"Potential Energy"
by Justin R. R. Stebbins
Part 3: The Storm Inside
Septimus Plutarch arrived at his family’s manor on the edge of the Black Lands two days later, still traveling alone to avoid suspicion. He took his time, resting often and poring over the tome he’d stolen from the Hidden lair in Coronaria. He knew they would realize it was missing, but would they do anything to him, as valuable as he was? He doubted it.
And I’d be even more valuable if I knew how in Hades to do some real magic, he thought as his cart rattled over another hill. The manor came into view then, resting in a lush valley below him, between a shining blue lake and the dark forests of the Black Lands. The mansion itself rose like a fortress tower, tall and grey, surrounded by a stone fence topped by black iron spikes. It contrasted sharply with the placid surroundings. The Plutarchs had never been a family known for their beautiful decoration choices.
A servant greeted him at the gate as he swung it open. “Hail, Master Septimus! Your brothers sent word that they would be late, though we were expecting you a good deal earlier as well.”
Septimus frowned thoughtfully as he loaded his books into a satchel and dismounted, taking them with him. “I see. So none of my brothers are here? When should they arrive?”
“I don’t know, m’Lord – within a day or two, I think.”
“Take care of my horse and carriage. I’ll be in the study. If anyone else arrives, let me know. Just knock and shout it through the door; it will be locked.”
The servant nodded, though Septimus did not see it, for he had already moved past him into the manor. There were some more servants inside cleaning, who bowed when Septimus entered. He nodded to them as he strode past, heading straight up the stairs to the study.
It was a spacious room on the second floor of the manor, with a shining wood floor, plenty of comfortable chairs – one behind a large desk – and glass doors opening to a balcony overlooking the lake. Septimus tossed his bag into the nearest chair and withdrew the stolen Hidden book, which bore the title A Translation of Nirav Sadar’s Study on Elemental Lightning, by an anonymous author. The title had caught his eye because his own unexpected magical murder of Paulus had looked like lightning.
But he’d already read enough of the book along the way, so he just deposited on the desk and picked up a silver candlestick. He had failed time and time again to cast any of the spells mentioned in the book, but he was determined to keep trying. Striding out onto the balcony, he looked down. There was only a short gap between the side of the building and the defensive wall below, with nothing but grass and the lake beyond. No servants would see, hopefully, if he succeeded in blasting the candlestick. So he set it carefully upon the balcony railing and then stepped back to the doors.
He casually stretched out his hand and said, “Voco Fulmen.”
Words, the tome had said, helped to concentrate the mind. The shorter and more specific the words, the more concentrated on a single idea the mind could be. This meant, supposedly, that although specific spell incantations had been found to have certain effects, any words could be used to cast most basic spells, no matter what the language. High Imperial was favored due to its terse and accurate nature.
But this sage advice had been no use for Septimus so far, because once again nothing happened.
He concentrated now, furrowing his brow and pointing one finger directly at the candlestick. He was a surprisingly good aim with a crossbow – one of the only martial contests in which he was a match for some of his brothers – so how different could it be to aim a spell? He tried to think of lightning, images of Zeus tossing thunderbolts, even the Nordic god Thor with his thunderous hammer.
“Voco Fulmen!”
Nothing. Why in Hades wasn’t it working?! He stamped out onto the balcony and grabbed the silver candlestick in his fist, preparing to hurl it into the lake if he could manage to throw that far. But as soon as his fingers closed around it, something happened:
The candle on top exploded.
Septimus looked at the candlestick. There was smoke rising from where the candle had been resting, and blackened bits of wax dotted the balcony. He wondered why the candlestick itself had not been harmed.
He walked over to the desk, setting down the candlestick and picking up a new one. He stared intently at the candle, trying to rekindle his earlier feeling of rage and concentrate it on the new target. He stirred up his emotions, bringing them to a boil.
“Voco Fulmen!” he snarled.
Nothing. He swore and slammed the candlestick down upon the table. Was it a bad spell?
But his thoughts were interrupted by a sound coming from behind him: “HAHAHAHA!”
Septimus wheeled. It was Varius, his cocky swashbuckler brother, swaggering into the room and clapping as he laughed. His leather vest was hanging open and he smelled of alcohol. Septimus felt the chill touch of terror run over his skin. He’d been discovered. Just a few days since his first act of magic, and already his secret was out.
