Chapter Fifty-Three Point Seven: The Council of Three

  Seriph weaved frosty-cyan energy as his arms moved in waves, bidding the layer of snow that had accumulated on the door upwards through the centre of the now ajar doors.

  It was inevitable that the doors would no longer stay shut and sturdy—it had to fail at some point. Tonight seemed to be the inopportune moment to have chosen to do so—battered by the frosty storm roaring into the entrance chamber.

  Now the boy was remedying the unexpected breach, being sealed up by the encroaching wave of rising snow, cast into solid frost by the young mage’s cryomancy.

  With each somatic gesture, the tide of frost rose through the central lines of splintered wood, a result of the flush bolt giving way and the doors being blown open. Only the glue of frost could now hold them shut.

  As the final bit of melting snow dripped from the ceiling, the wind’s high-pitched howl outside gradually faded, making way for the muffled pelting of frost and hail.

  Selriph stepped back, appraising his work—or rather, judging its steadiness. He flicked his hands and flexed his fingers—numb from the cryomancy and the surrounding cold.

  Hopefully, that holds until this storm blows over…

  Selriph mused that just a few hours ago, he had intended to leave the ruined college, beginning a belated but still viable descent. Items packed, a modest bundle of timber and moss and loose vegetation gathered; sustenance for the steed.

  That was until the storm rolled in, blanketing the outside with another layer of frost. He could not help but wonder if this unfortuitous arrival was itself the forces of fate bidding him to stay.

  At least, that was the only reason that the event could be assigned, to once more properly ponder the offer, the proposal that had been presented to him.

  The deal, the offer that, at this moment, he intended to reject.

  Contrary to his current leaning, he agreed almost instantly when the old mage, housed in its wooden vessel, suggested they go with the runaway on his dangerous trip. After all, unlike the offer that was presented to him in the winding caverns under Caer Eldralis, this seemed to only benefit the young mage. This soul—Mage Ereknul, as he introduced himself—would offer his near century of knowledge on the boy’s trek east.

  His goals aligned with the boy’s: find the guild. They would possess the resources for him to resume his research. The trapped soul needed to construct a proper vessel—one that did require constant arcane nourishment—something that could not be completed in these ruins.

  However, the temperance of rationality prevailed as Selriph asked the most logical query:

  What did that entail?

  Selriph knew at least he would have to provide a near-constant supply of Arcane energy to maintain their existence, something which would be possible given the boy’s skills, at least according to Ereknul’s ethereal words.

  The boy would need to channel energy constantly into the crystal that contained his soul. Any lapse in the life-sustaining energy for more than an hour—according to the mage—would begin to degrade his consciousness and eventually lead to his ultimate demise.

  That would involve a twenty-four-hour-long state of awakeness, akin to pumping someone else’s heart manually with hands, maintaining blood circulation where their cardiac muscles had ceased to function—if such a feat were even possible.

  The youth returned to the smouldering pile of wood—the fire that had been extinguished by the gale-force winds. He reconstructed the dismantled lean-to frame into something resembling a pile of wood for starting a fire. Next, his fiery magic revived the smouldering wood and ashes, bringing back the much-needed warmth.

  The dire wolf’s growl and the black steed’s soft whinny gave unmistakable approval; there was no other possible meaning.

  Selriph’s mind, now warmed and comforted by the renewed flames, pondered Mage Ereknul’s ‘simple’ solution to the conundrum.

  It was elegant, really. Yet the idea’s implementation had soured any enthusiasm the youth had at the initial proposal, driving him into the contemplative seclusion, something which the aged mage approved and even complimented him on.

  For there was an issue: how the elder mage planned to bypass the burden of conscious channelling: implanting the arcane crystal—that housed Ereknul’s soul directly into the boy’s chest.

  A painless addition to Selriph’s body; a gentle guest, a mere passenger in the vessel.

  His wisdom, his voice, and his counsel could play directly in his mind, aiding him in life-threatening situations, steering him away from the path of doom he saw in the currents of fate.

  The old mage could freely tap into the boy’s inner supply of magic. According to him, with the youth’s consent—or so he claimed—he could also take the helm, share control over the body.

  Or rather, it could wrestle control of his body; decades of experience would make most mortal threats trivial.

  In that light, this offer eerily echoed the very one he torched in pyromantic flames—the channelling contract by the milky-eyed man in the Caer Eldralis caverns.

  Thus, it was the eerie rhyme to that encounter that made the boy pause, almost reject it outright. The emphatic refusal held just beyond the threshold of his lips.

  However, he took a breath, formulating a cordial and measured response:

  “Please allow me to ponder this; this decision holds a lot of weight.”

  The wooden figure nodded, replying with words that reflected his understanding of the youth’s position.

  “I understand your concerns, please, ruminate as long as your supplies of sustenance can last you in these halls—but whatever decision you come to, I ask that you return to relay it to me.”

  And thus, the boy pondered the decision as he paced around the long-abandoned walls of the Greyspire Mages College.

  When Selriph had returned to the entrance hall, he had already made up his mind. He would leave—spurred more so by the lack of supplies and his risk-averse nature; there were too many unknowns.

