XI

"Torture?" Mrako asked, appalled.


Freggel twitched as if pained, "It is not torture, It is...dissuasion. Valora does not have the capacity to fulfill this duty, and we need only to convince her and her father of that. You can surely see the reason in this: What on earth is to happen to us, to the very practice of Magic itself, if we allow an incompetent, petulant, girl to orchestrate the Institute? We have devoted our entire lives to the practice, study and teaching of Magic, and well do we know how delicate the Institute is. It is for the good of all of us, including Valora. I'm sure you've realized how she loathes us."


Mrako did not like this in the slightest. In fact, he did not like a lot of what was going on these days. "What is the danger in trying her fairly. Who can say what aptitudes she may have? Certainly we have had excellent Wizards out of the Family in the past."


"We do not have time for that. We are floundering, Mrako. We were not prepared for this situation, and we  have already found a more suitable candidate. We have begun training them, in fact. We require now only that Valora step down, and we are prepared to make certain she does."


A pause.


Mrako bit his lip, and looked at Professor Freggel. He sighed, and said only "As you wish, Professor."    

X

Making love with two people (whom are unaware of your making love with the other) is a queer experience. In the moment, and with only one of them, it is a sublimely simple, euphoric rush. Nothing is linear-but a flowing organic surge that swallows all capacity for reason. Afterwards, and when alone, it is the most complicated, guilt-ridden, heavy affair imaginable. An utter paralysis.


For Rane, there was no foreseeable way out of this situation. He loved both uncontrollably, and choosing one or leaving both were unthinkable. He spent his hours in a state of sickly shock-quite absorbed in the trivial tasks he was given throughout the day.


For Lyron, he preferred to distract himself. Anytime he thought of it, he tried his damnedest to think of something else. It is not at all that he believed the issue would resolve itself, it was simply too much to bear atop the administration of a Kingdom.


For Allendre, a decision had been reached. Lyron must be killed. What was so damnably irritating about it was each attempt seemed to go awry. Poisoned food was whisked away, assassins simply disappeared, and cursed objects seemed to do nothing whatsoever. Most...suspicious.


Valora, oblivious to all of this, sat waiting in a little room in the basement of The Institute. It was the strangest room she had ever been in! It was lit from nowhere, with the walls all out of sight, and nothing whatsoever inside, besides her little chair. There was absolutely no sound, and the door had apparently vanished. She had no concept of how long she had been waiting.


Suddenly, little shapes began dancing in front of her eyes: all egg-shell white. They arranged themselves into letters and words, and this is what they said:

Syllabus

Magician

Axis I: Current Paradigm 

Axis I Magic involves manipulation of attention, framing, and presentation to alter a subject’s understanding of a series of events. This is the most basic form of Magic and requires little inherent ability. 

Journeyman

Axis II: Altered Physical Paradigm

Axis II Magic involves manipulating physical relationships in the world to alter how they behave. This is an intermediate form of Magic which requires some inherent ability.

Master

Axis III: Altered Psychical Paradigm (Individual Level)

Axis III Magic involves manipulating the inner, psychological landscape of a subject to create impressions, beliefs, or perceptions. This is a difficult form of Magic that requires much inherent ability.

Wizard

Axis IV: Altered Psychical Paradigm (Group level)

Axis IV Magic involves manipulating the inner, psychological landscapes of a group of individuals  to create impressions, beliefs, or perceptions. This is an extremely difficult form of magic that requires prodigious inherent ability.

 

The Head of The Institute is to be fluent, and gifted, in all axes

IX

...was a grave error. It is sickening to think what Man might still know if not for it.
--Excerpt from Histories, by R.H Mucler 




Upon returning to the Palace, Rane had been given the honourable duty of polishing the Princess' silverware. He was exhausted, and confused, though in an odd way it helped to focus on this banal task.


He sat on the floor of one of Valora's side-rooms: meticulously rubbing the sliver, inspecting it for little flakes or crusted food, and then placing each piece back into it's proper place. He had never seen such fine things, and they were almost certainly the work of the grandest craftsmen alive! In each and every piece there were hundreds of little figures, probably the entire Kandor line-he mused. And the stamp was most unusu--


"No! I will not! Never! How can you even ask! No, No, No!" Valora's voice came screeching from the adjoining room.