But the situation could still be salvaged…
“What are you laughing at?” Septimus said, eyes narrow as his fingers inched toward the sword sheathed on his belt.
“My brother, the world’s worst swordsman,” replied Varius with a lopsided smile, “is now the world’s worst wizard as well! He can only cast spells by accident! Oh, things could not have worked out better. Go ahead, draw your sword, brother! I’d welcome a final duel!”
Varius’s blue eyes flashed, and his sword appeared in his hand as suddenly, Septimus thought, as a bolt of lightning. Its tip was pointed toward Septimus’s throat, and though he still stood some distance away, he knew Varius could close the gap just as quickly as he’d drawn his blade.
Septimus took a step back. “What are you talking about? You’re going to kill me? Why? What could you possibly gain?”
“Well, for one thing, by a stroke of luck, the Inquisition is already on its way here! They’re traveling with our esteemed eldest brothers, heading into the Black Lands to search for some secret mage stronghold or something. It’s all so perfect! Now to finish it!”
Septimus unsheathed his sword just in time. As he’d predicted, his brother closed the gap in two graceful steps, striking at Septimus as fast and hard as he could. It was all the younger brother could do to deflect it. As he blocked the jab and stepped back, Septimus picked up one of the silver candlesticks from the desk behind him.
He pointed it as his brother, but Varius just laughed and mocked him: “Voco Flumen! Hahaha!”
“Flumen means river, you complete idiot,” Septimus snapped between gritted teeth. He despised the thought of being killed by a moron.
Varius rolled his eyes. “Oh, whatever.”
The dance resumed, steel ringing against steel. Septimus put all his effort into remembering his swordfighting lessons, parrying Varius’s attacks and trying to keep his brother at bay. But no matter how hard he tried, he found himself being pushed back. Soon he realized, much to his shock, that he was standing out on the balcony now. The wind whipped over him, catching his short cape like a flag. He had nowhere to run.
“Why?!” Septimus shouted. “What do you gain from killing me? The satisfaction?! We could be allies! Your blade and my magic!”
Varius laughed again, almost madly. “Oh yes, your magic is so impressive! Just as impressive as my swordsmanship, certainly! That must be why father made you his heir!”
Septimus’s eyes went wide, and somehow he deflected Varius’s next attack almost by reflex, as if his desire to live had just increased. “What – are you saying – how could you –”
“I picked the lock to his room one night just like I picked the lock to this study! He’d been writing his will, naming you above even Adam and Albus! Above me! Above six brothers! I refuse to see that happen, and now that I know your secret, I know it never will!”
With newfound determination, Septimus threw himself into the fight. Blade rang against blade. But Varius had new energy as well. With rage that matched Septimus’s determination, he forced his younger brother back more and more, until Septimus knew the balcony railing must be right behind him. He glanced back to look, just for a fraction of a second, and that was all it took.
Varius knocked Septimus’s sword away, sending it spinning out of his grip, through the air and over the edge of the balcony. Then he stabbed Septimus. The younger brother felt the cold steel sink into his side. He screamed.
And then he looked up, right into Varius’s eyes. His brother stared back at him, surprised at his courage. Septimus reached up… and grabbed the blade of Varius’s sword. He felt hot blood trickle down his wrist where the edge started to sink into his fingers. He let the pain combine with his outrage and fear, channeling his emotions.
“Voco Fulmen,” he said.
Varius went rigid for a fraction of a second, then shook violently as a flash lit the air, even brighter than the light of the sun. Arcs of lightning crawled along Varius’s blade and into his arm, snapping and cracking, leaving burns on his clothing and flesh as they traveled over him.
Then it was over. Blackened and stiff, Varius toppled backwards, letting go of his sword’s hilt as he fell. Removing his hand from the blade and gripping the hilt instead, Septimus pulled the blade from his side, groaning as he did. With a great effort he stood, wiped off the blade, and slid it into his own sheath. He didn’t even look down at Varius as he shuffled past his charred corpse.
“Live by the sword…” he muttered, with a dark chuckle.
Then he saw movement. The door to the study was still open, and a servant was standing there.
“Voco Fulmen!”
