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.