  It was a shame, Mage Ereknul displayed a supposed noble disposition and genuine intent to see the youth to safety, perhaps seeing Selriph as a surrogate to the students he failed to protect decades ago. Now he had a chance to guide a young mind once more in a mutually beneficial arrangement.

  However, there was a simple fact as clear as the frosty stone around him. Instead of being a benign guide, ‘Ereknul’ could steal the metaphorical wheel, commandeer the ‘ship’ that Selriph had lived in his entire life—his body.

  The nascent mage had no countermeasure if such a thing were to occur; he would surrender that possibility to the unreadable intent of this mage.

  So he had planned to leave the college—his belongings were packed up, Nightwind had let out a huff of joy at once more being able to carry the youth’s burden. All he had to do was head back towards the tower and relay his answer.

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  Of course, his absence would have been an answer in itself; however, he saw fit to have a civil parting with the old mage. Perhaps even extract crucial pieces of knowledge from his intact repository for his journey ahead.

  Then the sight of the storm greeted them, halting any intent of travel. The doors came crashing down a couple of hours later — a result of the battering tempest.

  The whinny of the horse broke Selriph out of his recollective consideration, the horse prodding the wrapped-up pack of moss and lichen the boy had gathered that hung by its side.

  “My apologies, girl, since we are spending another night here again, might as well have your grub…”

  Selriph rose from the fire’s warmth and unwrapped the horse’s food, setting it down for Nightwind. The horse neighed in approval as it tucked into its voluminous but ultimately nonnutritious helping.

  She can’t sustain herself just on this alone; we have to get down past the snowline within the next two days.

  Then the youth felt the tugging of the hem of his wool top, followed by a soft nudge; the dire wolf, eyeing the wrapped, frozen chunk of mountain bear meat.

  “I am surprised you are asking for permission this time, of course, Emmett, just give me a moment.”

  The boy set the meat down after unwrapping it. Selriph’s hands flared with red pyromantic energy, intent on wrapping the collection of butchered chunks in a heat-providing magic, enough to defrost the meat.

  “I cannot hasten this any further. Give it time; it should be ready.”

  Ignoring the nascent mage’s intent, Emmett began chewing into the frozen chunks, its fangs able to shatter the rock-hard lumps effortlessly—with it came a mix of slurries and crunches as the dire wolf consumed its meal.

  Selriph paced his fingers to his temple as he let out a cold huff through his nostrils, which coincided with a low growl from his stomach.

  Emmett, perhaps in a rare display of bestial empathy—if it even comprehended such a concept—used his paws to shuffle three chunks of wedges towards the youth, clattering across the hard stone floor as if they were rocks.

  Selriph could only let out a chuckle of acceptance, gathering the flesh and arranging it near the fire.

  Then, with a series of fluid gestures, a fabric of red arcane energy formed from his hands as it wrapped itself around the meat. The heat from the pyromantic energy set to thaw the meat in preparation for gastronomic treatment would apply to the raw morsel to render it edible.

  As Selriph began to slice chunks of bear meat with his parrying dagger, he noticed that the wolf and the horse had both finished their respective meals. The former had consumed about half of their supplies, leaving enough rations for another night at most.

  That, however, wasn’t what surprised him; it was the fact that both animals now sat at the fire with the youth — both their legs tugged under their bodies, the three of them forming an uncanny trifecta—not unlike the trio that once comprised two elves and the human mage.

  Selriph’s brows furrowed as he spoke, meat in his mouth. “I suppose it is a little chilly. Or perhaps you are both here to contemplate our course of action?” The rhetorical flourish in Selriph’s voice fell flat, given the recipients of his words.

  He shook his head, partially amused but embarrassed at what just escaped his lips; his mind drifted back towards their situation: it had been best if he had left today; the trek down past the snowline would take two days at a minimum.

  Now there was nothing he could do; nature had condemned him to waiting, or rather, ruminating on the decision that had been presented to him once more.

  However, his decision seemed immovable.

  Minutes passed as the pile of cooked meat found its home in the gut of the hungry mage.

  The incessant cycle of ponderment continued. Somehow, Selriph’s mind could not accept the line of thinking—risk aversion.

  For there was one thing he could not fully dismiss: Ereknul’s tableau of magic—a representation of his vision that he witnessed; a blade to the youth’s neck, surrounded by swirling darkness, his figure drenched in blood.

  What if he is right…? If I don’t take this offer, will I truly meet my demise?

  Is the mage simply fabricating the vision?

  If I accept it, would the mage truly be a benign guide?

  What could I do to prevent him from taking control?!

  It is risky… maybe I shouldn’t take it

  Yes… that is the best course of action

  But no, if this is my best opportunity to avert disaster, if not…

  He pressed his fingers against his temples, his brain trapped in a state of overthinking as a deluge of thoughts surged through him, the repetitive and irritating loop sounding in his head.

  I should stop thinking too much about this. I just cannot accept it; it is too risky.

  Just as he was about to start another cycle of the repetitive loop, the youth felt a hot breath on his face and looked up. He saw the face of the dire wolf, impassive, but with a hint of worry.