He did it reflexively, pointing and saying the words. This time, the lightning came when called. It split through the room with a sharp crack… but his aim was off. It only left a charred hole in the door next to the servant. He got a good look at her then, as she stared at him with her eyes wide. She was young, he thought, very young. He moved his finger to the right, toward the girl’s face… But he hesitated.
Then she was gone, running back through the hall and down the stairs. The last living witness to his magic had escaped. He’d held his lifelong dreams in the palm of his hand, and in a moment of weakness, he had let them all fall away. Cursing himself, he took off after the girl. Maybe he could still catch her before she told someone else. Or maybe he’d have to kill every servant in the manor.
He sprinted down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, but on the way he tripped and nearly fell. Swearing again, he steadied himself and resumed his pursuit. But by the time he reached the bottom, he knew he was too late. He caught a glimpse of two servants fleeing out the main door. All the doors in the hall were open. They all knew, and they were all gone.
He could not believe his misfortune. If what Varius had said was true, then he had been set to inherit his father’s lands and titles – everything he’d ever wanted. And he’d beaten Varius. For once, he’d felt completely confident and in control of his life, on the road to being Lord Plutarch, the secret mage prince of Pluton Hold. But now that moment had passed. Once again, he felt it all crumbling down around him. All his plans, everything he had tried to build.
He looked at the great hall of the Plutarchus manor, with the portraits and tapestries of his father and forefathers hanging on the walls. Suddenly he hated all of it. He wished it would crumble down around him. He walked out onto the wide purple carpet that spanned the hall, standing in the center of a great star of Astra depicted thereon. Then, without even thinking about it, his emotions swirling like a tempest within him, he raised his arms…
Lightning poured from his fingertips, arcing up along the floor and the walls. A bolt snapped across the room and straight into the face of a painting of his eldest brother Adamas. It fell to the floor, burning. Fire began to trail along the blackened walls. One, two, three thunderclaps split the air, and he felt the floor of the building tremble under his feet. A chandelier hanging overhead fell and crashed at his feet, sending shards of broken glass onto him.
He didn’t care. He felt the energies of the universe flowing through him, and felt more like himself than he had ever felt before. Why should he be concerned about the trappings of man, when he held in his hands the power of the gods? This was who he truly was, what he was meant to be. He had found his true potential. He felt free, without a care in the world as he watched his old life burn. The pain of his wound was entirely forgotten. He laughed aloud with joy.
Then a section of the roof fell down, blazing with flame, crashing to the floor just to his left. It woke him from his ecstasy. He turned and ran from the building, out into the courtyard. He glanced around as he listened to the Plutarch manor crumble behind him. There were no horses left in the stables. Perhaps the servants had taken them all, or released them. Still on a high from unleashing his magic, he could not bring himself to care. He simply strode out the front gates, turned toward the forest, and ran.
What could possibly stop him?
---
Adamas and Albus Plutarch surveyed the wreckage of the lakeside manor. The mansion had been burning for hours before they got there, and it still blazed now – a towering inferno bearing the symbols of their house. Albus felt righteous indignation. Adamas simply felt the cold desire for justice.
The latter turned toward the Inquisitors who had accompanied them. They had been headed toward the Black Lands to stomp out an outpost of the Hidden there when they’d joined forces with the Plutarchs so they might travel together. The Plutarchs and Inquisitors had talked much along the way, and Adamas had come to admire their selfless dedication to such a necessary cause.
Then the servants from the manor had come, riding on horseback, looking terrified. One girl recounted the tale of how she’d witnessed their youngest brother, Septimus, kill Varius with magic. The servant had fled as Septimus destroyed the manor behind them, casting lightning from his fingertips and calling it from the skies to burn that bastion of his family name to the ground.
“You have a new target,” Adamas told the Inquisitors.
There were only three of them: an Inquisitor-General, his lieutenant, and a channeler. The Inquisitor-General’s name was Burkhard. He was old with silver hair, and he wore his void-iron mail like a second skin. Clean-shaven and straight-backed, his black tabard bearing the white iron bars was immaculately straight and clean. His lieutenant – named Karl Metus – wore heavier armor and never fully revealed his face, leaving his helmet on at all times with only the ventail open to reveal his chin, which seemed curled into an eternal scowl.