Rane dropped the spoon he had been admiring and strained to hear what caused Valora's outburst. He heard only a low mumbling, and then more wild protests. He scooted nearer to the door. A terrible idea, as Valora flung it open and it came violently crashing into his face. He was hurled back with the force of it, and white, throbbing pain washed over his head and neck.


Valora stood stunned, "I'm sorry...Rane. I didn't realize you were here. I...." She trailed off, a far-away look coming into her face, laced with defeat and peppered with resentment. She did not want to apologize to anyone just now. She wanted to scream, and to break things, and to smash them into small irregular pieces and feed them to that damn elf-servant she had just been speaking to.


"That's all right, your majesty." Rane said, teetering his way to an upright sitting position. He couldn't really see. And the shock was giving way to more and more pain. It was concentrated in his jaw and nose, tickling his face like shredded glass.


Valora sighed, and sat down beside Rane. " Rane, have you ever been angry? Not just any sort of angry, but a high-frequency hot red tidal wave of angry. The kind that moves past words and even sensations to a place where there is nothing but angry. Have you ever felt that way? Because that is what I feel now."


Rane had no idea what one was meant to say to The Princess of Xanara is this circumstance. He could think only to say: "Yes, Your Majesty." 


Valora was not listening, "How could they? How dare they? Have they ever met anyone more incompetent at Magic? The Head of the Institute! I should like to be a toe-nail clipping, or a stray bit of hair! What could they possibly be thinking? I won't; I can't; I shan't do it."


Rane, very much in pain, could only nod as she continued this bitter tirade.



   

VIII

Professor Freggel, Royal Representative of the Institute for Wizardry, hunched forward and clenched his fists. King Lyron looked distractedly at his wedding ring.


"Your Highness, this is a very...delicate situation we are in." Freggel hissed, "We have no protocol for replacing a   Head Wizard in the absence of a trained apprentice. It may take a great deal of time to obtain and adequately train someone new."


King Lyron did not care in the slightest, and did not understand why this concerned him at all. He said as much.


"You see, Your Highness, while we are training this apprentice, whomever they may be, we will not be at our usual professions...."


"You want money, Professor." King Lyron sighed.


"We absolutely require it, Your Highness! I cannot stress the blow we have taken by this unfortunate turn of events, nor the depths of our grief."


"Who is your apprentice?"


"None has been chosen, Your Highness."


"It shall be Princess Valora, Professor. I can quite easily justify helping her through schooling." Lyron said this not commandingly, merely a statement of fact. Freggel's blood boiled, but he bit his tongue.


"Of course, Your Highness."

VII

Magic had been dying out in the provinces for some time; beginning approximately 80 years prior, when the Wizard’s Institute was formed. All the very best wizards from all Xanara gathered to the capital city. This had lead to a dramatic fall in magical education throughout the provinces. About 40 years later, a few went back, and most found work in the institute as opposed to mentoring for the public. This had hurt the capital city itself :The only people who had any access to magical training were the rich, and the poor could not alleviate their suffering magically, as they had insufficient education in it. 


The Institute had been, unknown to the public, rocked with political struggles. It was early on decided that written records of magical knowledge were beyond dangerous, as any novice or power-hungry member may irreparably injure themselves, the Institute, or the world.

It was understandably crippling then, when H. Flezier, the head of the institute, died of internal hemorrhaging in his sleep. He had trained no successor, and untold volumes of magical knowledge were lost to the world forever.
                                    Xanara: Social Dynamics Preceding the Fall
                                                                                   S. Velzetti


Rane looked wildly about him for any sign of Koram, and found none. He was terribly frightened, and had no idea how to get back to the Palace. They had wound and weaved through a dizzying array of side streets and little walkways. He clenched his fists, and decided that the only reasonable thing to do was to ask someone where to go.


He stopped a little elf woman and said:


"Excuse me, miss, do you know how to get to the Palace?"