  Or perhaps it was an invitation, hoping to get the youth to share his thoughts and break free of it.

  “What would you do in my situation, Emmett?”

  The wolf stared back blankly.

  Selriph’s gaze fell upon the icy lines sealing the doors, which then prompted the next words. “What if the storm is bidding me towards accepting it…? I must admit, that is a possibility…”

  The wolf eyed the youth, still unreadable.

  What is wrong with me?! I am talking to my bloody dire wolf now!

  Selriph’s eyes went up, and he sighed. The breath he released sent hot pieces of the fire towards Nightwind’s eyes, and the horse responded with a slight grimace.

  “Apologies!” Selriph gasped as his pyromantic control flared into his hand by instinct, bidding the flame low.

  The horse whinnied, seemingly placated by the useless gesture.

  Selriph closed his eyes as he inhaled; the scent of smoky fumes entered his lungs as another set of words carried in his voice, directed to the steed.

  “What about you, Nightwind? Assuming that vision is true, do you think we get captured at the border?”

  The response came not from the now-deadpan horse, but from the dire wolf—a growl.

  “No, you are right, Emmett. Visions are a possibility; they are not set in stone.”

  The dire wolf tilted its head.

  “But that’s the thing; according to him, it is my decisions, my disposition, my very personality that will lead me to that vision.”

  Selriph closed his eyes, evaluating the truth of the words about to flow from his mouth.

  “And he is right.”

  The horse replied with a whiny—if the sound even carried that intent.

  The boy gave a swift shake of his head.

  “No, but his visions were accurate…. He even saw my own private musings when we were tethered by the arcane.” Selriph balled his fingers into a fist.

  The horse let out a groan—in any situation, it would have sounded exasperated, or perhaps confused.

  However, the boy interpreted it as a single word:

  “Hyperbole?”

  Selriph gazed thoughtfully at the fire in front of him.

  “You are saying he is exaggerating the truth? I suppose that arcane image could have been fabricated.”

  Emmett scratched his ears when a floating ember brushed against him.

  “You’re right, my friend; it’s possible he’s twisting the vision to fit his own agenda. Even visions of holy seers are not entirely literal; just as the wise sage Kalnuk wrote in his text.”

  Nightwind shifted its weight, now almost entranced by the unfolding spectacle—a youth, conversing with her and the dire wolf.

  “Exactly, girl, he was oddly specific that my demise would take place at the border. Although in fairness, that is our vector of travel, even a fool could discern that.”

  The wolf’s impassive stare was a contrast to the youth, who was engaged in a curious conversation with it.

  “Either way, if we do get caught at the border. I’m curious whether Thorne and his group are involved. Or would they assume I headed to Venthar?”

  Selriph’s gaze traced up towards the cracked ceiling—sealed by the elemental powers outside.

  “The blade at my neck could mean anything… After all, we got out of that debacle,” his mind flashed to the fiery tempest at the warehouse.

  Only to be interrupted by the low, half-growl of the dire wolf.

  “Apologies, I got out of the debacle. Either way, when I see the wise mage tomorrow, perhaps it would be prudent to procure another fourth-level scroll — that could be a way to test his true sincerity, perhaps then…”

  A horse puttered its lips as it spat out some half-chewed food.

  “Yes, I am still going to refuse the offer. That much is clear, but trying to gather as much information and resources as possible cannot hurt.”

  Emmett emitted a soft grunt, which now sounded similar to a bark, much like those of his domesticated kin.

  “Are you implying he could react negatively to that response? I…”

  Selriph’s head swivelled to the side as he considered that Ereknul would attempt to force him to accept by force. After all, he was stepping into his personal study, his sanctuary.

  “Duly noted, I will be wary, as always.”

  The wolf growled, this time with an undertone of menace

  “The storm…?

  No, that cannot be; to produce such a phenomenon would require a massive amount of energy. I would be able to sense it from here.

  Emmett looked into his companion’s eyes, and for the first time, he saw something—a hint of the intelligence, the concern, the considerations of the beast.

  “No, you are right; better to take precautions, no matter how far-fetched it is. Thanks, Emmett.” A soft smile began to form on Selriph’s lips as he took a deep breath, his mind finally resolving.

  Save for one thing, he felt the gaze of the black gulper horse.

  The youth simply answered, his eyes still closed.

  “And you too, Nightwind.” The gratitude in his voice painted his words with a soothing tune.

  Then, the sounds around Selriph faded as he tuned once more into his arcane senses. His aura, all but inert now.

  And his mind drifted to the distinct sensation of the tether between himself and the wooden mannequin. Every strand — its shape, its thickness, its flexibility, and rigidity.

  Its vibration, its frequency.

  The rest of the waking moments of the night went towards the encounter in the ill-conceived, finite space in his now cleared mind—rehearing every move, every arcane manifestation and, crucially, the counterforce he’d need tomorrow.

  All that in preparation should Mage Ereknul react unkindly to Selriph’s answer to his azure-eyed offer.

  A prudent and well-conceived precaution, one forged from the wounds of past follies, guided by the wise counsel of his two loyal companions.