From atop his mount, Inquisitor-General Burkhard looked down at Adamas where he stood outside the gates of his family’s manor. “We do, Master Plutarch. We’ll do our best to bring your brother back alive for trial, if possible. We were supposed to wait here for a contingent of Ebonguards to help us clear out the Hidden stronghold, but we should be able to handle Septimus on our own. From what the servants said, it sounds like he’s inexperienced, as well as wounded.”
Adamas nodded. “He’ll be brought to justice, I swear it.”
His lighter-haired younger brother Albus gave him a worried look. “Adamas… go easy on Septimus. I doubt the boy even knows what he did. The servant said Varius had stabbed him. You know Varius…”
“Knew Varius,” Adamas corrected. “Unless our witness is a liar, Septimus killed him.”
“Possibly by accident,” said another voice, with a thick Southron accent.
It was the channeler, whose name was Basileus. The Plutarch brothers had never seen a man with darker sin. It was almost as dark as the black tattoos that covered it, including a tattoo of the Inquisition’s emblem over one of his eyes. He had a black beard and long black hair as well, both thick and curly, and wore little more than a ragged black robe over his bulging tattooed muscles.
Channelers underwent special rituals so that they could absorb magic through their runic tattoos and “channel” it back at their enemies. The Plutarchs had asked him whether his skin tone was a result of the rituals, but he said it was natural, as he was from a land far, far to the South. He was well-educated in the arts of magic, even moreso than Burkhard.
Basileus went on: “Magi can lose control of their powers during times of stress, emotion, pain... I have witnessed it personally many times. It is why they can only be allowed to live in secluded, controlled communities like on Karak du Vide. Septimus will go there, if we can take him alive. Hopefully he will see reason.”
Inquisitor-General Burkhard’s lieutenant, Karl Metus, added: “But if not, we will do what’s necessary.”
“I understand completely,” said Adamas. “I can come with you…”
“No,” said Burkhard, “I will not be the man to get either of the eldest sons of Lord Plutarch killed. No offense meant, my Lords, but without void-iron armor or the tattoos of a channeler, you are as helpless against your brother’s power as if you were fighting naked. Now, the three of us should be off before Septimus gets too far ahead. Metus! Release the hounds!”
Besides their three horses, the Inquisitors had two other animals with them: a pair of dogs, sturdy bloodhounds with thick muscles visible beneath their short black and grey coats. Their great floppy ears twitched to and fro as they sniffed the ground around a pair of footprints left by Septimus. Metus let go of their leashes, and off they dashed toward the forest. In a rumble of hooves, the Inquisitors followed.
---
Septimus was walking just off the northern road into the Black Lands, keeping off the road itself and traveling through the forest to its right. He had no precise idea where he was going, just a vague understanding of the local geography and locations of towns where he could stop and rest. He had enough coins in his pouch to last a while.
And the power of the gods at his fingertips. On the way he had spotted a rabbit and killed and cooked it with a single blast. It hadn’t been terribly tasty, so he’d left most of it for the wolves, but still it satisfied him both physically and mentally, securing his feeling of power. He wondered vaguely if the strongest magi even needed to eat, or if they were able to overcome such mortal requirements…
Suddenly he spotted a lone traveler on the road. Clad in a grey cloak and robes, the man was easy enough to recognize by his hairless head and pale, very nearly translucent skin and eyes. Septimus shouted a greeting to him and emerged from the brush onto the road.
“Cold-Eyes,” he said with confidence, “fancy meeting you here.”
“Master Plutarch,” said the Hidden pseudo-mage with a very small bow, “I am pleased you have found me! Our stronghold is not far, in the forest due east of here. It rests on a place of magical power, so even though I cannot sense it, you should be able to find your way there. The stronghold is located beneath a crumbling old fortress ruin, and–”
Septimus held up a hand to stop him. “Cold-Eyes, I have a question to ask of you. If I were to, say, suddenly be discovered and lose my influential position of power in the Imperium… would your organization still have any use for me?”
The little necromancer squinted his pallid eyes at him, as if he had trouble seeing clearly. “I… hope it will not soon come to that, Master Plutarch. But you are a born mage! Lady Victis emphasized how rare and valuable you were, no matter your position among the nobility.”
“How comforting,” Septimus said sarcastically, and then he sighed. “I just wish I could have seen my brothers one last time, to tell them that father was going to name me his heir. To rub it in their faces, and then tell them I don’t even care anymore...”
