The Last Philosopher

The rule of rules

Since the endless night showed no desire to turn into the promise of a dim tomorrow. The ancient headmaster inhaled the soothing smell of old books, counted to five, exhaled hard, and went to work. Siccing his agile mind on the council's rule of rules. After all, they were his primary suspects. What he assumed was the cause of his Dark nightmares. And it wasn't only because they had been a pet peeve of his for centuries.

You do realise that you're the longest serving member on the council, his loathing considered.

"So? It's not my fault that the vote for evermore finicky rules keeps going against me."

Yeah! We have to be part of the system to abuse the system, his inner sorcerer growled.

With yet another inner conflict put on hold, he went back to blaming the council in peace. The boringly evil group that was supposed to govern magick for the best of all sorcerers.
Being as they were, all magick users despised the rules, but had no problem enforcing them on others. Which meant that ever since Empris was founded, the council and their regulations had been accepted as a necessary evil.

Well, a bit of evil is to be expected, the yes-man in him argued.

"But what the rules have done, is make it impossible to do any proper magick!"

The way the council mishandled the rules in the name of security, spite, or any other popular claim. The group could do whatever it pleased, and call it justice. As long as three of the five headmasters agreed.

You could always suggest exceptions for the council? They're always willing to increase their own power.

"If I do that, they will think I'm up to something." The headmasters of the council had a tendency to assume everyone guilty until proven innocent.

Refocusing, he admired his awkward scowl in the reflection. He had the bushiest eyebrows he'd ever seen on someone almost entirely human. The swarthy hairiness was all he'd gotten from his Kor side. Not that he wanted their fangs, but the muscles would have been handy for leaping up the stairs.

He considered that some of the city's laws were just strange. One example being, you couldn't wear a fake beard if it might cause giggling. That kind of pettiness made living on the Pentakl plain precarious, even for the most law-abiding sorcerer. Still, not everything could be regulated, and where the rules failed, tradition stepped in to fill the gap. One even provided an escape from the city.

The 'if you don't like it then get out'-tradition, his cynicism thought bringing a wicked little smile to his wrinkled cheeks.

Sorcerers were allowed to leave the green plain, taking their chances in the frozen wilds and becoming free sorcerers. In a fake show of generosity, the council even provided servants and provisions for those leaving. A low price for getting rid of those showing signs of thinking for themselves.

They're probably better off anyway, his inner sorcerer justified.

"Do you really think so?" Lyeasrakardsul asked, wanting to believe.

Against the odds, some of those who left found a way to survive. And in a few valleys, small towers of grey stone rose above the pine trees. They were nothing like the housing towers for the city's separate, and unequal, magick schools. But they were the best option, not that being accepted by free sorcerers was easy.

In the shadows of his apartment, smoke rose from his calabash pipe. It was the second of his three personal items, and the habit gave his grey beard a sickly, yellowish colour. For appearances sake, he always wore the ceremonial nightgown. However, warming his feet was the favourite of his three personal items. A small pair of rebellion, in the form of pink, fuzzy bunny slippers.
They were a nostalgic connection to his short life before Empris. He remembered being angry with his grandmother for not letting him get a Kor tattoo like one of hers. Instead, she'd given young Lug identical slippers for his birthday.
As a sickly old man, he was now sure of one absolute truth: Never underestimate the value of fuzzy slippers. Still, the bunnies weren't his dirtiest little secret. There was one other thing he could never let anyone find out. Something he had hidden deep in his subconscious. At the core of his being, he was basically nice. A terrible handicap for a sorcerer!

His ability to remember almost anything had taken decades of private Dalmicir training. So, most of his childhood memories were lost. But getting dragged away by a Xefef sorcerer at age four, wasn't something he could forget. It was the last time he saw his grandparents alive. Since once he learnt to divine and could see the pirate archipelago, they were long dead.

Back then we believed what Xefef tells all sorclings, his innocence regretted, that their families didn't want someone with magick, and begged Pentakl to take them away.

Once he learnt to see not just the present, but also the past, the lie became obvious. But by then it was too late, he was as much a part of the system as anyone in Empris.
It wasn't until he reached the rank of professor apprentice that he found out the whole truth. That they had the legal right to take sorclings from anywhere on the continent, by an agreement made when Empris became a nation.

Yes, yes, I'm sure that's all very fascinating! His priorities condescended. But have you forgotten about the Darkness?

Shamed into concentration, he sat there motionless, not even rocking his chair. After many nights probing his memories, he now believed his nightmares were signalling the end of magick. That they were a warning, a final notice of sorts. And that the root-cause was hidden in the past. Over seven centuries in the Dalmicir school, that was all about hoarding knowledge, he had filled his mind with history.

"I would bet my life that I know as much about the past as anyone. That is, if someone could bet something of equal or greater value, which sincerely I doubt," he sneered.

Then use that knowledge, his inner librarian thought, because you won't be able to pawn this off on your professor apprentices.

"Like the PA's do any of the work anyway! We all know they shuffle it down until it lands on the sorclings."

The council liked to see sorclings as expendable, but they weren't an endless resource. Since no one knew why so few children were born with the innate talent for magick. Still, from the council's perspective, any child brought here was nothing but a sorcerer.

So, we're not supposed to have any use for things like race or gender, his Kor side wondered.

"No! They only get in the way."

Even so, whatever sorcerers pretended in public, in private they were somewhat aware of the setup under their robes. But their 'don't ask, don't tell'-tradition — combined with the rule that all sorcerers go by him — stopped them asking about others' specifications. Just a few of the things sorclings had voice-beaten into them during their first decades in the Xefef college.

Looking away, he let his black-eyed reflection win the staring contest. Before he put away his pipe, and started rocking in a steady rhythm. Once again looking into that time, almost two millennia ago, when Empris became a nation. That was where it had all gone wrong.

Using magick in his school's tower wasn't an option. It was only allowed in specific areas, a rare rule that not even the highest rank was excepted from. Instead, he used his memory as a workaround. It took him little effort to queue up the relevant pages in the secret tomes. Which described the taboo subject of their relocation, something only headmasters were allowed to read.

Diving head-first into those events, he would try to paint a more nuanced picture. The relocation was a cataclysmic time for magick. Since the old factions had come close to being wiped out, and only negotiations had saved them. It also led to many changes in their lifestyle. They went from having no rules, to having nothing but rules, and that was the problem. Still, proving that to the satisfaction of the council would be an uphill battle on a slippery slope. Because in Pentakl, stubbornness was a required survival skill.

But we're right, his stubbornness thought. The Darkness will be the death of magick!

But even if he could prove both cause and effect, it wasn't like he intended to do anything about it himself. Because as a lifelong Dalmicir practitioner, he knew two things for certain.

"Those who study history are doomed to watch others repeat it, and everything you need to know about the present is hidden in the mistakes of the past."

And whatever happens, you won't survive long without some decent sleep anyway, his morbidity thought, actually cheering him up a bit.

Updated: 19.07.2024