Passage 45: The Ease

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I focus back on the scene before me. Rakatha, no surprise, has gratefully accepted the offer. I, on the other hand…

“I will handle my own lodgings.” There is no retort to this answer but I know it won’t keep Vong from trying.

“Ah, I gotcha. You probably have some Wizard-only club. That’s sweet! Offer is open though.”

Vong seems to think being a Wizard is a lot more interesting than it really is. Yes, there is great power but it’s a lot of hard work. Long hours studying. Long hours scribing. Long hours practicing a spell. Gathering components. Preparing rituals. And so on and so forth. His questions lead me to believe he thinks of it like the Elysian Guild structure. I suppose that makes sense—it is the world he grew up in.

But no, we don’t have some Guild Maester overseeing all magic use, who is voted in by a panel of Misters. We don’t have Misters who lobby for and protect the interests of magic futures or manage a magic company. We don’t have novice and journeymen and master casters in the same way that a craftsman might.

There are a handful of great masters who do whatever it is they want to do with the power they have accumulated. In Elysium, that is Val Maxis and he’s chosen to clone himself through apprenticeship. There is Lord Pythus that oversees the Mage Academy of Malscheme that churns out casters and artificers to serve the nation of Dromatica. Then there is Relaisil the Ice Witch up in Aes’Vaellwyn who guards the domain of the Winter Elves and seems content to live alone in the mountains. The last one I know of, and there might be more but not many, is Thorcsia Malgrave in the Free Realms League who is standing ruler of one of its kingdoms, after conquering it.

There is no Wizard Club. What an imbecilic idea.

I am spared dinner conversation by Vong’s ability to self-converse and Rakatha’s occasional contribution. He talks about how the spice combination used to create the Crown Chicken is a family secret passed down from generation to generation like a priceless heirloom. How his name started with Vong Vong thirteen generations ago and now it is customary for the eldest son to be named after him, leading to his mouthful of a name. He mentions family back east and an uncle in Manos enVoll. And something about being one two-hundred-sixty-fifths elf.

The food is good, the wine is good, the company is like ice needles in my spine. I am ready to find some hole-in-the-wall inn where I can read my new book and be alone for the next three days. I can’t get out of there fast enough but I fake my way through the rest of dinner as impassive as a mountain.

When I leave, I wander through the familiar city alone, no longer in a hurry. The night is on the edge of the season, not quite warm and not yet cool. The occasional breeze sweeps through the streets, kicking up dust or rustling posters. I walk the main streets where crowds still bustle even at this late hour but I feel keenly how I am not a part of it. I am the fish swimming upstream. The wolf scattering the herd. The outsider.

Once again I walk past the pawn broker where my shop stood. It’s not closed. This time of night is probably good for business. I pause and look around, seeing some familiar faces scurry past me. A few seem to recognize me but don’t acknowledge me.

Maybe this place isn’t so bad. I’ve learned some good lessons, even if they hadn’t seemed so at the time. The knowledge of contract laws alone will be useful in future negotiations I might need to make. I’m acquainted with the customs of the region and that will go a long way to spreading my influence back through here. It’s actually got a tactically advantageous position and bountiful resources so it would be an excellent staging ground for a military campaign to into Plor, Kadraka, Athvisvale, or the Wildlands. I know the language, and thereby can do business both here and in Plor. I picked up some Orcish also because of Ulsh. Val Maxis, as much as I dislike him, did meaningfully advance my mastery of the arcane.

I’m feeling much more placid, much more myself, by the time I reach the first inn on the list of inns I intend to distribute my stays between: The Bronze Bat. Named for the blunt instrument, not the flying rodent. It’s relatively clean and relatively cheap, but it tops my list because there is a room with two beds end-to-end I can stretch out on, a writing desk, and the owner has a good mind to keep to himself. It’ll be a fine place to spend three days.

The room I want is vacant so I pay in advance and settle in.


The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays. 

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