Cold-Eyes blinked with incomprehension. “Wait… you don’t mean…?”
Septimus paused at the sound of distant barking. It was not an uncommon sound in and of itself, but he was on the alert. He recalled something he’d read in a book, about the Inquisition using a special type of bloodhound, kin to an ancient breed developed by the Venatori for hunting monsters…
“They’re coming,” he said.
Cold-Eyes blinked. “What? Who?”
“A parade of frolicking naked nymphs,” Septimus said dryly. “You catch on quick, don’t you?”
He was about to clarify with the truth when the truth itself rode up before them. First came the two dogs, and behind them three Inquisitors on horseback. The one in the rear whistled, recalling the hounds, which immediately ceased their snarling and snapping and ran back to their master. Then all three Inquisitors dismounted. Two were clad in that daunting black armor, one in plate and the other only in mail. The third was nearly naked, but his skin was almost dark enough to be void-iron itself. The white of his eyes shone like beacons of light against it.
Septimus glanced at Cold-Eyes. He had not thought it possible, but somehow the pallid little mageling had gone even paler.
In a fit of panic, without even thinking, Septimus stretched out his arm and cast a bolt of lightning at the first Inquisitor. It cracked like thunder, splitting the air, and burned the man’s tabard in half, so it fell to the ground in blazing pieces. But the Inquisitor himself did not even pause in his stride. His black armor was not even smoking.
As Septimus tried to think of a plan, Cold-Eyes attacked as well. With a hissing snarl, he mouthed an incantation and called upon his demonic powers, conjuring a ball of red hellfire between his hands and then sending it hurtling toward the middle of the group of Inquisitors. But without hesitation, the channeler simply stepped in front of it, letting the blast of crimson flame disappear straight into his chest. The network of tattoos on his ebon skin began to glow white, as did his eyes…
Septimus turned and blasted a nearby tree with lightning, setting it aflame and sending a large branch falling into the road. Then he put the branch between the Inquisitors and himself, hoping his movements would be obscured by the smoke and flame… and fled into the woods. He did not look back.
“I’ll go after him!” shouted Inquisitor-General Burkhard, tearing off the last remnants of his burning tabard. “You two finish this one!”
As he dashed into the forest after Plutarch, Basileus and Metus advanced on Cold-Eyes. Basileus channeled the energy he’d absorbed and sent it flying back at his attacker in the form of a beam of raw arcane power. At the last second, Cold-Eyes shouted a few words and conjured a magic shield that deflected the blast. The magic was sent flying outward in all directions, striking the nearby ground and tree branches, twisting them into unnatural shapes.
Basileus just kept walking, with Metus on his heels. The latter Inquisitor then dashed forward, striking Metus’s magic shield with his sword. The void-iron blade cut right through, slicing into the mageling’s arm. Cold-Eyes stumbled back with a cry and sent out a gust of red flame from his hand. Basileus just reached out and caught it, then channeled it right back into the necromancer’s face.
Cold-Eyes screamed as his flesh was burned and scarred and twisted.
“Violent and wielding demonic magic,” said Metus, his voice echoing within his helmet. “Let’s put him out of his misery.”
Basileus just nodded. He drew his dagger and knelt down beside the suffering servant of the Hidden. Then he calmly slit his throat.
---
Septimus ran as fast as he had ever run in his life. He was no expert, however, at making quick time through the forest. He kept tripping over vines and getting hung on briars, and all the while he could hear the indomitable Inquisitor-General smashing through the underbrush behind him like a void-iron boulder. Along the way, Septimus kept blasting trees with spells as he passed, setting them ablaze. But it only seemed to tire him out more. Earlier, when he had unleashed his power in the manor, it had felt limitless. But now, calling upon it as needed was starting to drain him.
He passed a particularly large dead tree. Summoning all the energy he could muster, he cast lightning at its base, which exploded into splinters and flame. The fire spread rapidly, and then the towering inferno crashed to the ground, blocking the path behind Septimus. He had long since resumed running, not looking back. He hoped the blockade would slow the Inquisitor down for a while, because he had no more strength left in him for spellcasting. It was all he could do to concentrate on the vague feeling of magical energies in the area, trying to follow them to their source.