She looked him up and down suspiciously, and only pointed towards Old Xanara before scuttling off. He sighed, and walked back over the little hill.


He could see a tower that he thought must be part of the Palace, and reasoned that if he walked towards it whenever possible, he would eventually get there. Just then, he heard a band playing-very close by-and turned to see a funeral procession.


Wizards. Hundreds of wizards with solemn faces surrounded a hovering casket, and they marched very slowly down a main street. The music was sourceless, apparently made by magic. It was indescribably sorrowful-with long, impassioned crescendos and minor plagal  cadences. Rane stood transfixed. A beggar (probably from the other side of hill) had stopped beside him to watch.


"Who has died?" Rane asked.


"I dunno, but someone mighty important! That group in the front there is the High Council," the beggar moved his fingers in an imitation of the rich and educated as he gave them their title, "You don't see them out much."


"Do you know the way to the Palace?" 


"Sure! Just follow them. That's where they're going, no doubt." And with that, the man strolled back over the little hill.


Rane jogged to catch up with them and fell into the slow pace of the procession: the music from nowhere played on.

VI

Princess Valora sat in the back gardens looking out over the water. This was her favourite place, and her favourite weather, too: overcast, with a slight nipping breeze on her face. There was a perfect peace here, alone for a while and surrounded by flowers. She loved flowers-- she understood them much better than people. They made no demands, questioned nothing, and cast no spells (nor asked her to cast any). It was in this serene quiet  that the queerest of events happened in rapid succession.


Behind her she heard a clang and, spinning round, saw Mrako lurching forward and holding his left elbow. In the next instant he had darted out of sight. 


Not twenty moments later he dashed back past her view wielding what appeared to be her father's luncheon. Indeed it was, she surmised, as her father's manservant angrily followed him soon after.


Then her mother, weeping, ran past and up the back staircase, slamming the door behind her.


Stunned, and utterly confused, she decided to see what was upsetting her mother, and followed after her.


Once inside, she could see her mother huddling in a pile on the floor-weeping softly. She had never seen her mother (nor father, nor servant, nor anyone for that matter) cry.


"Mama...what is it?" 


Allendre shot up and all her weeping ceased. She seemed to be battling for control over herself. She took and released a long, ragged breath before standing with perfect queenly grace. She turned to face Valora.


She looked awful: her skin had an odd papery quality, and dark circles clung under her eyes. 


"I am tired, dear, very tired. And ill, I am sure. A doctor is coming tomorrow, but for today I must endure. I am tired, and ill and...cold." Her voice was thin, and she wrapped her arms around herself and sighed deeply.


Valora was horrified. She ran up to her mother and held her, and squeezed very softly. 
She could not think of anything to say.

V

The capital city of Xanara is a motley place, with something for every kind and creed. The architecture is of the Old kind-spires and towers and garish facades on most buildings, and with a few more modest huts sprinkled around the edges. The Royal Family's Palace is situated on the south end of the city, facing the water. The area immediately surrounding the Palace is called Old Xanara, and this was the first district through which Rane and Koram wandered.

It was clean-shockingly clean, with gleaming glass and stone and wood. They passed a family of dwarves so obviously wealthy it was almost amusing. They were dressed in fine silk drapery, imitative of the fashions up in the palace, and they spoke in a refined dialect. The shops were almost exclusively speciality ones for rich patrons: one for tea cups, another for tea trays; one for silver spoons, another for golden.

Rane and Koram said nothing as they passed through this opulence. Glancing over at Koram's face, Rane noted for the first time a break in his neutral expression. There was a trace of revulsion there, very faint, and very much apparent. They wound through a labrynth of backstreets and alleyways.

It was garishly evident where Old Xanara ended and New Xanara began. Upon cresting a little  hill, one could see the cleanliness flee, the high fashions fall, and the wages freeze. There were beggar-elves and pickpocket children and sham witches on pratically every corner, and the shops-dingy-were anything but specialty.

"Why is it so much poorer here?" Rane asked, turning to face Koram.

