vessel when they tethered themselves to me.” The wooden figure pointed to a stack of parchments on the desk, likely personal notes on the encounter, before landing its ‘gaze’ back on Selriph.

  “Crucially, neither elicited a vision of past and future, not in such vivid detail.”

  Selriph shook his head. “I still require elaboration.”

  “And that you shall have; it is the fact that I witnessed that vision that shows how powerful the current is. The one carries you along the river of destiny.”

  Selriph’s eyes grew wider, and understanding slowly dawned.

  “This… is why you made a point about my decisions. Even if it is conjecture, is that why you conclude that my demise will be met at the border of Eldeitian and Nalthrys?”

  “While your vector of travel was essentially a well-informed inference, you are correct. That is the fate that awaits you, barring a change to your intended destination or acquisition of additional…assistance.” The weighted emphasis came on the last words.

  Selriph’s body began to coil with tension. He sensed the impending end of the conversation, his mind flashing with a myriad of possibilities.

  “Say I do not acquire additional assistance, that fate is avoidable, yes? If I steer the boat well, surely I can avoid the deadly rocks that lie in wait?” Selriph’s hand was placed around his back, against the door.

  “I must admit my previous scholarly pursuits do not cover this realm of knowledge to give a firm answer. However, my educated guess would be: yes.”

  Selriph’s head dipped, his eyes closing, and he responded, “I see...” An attempt to portray pondering, despite the answer he already knew he was going to give.

  Get ready; once I refuse, we might see his true colours…

  Selriph’s eyes fluttered open, and he met the azure eyes, his own ocean-coloured eyes deep with resolve.

  “I have made my decision.”

  The figure rose slowly from the chair and walked back to the conduit, possibly to create distance and signal peaceful intentions.

  “Please, I will respect it, come what may,” the voice came, devoid of any emotion.

  Selriph’s lips tightened as he almost felt a brush of mentoring comfort from Ereknul’s ethereal voice.

  Perhaps I might even reconsider if he truly allows me to leave peacefully…

  The answer came after the cold, musty air hit the back of Selriph’s nostrils.

  “I must politely refuse your offer. I am sorry.”

  Silence fell on the room, save for the hum of arcane energy around them. Ereknul’s vessel head slumped, its hands awkwardly resting on the conduit behind him, as though searching for comfort.

  “I see…” its azure eyes glowed, its meaning unreadable.

  Selriph turned towards the stairs before he felt it, the buzz of arcane energy.

  “I am sorry, young one… I will not chance upon someone like you within the decade.”

  Of course… here it comes!

  In the blink of an eye, his rehearsed actions played out in full. Arcane energy welled in his hand, electromancy in one hand and the prepared arcane counterforce in the other. His muscles coiled and were ready to bolt upwards through the stairs to the freedom beyond.

  His sights landed on the vessel, sure enough, arcane energy travelled up its metallic veins into its arms, ready to fire a spell at the fleeing young mage.

  The glyphs on the walls glowed as Selriph heard a distinct creak of wood from above, no doubt responding to the wooden vessel’s command to close off the boy’s route of escape.

  Exactly as he had predicted.

  Selriph thrust his right hand, the arcane counterforce attuned to Ereknul’s signature, ready to disable the mage’s opening volley. The electromancy gathering density, charging in potency, is ready to be unleashed a half-second later.

  Yet, as his arm reached its farthest point, he unexpectedly felt a weight, or a sensation akin to a numbing restraint around his arm.

  The arcane counterforce sputtered and faded.

  Before his mind could catch up with his body, the electromancy bolt came with the second arcing swing from his arm, before it too fizzled into nothingness.

  What the…!

  His gaze flashed to the source—the glyphs along the walls, somehow disabling his magic, suppressing it.

  Then he felt it. The impact on his ribs sent him hurtling backwards into the wall.

  The air knocked right out of his lungs; however, his bottom did not reach the ground. But instead, he was tethered to the wall by ethereal shackles.

  The nascent mage found himself immobile, pinned and dazed.

  As Ereknul—the wooden mannequin—advanced towards him, hostile intent was now bared in plain view.