Soon he saw the ruined stronghold ahead. It was a tiny place, just a small crumbling tower with a tiny ring of stone walls at its base. The gates had long ago been smashed, and the intact iron portcullis was wide open, so Septimus dashed inside. He looked around desperately for some sign of the Hidden, and his eyes soon landed on a note nailed to a wooden post. The note bore the Hidden symbol – the black hook – and below it was written:
If one of our brethren reads this, know that we have abandoned this location until the Inquisition are done sweeping the area. All Hidden should leave the Black Lands immediately.
If one of our enemies reads this, know that GODS NEVER DIE. EMPEROR ILDRIUS WILL RISE AGAIN!
Septimus balled up the bit of papyrus in his fist and tossed it to the ground. It was clear the fortress had been used recently, for there were tracks of men and animals all over the hard-packed earth. But everything of use had been taken when the Hidden fled, apparently. The only thing left was a massive amount of hay and animal feed in a loft above the stable.
Suddenly Septimus had a truly wild idea. It was desperate and would likely never work, but he had little choice except to try, or die trying.
He would not be taken. He would not be caged.
---
Inquisitor-General Burkhard took caution when he reached the ruined fortress. He was out of breath from running so far in full armor, especially after dodging all the burning blockades Septimus had put in his path. He paused a while, leaning against the stone wall until his strength returned.
He looked into the fortress, the gates of which lay wide open. Inside the low stone walls stood a few buildings, including a stable with its loft smashed open and crumbling. Hay was scattered everywhere, so thick on the ground that it rose up nearly to Burkhard’s black-armored knees as he waded into it. He moved toward a wooden post, to which was nailed a crumpled paper bearing the unmistakable mark of the Hidden.
The moment he reached the note and began to read, he heard a loud metallic clangor and then a crash behind him. He wheeled to watch helplessly as the iron portcullis dropped down over the entrance. His eyes moved upward to the gatehouse above it, where a man in simple but well-made noble finery – with the purple cape of the Plutarchs – stood confidently with his arms crossed, gazing down.
“Septimus,” said Burkhard, sheathing his black longsword, “come down here, and let us speak. We do not wish to harm you…”
Septimus Plutarch threw back his black-haired head and laughed. “Oh, you can skip all that, Inquisitor. I once dreamed of being one of you, so I know very well your order does not suffer a mage to live a free life. I have no time to talk.”
Burkhard threw out his hands. “So what will you do then? Run? They all run, Septimus. But they can never run forever.”
“I don’t intend to,” said the mage, and then he cast his spell.
The lightning set the scattered hay ablaze immediately. The flames spread with startling speed, and Burkhard was forced backward. But everywhere he ran, Plutarch sent another bolt ahead of him, starting another fire. Soon the entire courtyard was aflame. And while the lightning that sparked them was magical, the flames were not. They were natural, and void iron did not block natural flame.
Burkhard was roasting in his armor, coughing from the smoke, unable to breathe behind his void-iron mask. He tore the visor from his helmet, snapping it right off the hinge, and tossed it away. It bounced between the bars of the portcullis to land in the grass outside the gate.
Burkhard stumbled after it, hoping to get some fresh air near the gate, but the hay was spread beyond even the portcullis, all of it blazing. He walked to the iron bars and peered out through the smoke… and saw Septimus Plutarch standing there. The mage looked down at the void-iron mask, picked it up, and turned it over in his hands, gazing at the triple bar design that hung down over its narrow visor.
Looking at Burkhard, he slid the mask into his satchel. “I’ve heard that if an Inquisitor loses any piece of void-iron gear, they are obligated to search for it relentlessly until it’s found. Well, they’ll be searching for me anyway…”
Burkhard said nothing. He stood there, leaning against a wall, choking silently as he was baked alive in a void-iron oven. The stare he leveled at Septimus was as cold as the flames were hot. He refused to bargain or beg for mercy.
Septimus did not stay to watch him die. He knew the other Inquisitors would be on their way, and in truth, he didn’t care if they managed to save Burkhard. They would scour the world for him regardless. All he could do was keep moving.
As he walked away from the burning tower, he considered the events of the last few days. It felt as if he’d gained and lost everything at least three times since that meeting with his family in Pluton Hold. He thought of his sister Octavia, whom he might never see again. He wished he’d gotten a chance to tell her how much he actually enjoyed her music… And to think, for a few brief seconds, he’d held in his hands everything he’d ever wanted. He’d been heir to the title and lands and gold of Lord Plutarch.