But Koram was not there.

IV

"Your Highness, I hope I step not outside my bounds, but you look weary-- even ill." said Mrako, noting the lines that peppered Allendre's face.


"I think I am. Ill. I've been..." the colour left her face, "Mrako, would you leave me? And send a guard to the door, I will take no guests." She said with the lack of tact particular to the very ill. Mrako did as he was told.


She stared into nothing and thought. She thought of Lyron, and could feel nothing but contempt, and then guilt and then sorrow, and then contempt, and all over again. She did not understand this, and these feelings tried the very edges of her rationality. She twisted her ring. She decided to put her thoughts in order as best she could.


What she felt was love, unmistakable, purest, irrational love...and not for her Husband. No, she felt it for Rane. She slapped her wrist in frustration. She did not know Rane, she had no possible cause to love him, none. And that was useless to note, because she did.


Every dinner, every moment with Lyron made her hate him more. (Hate?) Yes....hate him. Hate the distracted way he looked at her, the intensity with which he looked at Rane-as though he knew.


She stopped. Still. Did he know? Did he feel her hate? Her love? What did he know? What would he do if he knew? Would he confront her? No, no he would hide it, yes...he would....


No.


He would have her killed. It would be simple enough, he could find a wife that did love him, or at the very least someone who didn't hate him. The sense of this, and it's logical course of action was utterly inescapable. Allendre felt for the first time in what seemed an eternity to reach a firm, rational decision.


She would kill him first.

III

"...a bloodbath prevented, it is believed, by the interventions of Mrako, advisor to the Kandor Family in the time immediately before the Dark Age..."
                                                                                                                  Xanaran Royals-- V. Clemra




"Good morning."


Rane started awake and saw the silhouette of a man in the doorway. He could make out no feature of the man's face, though something in his voice put him immediately at ease.


"Good morning, sir."


"You are Rane, are you?" The man asked, ever so gently.


"Yes, and, if you don't mind my asking, who are you, sir?"


"My name is Koram, I have been assigned to show you the grounds, and acquaint you with your duties." Rane had not considered the fact that he would have "duties"; he did not much like the idea.


"Just give me a moment to get dressed." said Rane-- forgetting to add "sir", a gaffe that went apparently unnoticed.


"Of course" said Koram, withdrawing with a dancer's grace and silently closing the door.


Rane rubbed his eyes, this was not at all how he had envisioned his coming to the Palace. He had been naive, he supposed. In his mind he had seen the Queen rushing to him, professing undying love, doing away with the King, and crowning him. He had not expected this muddle of affairs, nor to be signed on at the Palace as a mere Attendant. He sighed, dressed, and stepped out of his room.


He could now see Koram in the full light. Koram was thin, with dark hair and eyes and an utterly neutral  expression.


"Follow me, please." And Rane did.


Koram led Rane down a narrow stairway and through an even narrower hall.


"This is the servants way through to the kitchens," said Koram, "and through here you may access the front grounds. Food will brought to you during your breaks. Where were you last employed?"


"I've never been employed, sir."


A pause.


"How is it that you came into service here?" Neither expression nor tone of voice changed in the slightest.


"I...I was here for the public feast and got to talking with the King and Qu--"


"You spoke to The Family? Who introduced you?"


"Well, no one we just...  got to talking."


It was  unnerving that Korams face and voice never altered; it was obvious he was dissatisfied with this response.


"You will forgive my probing, Rane, but it is my experience that members of the public have no oppurtunity to 'get to talking' with The Family. But I am clearly mistaken in that, aren't I? It matters little in the end. Here is where the washing is done, and down there is the latrine."


The continued out onto a terrace overlooking the city. The view was majestic! A sea of turrets and roads and people.


"Have you ever been to the city, Rane?"


"No, sir."


"Well, we have some time before evening, let us see some of the more eccentric districts while we can."

