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.