But even as he had lost these trappings of power, his own power – his true power – had only increased. Wealth and property and prestige could be snatched away, just like love and family. But the churning storm inside of him, the power that arced from his fingertips… No one could take that away. And it would only grow stronger. He would see to that.
Albus and Adamas Plutarch had followed the Inquisition against their wishes. But by the time they caught up with them, Basileus and Karl Metus were just preparing to head into the woods after their commander and his quarry. They were in too much of a hurry to protest the Plutarchs following them, so all four plunged in together. Metus led the way, with his two bloodhounds on their leashes sniffing out the path.
As it turned out, they were not needed. Even if Burkhard hadn’t left such an obvious trail as he smashed his way through the underbrush, Septimus’s burning trees also clearly marked the path. The woods were likely to erupt into a forest fire soon, but that was not their concern. They forged on, heading toward a pillar of smoke that rose ominously in the distance, beyond the trees.
When they arrived at the abandoned fort, the inferno inside was still blazing. But all that was left of Inquisitor-General Burkhard was a heap of void-iron armor against the wall, with a dancing flame where a face should have been. Karl Metus fell to his knees at the sight, and Basileus closed his eyes and bowed his head. If they said any prayers for their fallen comrade, they did it silently.
After a moment, Albus Plutarch spoke: “I am sorry. As Adamas said, we will do everything in our power to bring our brother to justice for his crimes. His guilt is now clear.”
With grave seriousness in his gravelly voice, the dark-haired Adamas fell to one knee. “I will do more than that. I offer my service to the Inquisition, in payment of the debt of this man’s life. I will help you catch my brother myself, and continue to serve after that, for as long as I am needed.”
Albus shot his older brother a concerned look, but he knew better than to try to dissuade Adamas once he had set his mind on a course of action. He only said, “Adam… you know that Father will not like this. And when Sextus hears… You know he follows you everywhere.”
“It doesn’t matter what they think,” said the stern Adamas. “It only matters what must be done. Tell young Sextus he may follow me, or follow you with my blessing. But this is my duty. Inquisitors… will you have my sword?”
Metus and Basileus exchanged glances. The former nodded his helmed head. Basileus smiled and turned back to Adamas.
“We will give you a new one,” he said.
---
The elderly woman strolled leisurely through the marketplace, smiling at each stall she passed. Her silvery white hair tied up in a bun, a shawl over her head, standing hunched in homemade clothes, carrying a basket of herbs from her garden… she was the picture of a nice old lady. No one who saw her would have thought her capable of harming a fly.
But once she was out of sight of any prying eyes, she slipped deftly into the shadows of an alleyway. She removed her shawl and stood up straighter, striding into the darkness with confidence. Ahead of her stood another shadow, in the shape of a man in a cape and hood. He stepped out into the dim light to meet her, but his face remained in the shade of his crimson hood.
The old woman said, “You’re the one who wishes to join the Schola?”
The hooded man raised a hand, on which he wore a fingerless black glove. A faint blue light appeared in his palm, barely illuminating the alley before it disappeared again when he closed his fist.
“Of course I am.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Mm-hm. I heard about your experience with the Hidden. You say you joined their organization, but sensed its foulness and managed to escape? I congratulate you. Many are too late perceiving the evil of that group. You were fortunate.”
“They were mad, hoping to resurrect and restore an insane Emperor who already fell once. I have better things to do.”
“Certainly. If you can lead us to any of their strongholds, it would be of great use to us to liberate any magical knowledge they are hoarding. We have great libraries of our own, to which you’ll be granted unrestricted access. They are located far from the world of men, where one can study in peace.”
“I thank you. It is an honor.”
“The honor is ours, young man. All well-meaning magi are welcome within our halls. It’s been ever so long since we found any.” She gave a little laugh. “But listen to me! I must be growing senile. I haven’t even introduced myself. I am called Suzana, sometimes Suzana the Silent, for I prefer to listen rather than speak. One learns more that way. And what, pray tell, is your name?”
The mage threw back his hood. He had blue-blooded Achaean features, with high cheekbones and an Imperial nose. His hair was dark, his eyes blue… and he had a small forked beard on his chin.
“I am called Plutarch,” he said politely, as a smile spread over his lips. “Lord Plutarch.”