The Towers of Adrala

Chapter 1 - The Stirrings (Part Two)

It wasn't long before they came to Magist's house. It was large and ornate, bordering on being a small mansion. A pair of columns rose on either side of the door, encased in glass with running water between the clear surface and marble. The windows were tall and thin, looking over an entire fourth of an acre of grass. Inlaid in the white door was a large glass sphere. Pird knew it was useless to try and look in; the globe was somehow designed to be a one-way view.

To the side of the door was a pile of wooden boards and nails, the remains of freight crates common to Eretia.

“Wonder what we got,” Pird asked, kicking an errant board back into the pile.

“No idea,” Sye replied, reaching up to use the dragon-shaped knocker when a flustered looking Magist opened the door for them.

“Oh,” said Magist, looking surprised, “So you are back. Just in time. Good, I mean, well, yes, good.”

Magist was a short, slightly heavy man with balding white hair. His twinkling blue eyes flitted between Pird and Sye, his small but strong hands were held rigidly at his side, rubbing his thumbs over his fingers.

“Have either of you seen a roll of paper?” Magist asked urgently, ushering them in, “Leather knot with a red wax seal?”

“I saw a scroll on your desk,” said Sye, “Next to our essays on the War of Two Kings.”

Magist laughed, “On my desk, the only place it would be. Pird!”

Pird snapped to attention, blinking away a daydream about ducks swordfighting, “What’d I break?”

“Who do we now call the False King?”

Pop quiz, Pird thought anxiously, False King. Go away ducks! Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

Yup. Not a clue.

“Rathmin Ter’kor,” Sye answered, “He convinced the city of Benji to cut trade to Mirith and invade D’Buul so-”

“As I expect to find in your essay,” Magist interrupted gently, “That is why the question was posed to whom has yet to write theirs.”

“You lost me at ‘whom’,” Pird said.

“Pird.”

Pird glanced away, “I’m working on it.”

“I imagine you will be now,” Magist said firmly, but with a smile. The smile was short lived, replaced again by anxiety, “Oh my speech, on my desk. Be right back.”

Pird flopped down in the nearest seat. Magist called it a sitting room, but the house's dignity called it an atrium. A large elaborate fireplace was the dominating feature amongst the array of tall armchairs that evoked a peculiar image of being butlers at the ready. Pird suspected that was why Magist fussed over the chairs so much; he could not bring himself to hire someone to do something he could readily do with his own hands. Large paintings hung on the walls, water running over their glass frames. They depicted different views of different landmarks throughout the island. Magist took Eretia's decoration to heart as its head historian; every room breathed water and was tiled in white and bright marbled gray.

Magist came back down the stairs, scroll clutched in one hand, still looking flustered.

“What're you up to?” Sye asked.

“Your father wants me to give a grand speech about Eretia's place in the scheme of things. My specialty of course, we are the next Mirith, but there is still...”

“You lecture to a lot more people than just us sometimes,” Sye said, “Why are you so nervous?”

“Well, yes,” said Magist, “He actually wants me to say we are the next Mirith, that we'll soon have The Fourth City after our name. That, and he promised me a trip to the ruins of the Second City.”