The Last Philosopher

In the circle of slight embarrassment

Lyeasrakardsul shuffled back and forth outside these so-called rooms for a while. It wouldn't do to let Sulenthvorenth think he could be rushed. The brothers could plainly hear the hollow sound his robe swishing against the glowing stone-floor. Because their heads moved to follow. Starting from the right, he intrusively inspected each of the prisoner. The first was a completely bald man with dark lips that wore the standard blacker than pitch-black Xefef robe.

This has to be the oldest, Skelor, we should definitely release him last, his caution cautioned.

In the middle cell, more of Pentakl's infamous hospitality was on display. This brother must have been handled more than a bit rough. His green robe was torn and dirty. Even so, from the colour this was Lyrir, the Loitar practitioner.

He looks different from the P-wyrd, his robe is the common forest-green, and he is not wearing the bandanna, or those stupid dark glasses, his judgement thought as he squinted at the young sorcerer.

Could he have come to his senses, his tradition wondered.

No wait, if that was the future, that means sometime between now and then, he will fall from his senses, his confusion added.

In typical sorcerer manner, he ignored his confusion in favour of getting on with things. He dreaded what he would find in the last cell. The abominable robe. Knowing what to expect wasn't helping, it only reinforced his embarrassment. Yet, it turned out it wasn't quite as bad as that. Emmlina wore a purple robe robe that had some untraditional curves. The shape of the robe heightened some odd qualities underneath. A non-sorcerer might dare to describe them as voluptuous. Still, it wasn't missing as much fabric as the one from his p-wyrd. Sure, it had more style than he would have liked, but it wasn't much worse than something that Zhetoniss would wear.

This non-male brother won't like being called he, not if he is anything like his non-male father.

He froze for a moment. He so rarely needed or wanted to be considerate. It wasn't something that came natural to him. And his cultural indoctrination meant he had a hard time seeing any sorcerer as a she. Non-male just flowed of the tongue so much better.

Tell him the only way he is leaving the tower looking like that over your dead body, his inner sorcerer thought, or over his dead body!

"No!" Lyeasrakardsul rebuked himself and Emmlina's blindfolded head snapped in his direction.

I want this to go well, and for her to feel comfortable.

Cajoling his wits together, he opened the cell and removed her blindfold. If looks could kill, this one would have taken its time to enjoy the process. The dark blue eyes were figuratively turning him to stone. But he lifted one hand to his scrawny chest, twisting his fingers into a sign identifying him as a friend of the free sorcerers.

She's likely unaware of the cult of some, but she should recognise the sign, he thought, not even I know the identify of our free sorcerer contact.

Emmlina's glare softened a bit. But it still wasn't friendly, more quizzical. Putting a finger over his mouth, then pointing to the walls and his ears, Lyeasrakardsul tried to signify that eaves were being dropped.

"Now! If I remove this gag you will not try anything," he said feigning severity. "Will you?"

Reaching out to remove the gag, he gave Emmlina a scheming wink. It was a wink that spoke volumes; the kind that only a grandparent with the maturity of a twelve-year-old can muster.

"What do you want?" He was shocked at the contempt in her voice, but then she smiled.

"I am Lyeasrakardsul, head of Dalmicir magick, and you will address me with the official title of headmaster!" He shrugged in an apologetic manner.

"Of course headmaster, what does the headmaster want?" Emmlina was much better at this than him, every inflection made him cringe.

"First, let me assure you that we do not intend to peer-review you or your brothers."

"And why should I believe that?"

"Because if we wanted you peer-reviewed, it would already be under way. Also, there's a p-wyrd involved."

While speaking, Lyeasrakardsul's bushy eyebrows kept bobbing up and down in time with his insistent nodding. It made for an almost convincing impression of someone earnest.

"A p-wyrd? You mean a... prophecy? That's rare, who sent it?"

"Well, to tell the truth, we're not sure." He opted for the blame sharing we.

"You don't know? Don't the gods milk every drop of attention out of their bullshite?"

"Not necessarily, I mean, some of them do. Alright, most of them, but it's not like a rule or anything." Shaking his head, Lyeasrakardsul pointed at the walls again.

"I see." She squirmed a bit in the bindings. "I suppose if you were to lie about a p-wyrd you would have done a better job of it. So, lets say I believe you, for now."

"Good, then can I release you?" It wasn't meant to be a question, but that was how it came out. "Also, could you convince your brothers not to attack any more Trolls?"

As Lyeasrakardsul untied Emmlina, he felt he should return her kind smile. But he ended up looking as uneasy as a sorcling on their first robe exploring excursion. Lyrir was freed next. The teenage sorcerer, still only in his sixties and barely balding, was easy to convince. He solemnly promised not to use any magick while on the plain of Pentakl. Being of the Xefef persuasion, rare for a free sorcerer. Skelor was another matter. It took them almost an hour of careful manoeuvring to get the grey skinned man to accept they weren't being peer-reviewed. Once everyone agreed not to try a preemptive first strike — as long as no one else tried to preempt them — Lyeasrakardsul knocked on the door leading out of the room.

"We have come to an agreement, you can open up!"

The door opened, but into its place moved the walking loin-cloth. It was Drik, the haedmaster himself, who blocked the doorway perfectly. Everyone except Emmlina flinched.

"So, the red-menace comes to greet us," she said.

Lyeasrakardsul stepped between the Troll and the brothers, failing to look nonchalant. "See, I've released them and no one is harmed."

Drik's stone-face betrayed nothing. I'm sure it takes a lot of know-how to act as a temporary piece of wall, his condescension added, bolstering his courage.

"What happens now?" It was Sulenthvorenth, yelling from behind the stone.

"I'll take them outside the wall, to the Free-lodger inn. It's probably better if they stay there."

The Free-lodger — or free-loader as it was called in Barrac — sat near the top of the hill the town was built on. It had been built to accommodate visiting dignitaries and merchants, but since neither of those ever came to Empris. It had been re-purposed for visiting sorcerers.

"That could be acceptable." He could almost hear the Dwarf scratching his beard. "As long as they understand, if they cause any more trouble, they will be met with the full force of Pedran magick.

"I have been given assurances they will not cause any trouble, and will make themselves available for tomorrow's meeting to discuss the p-wyrd."

After another tense half-minute followed. Before Drik moved out of the doorway. Heading back up the glowing staircase, they found it lined with Trolls. It had been a long time since any sorcerer last sent one of them to the institute. And they were not shy about showing their displeasure. Several Trolls followed the four of them to the gate, but beyond Pentakl's wall they were left alone.

Updated: 01.02.2024