The Last Philosopher: Part One

Empris becoming a nation

Months after Herschel's escape, back in the Dalmicir tower, midwinter night was still going strong. It was the time of day where it was difficult to tell if it was late or early. Either way, the bushy-browed sorcerer was about to let his mind take its boots off, allowing it to lurch around the pirate-ship of his memories like a drunk child.    

As a crack of lightning lit up Heno's snowy mountain scape, a timid knock on the penthouse's door distracted him. Unmoving, he ignored the lightning. The knocking was another matter. 

Ignoring him won't make the moron go away, his scorn thought.  

Taking his time, he removed the bunny slippers and hid them under his bed. It would take something extreme for Moronatbeluthe to enter without his permission. Also, it was good to make PAs wait a bit. With bare feet, he shuffled from carpet to carpet, avoiding the cold stone floor, making his way to the hated furniture hidden in a nook by the door. Taking an academic pose behind the garish desk, he was ready to receive.  

"Come in!" he yelled, in his most elitist tone.  

The squeaking door opened a crack. The first visible part of the boy was his hulking under bite. Not even his long muscular arms could draw attention away from his lower jaw fangs.

"Sorry to disturb Master. The council has called an emergency morning meeting."

"Sit down and be quiet. I am busy!"

The moron had enough sense not to reply, instead rummaging around as he cleared books off a chair.

"You better be careful! Every book is worth ten of you," he shouted after the boy.

His PA always looked terrified, as if someone was about to pull a metaphorical rug out from underneath his opinions. A strange look for someone who was both sorcerer and Kor. In a lame attempt to look tougher, one of the moron's personal items had been spent on a traditional Kor neck tattoo. Still, the Korzan tiger, in white-ink, contrasted well against his raven black skin.

Are you jealous of his tattoo? the little Kor in Lyeasrakardsul mocked.

Squinting, he stared at the centuries old boy as he made himself uncomfortable. As Moronatbeluthe sat down a long uncomfortable silence followed, with nothing for the old sorcerer to do but watch the twitching pile of muscle through half-closed eyes. Finally, the moron could stand it no longer.

"Please Master, what are we doing?"

Raising an eyebrow like a poisonous caterpillar, he peered out at the bleak penthouse. The embers left in the round fireplace in the middle of the room gave off little light. He had been trying to get back into his pirate ship, but the drooling boy was putting him off.

"I am thinking, and you are asking silly questions!"

The boy wiped his chin at him like that was an excuse. Macbiar had failed to fix his under-bite, and he drooled enough to keep his robe sleeves perpetually moist. Sometimes, it seemed Macbiar medicine was meant to make life as long and terrible as possible.

"Answer me this," Lyeasrakardsul said with an exacting gesture. "The council has a regular meeting first thing in the morning. Every. Single. Morning. Then why call us to an emergency meeting?"

The moron, as he affectionately called the boy, drew a deep breath and was about to echo the lies force fed to him by the council.

"No, do not answer that! Just get some more candles. I am going to tell you a story."

"This could work," he whispered after the lad left. "I have been thinking I should tell him how the sorcerers ended up in Empris. And as a PA, he is allowed to divine the time before the first council. In theory, he could have figured it out for himself."

You're too soft on the boy, his inner sorcerer chastised. He's not supposed to know about the time we divine into the secret tomes.

"But I can look for causes at the same time, and I will not tell him about my nightmares, or anything else he can use against me."

After becoming one of five headmasters of magick, he made it his life's work to learn everything about the great relocation of sorcerers. He found that their nation was nothing but a pure necessity. Because the old factions were forced into this frozen corner of Sojurut.

There had been considerable resistance to his research over the years, even with the revised versions he told the council. Nonetheless, even they had to admit that his school's Archives were sometimes useful.

"Because the council needs a way to keep track of its own lies. Not surprising, since the first council believed there was no lie so false, it couldn't be maintained with more lies."

In their city, the relocation wasn't just a taboo subject; it was a non-subject. The first council had made sure most sorcerers knew nothing about the exile. Because their negotiations were to blame for magick's banishment. One of the oldest rules of Pentakl stopped non-council members from finding out the truth. That was why only the Dalmicir headmaster, and his five PAs, could divine the time before the relocation. Chronicled into tomes ironically called The Stupid Ages.

"Hurry up and get those candles lit," he yelled, hearing the boy coming back up the stairs. "This story will make your magick curl!"

The first council had fabricated their own version of how Empris became a nation. In the vaguest possible sense, it claimed they were given this great land as a gesture of appeasement. A show of appreciation from the other nations.

I don't see how anyone could fall for that, his gullibility thought.

"Well, for a long time we did," he reminded himself.