The Last Philosopher

Present in the Dalmicir tower

The hours passed as Lyeasrakardsul droned on about every detail. While making the moron answer what boiled down to trick questions, and lumber about replacing candles as they burnt out. If not for the leaky windows, the lingering smoke could've been an issue.

It was about two hours now since first he noticed the boy getting antsy. Even so, the old sorcerer amused himself with delaying the moron's attempts to fulfil his duty. All the while surprised that he was enjoying having someone forced to listen. But whether it was the listening, or the force, was unclear.

Shouldn't I tell him we already know what the meeting is about, he thought.

No, where's the fun in that, his provocation added.

When is the boy going to start showing some backbone? Lyeasrakardsul's feeble pity wondered.

Like his PA, he had a list of things others should handle. The top two items on his list was the Darkness and the disappearances of seventeen sorcerers. Three years ago, when the first one vanished, the task of finding out what happened to him fell on Dalmicir. But they had never even established if any of them were dead or alive.

There must have been another disappearance, that's what the meeting is about!

Of course, Sulenthvorenth loves being dramatic when there's a rare problem that isn't about his precious Xefef, his school pride thought.

The Dwarven headmaster had never understood the benefit, or humour, in reviewing past mistakes. Preferring to cover them up with shouting until his black beard vibrated with rage. His school's strongest magick was Voice, which they used to voice-beat enquiring opposition into submission.

Very useful for covering up errors, and in their rush for power, they're always making room for new and improved mistakes, he thought as he quizzed the poor boy in front of him.

Moronatbeluthe's thick forearm had now been in the air for at least fifteen minutes. But with his black eyes hidden under the mass of his brows, Lyeasrakardsul pretended not to notice.

When it came to the disappearances, dealing with the other headmasters required a light touch. If it wasn't for his exceptional talent for lying, he could've been in real in trouble. In his early years on the council, the lies upon lies had been a burden even for his memory. That was, until he came up with two simple tricks. One, tell them nothing unless you had no choice. Two, if you had to tell them something, tell the truth, and make them think you have lied.

But we can't tell them that if there was something to find, we would've found it already, a rare twinge of guilt added, tugging at his last heart string.

All the disappearances had two things in common. They always happened outside the Pentakl plain, and there was a baffling absence of evidence. Which suggested, that whoever was responsible could protect against being seen with magick. Another thing he couldn't tell the council.

So, following Dalmicir tradition, instead of acknowledging the problem, he went back to the moron and his story.

"Would you say the old sorcerer factions were well liked?"

"From what you say, I suppose not Master."

In fact, the faction's feuding kept them in an unlimited supply of unpopularity, since non-sorcerers were often the hardest hit. Even so, the feuds were a slow process, and sometimes centuries passed without serious incident. That gave the short-lived normals time to almost forget the last atrocity, before the next one hit them.

"And what would you think would be the result of people's dislike for magick?"

"I have divined that some nations tried to keep sorcerers out, but I thought that was just a misguided fear of the unknown?"