II

“There’s a new boy around the place– called Rane–  I think. Mama and Papa seem to simply adore him, though I can’t at all see why. He’s dull, provincial, and he has a terrible laugh: a sort of high cackle. He’s not unbearable or anything like that, but I certainly do not see what they see in him. I suppose I’ll warm up to him in time.
I had my magic lesson today. I hate magic! It seems to come oh so easily to everyone but me! And it doesn’t do anything, not really. What is the use in making things glitter or float, or appearing places one could just as easily walk to?  Though the lecture was uplifting. They had a guest Dwarf, he was saying that in all the world Xanara is the most active in terms of magic. In fact, he said that the practice has utterly died out in certain places. I would so love to visit such a place!” 
Noted for it’s poignance, the diary of Princess Valora chillingly augurs the Dark Age, and even, some scholars argue, The Fall.
--Excerpt from Histories, by R.H Mucler


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Queen Allendre sits in her chamber room. Very slowly she twists a ring around her finger–  the little silver band that Lyron gave her. An attendant elf woman sits crocheting on the floor. Allendre sighs.
“Would you send a rose over to Rane?” Allendre says quietly.
“Immediately, your Majesty.” says the elf, leaving.
Allendre bites her lip, and slowly moves her fingers through her hair. She cannot account for these feelings. These compulsions. Just yesterday she was perfectly happy: Walking the grounds, chatting with her maids, dining with Lyron. But today she is all agitation, all nerves...all guilt. She thinks of Rane’s face, and a little tension flickers through her chest, and she hates that it does, and she thinks of Lyron, and she twists a ring around her finger.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------


King Lyron sits in his chamber room. Very slowly he twists a ring around his finger–the little golden band that Allendre gave him. An attendant elf man stands silent by the door. Lyron sighs.
“Would you send a rose over to Rane?” Lyron says quietly.
“Immediately, your Highness.” says the elf, leaving.
Lyron bites his lip, and slowly moves his fingers through his beard. He cannot account for these feelings. These compulsions. Just yesterday he was perfectly happy: Walking the grounds, chatting with his guards, dining with Allendre. But today he is all agitation, all nerves...all guilt. He thinks of Rane’s face, and a little tension flickers through his chest, and he hates that it does, and he thinks of Allendre, and twists a little band around his finger.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Rane sits in his chamber room, twisting two roses in either hand.

I

Rane had never met a witch before; she was nothing of what he had expected. He had been told they were either hideous, and old, and evil or intoxicatingly beautiful. This particular witch was neither: plain of face and speech and manner. Despite all this, he trusted her enough to spend his last Kandor on a love spell. He had a very special woman in mind for it: the Queen of Xanara.


He had wanted free of his father for years now, and having no trade nor money for an education, he knew the next best thing was the love of a rich woman. His plans had accounted for every detail: he knew exactly how to get to the palace, exactly when and where she would be, and exactly how to cast the spell. He had now only to get to the palace, get to her, and cast it.


The journey was an uneventful one: passing through little villages just like his, being teased by elves and harassed by fairies just as always, but the city of Xanara itself was quite a shock! Rows upon rows and towers upon towers! People and dwarves and elves and wizards all bustling off in different directions– he had never seen so many creatures and so much excitement in all his life. And the palace – the grandest structure he had ever imagined! Taller than any other and cast in gleaming white stone. Tonight, he knew, was a grand feast open to the public, and there was already a line forming to enter the place.


Once in, and having taken in the grandeur of the palace’s design, he became terribly bored. He had many hours to wait before the feast. He had journeyed for days and days and just now, he thought, he would practice the casting of the spell one final time. He pointed the stone away from him, said the incantation softly, and pretended to pour the vial of potion onto the stone. Perfect, he thought! He curled up in a little gap between pillar and wall, and drifted off to sleep.  


He woke late, and had to fight for a seat near the high table where his Queen was. She was there with her husband and daughter, laughing and chatting away. She was attractive, for an older woman, with dark red hair and fair skin. He ate a little, and stole himself to cast his spell. He moved over to a side wall, so to better aim the stone, and began the incantation. Two unexpected things happened once he had poured the vial of potion onto the stone. The first was that both the king and queen immediately turned to look at him, with very similar looks upon their faces. The second: that he looked back on both with love in his heart.