I hid in my room at the Playful Fox as much as possible. Book in hand, sword on knee, I waited for word of anything, whether that word was good or ill. Thankfully, the word I got was from the Academy first. It came in the form of a courier-borne letter sealed in purple wax. I broke the seal and read the contents. Inspectrix Gerda Hutmacher was willing to speak with me in an annex of the Hofmeister-Provost’s Office. I all but leapt for the door before I noted that there were some hours left before the time indicated on the missive. I fidgeted and fretted, peeking out the window at the nearest large clock tower every few minutes, though I knew the time had not progressed very far.

When the time finally came, I raced from my seat and hurried across the city. The same clerk gave me a weary look that said, “You again?” without voicing a single syllable. I presented the invitation.

“Third floor, south annex, room A-three-eleven.” He pointed at a door behind him. Behind the door was a broad granite staircase with a neatly patterned rug running up the middle. Streams of light pouring through the narrow windows streaked the risers. I hurried up the flights with undue eagerness. The third floor was lined in wooden doors with brass numbers. None of the numbers started with a letter, so I looked around a bit. The brass plaque reading ‘South Annex’ was rather conspicuously placed by an intersection. I followed it down the hall into another corridor full of doors. The complete lack of anyone else in the hallways made me wonder why the Hofmeister-Provost’s office needed so many rooms, and if there were even people in most of these rooms, what did they do all day? I shook the thought off and looked for the room I’d been directed to. The door was otherwise unremarkable in comparison to the rest. I almost barged through, but caught myself, and knocked politely instead.

“Enter.”

The walls of the office were patterned in teal and slightly darker blue. It would have been ugly if not for the bookshelves blocking most of the view. Haphazard heaps of irregularly sized volumes were crammed into the shelving to the point where the wood all but groaned with the weight. A similarly laden desk sat within the curve of a bow window. The curtains were open wide, giving clear view of the street outside. The woman seated behind the desk was not quite old enough to be matronly, though some gray threaded her dirty-blonde hair. She looked up from a stack of papers.

“Herr Grosz?”

“Yes.”

She gestured at a simple wooden chair. “Have a seat.”

I sat down.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Gerda said. “The only reason we’re even having this interview is out of courtesy to the Furst of Karststadt. Your questionnaire was extremely weak, and with no letter of recommendation, you’d normally be rejected summarily.”

I blinked, words failing me.

“Most people don’t know what it is we’re looking for in an applicant. So if you could carry our sincerest apologies back to the Furst…”

“You haven’t even given me a chance yet,” I blurted out.

“Herr Grosz, unless you can demonstrate a prodigious aptitude for the practical application of magic to offset your dismal theoretical, there’s not really a whole lot to even talk about.”

Feeling like I’d been stabbed through the heart, I grasped the opportunity provided. Holding up a hand I began to gather energy within the cage of my fingers. Staring at the empty space, I focused all my will upon it. With a dismissive gesture, Hutmacher scattered the mote as it was forming.

“Herr Grosz, you are about as blunt as a boulder when it comes to matters arcane. Your efforts are better focused elsewhere.”

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?” I didn’t mean to, but my tone bordered on whining. A tic of irritation scrunched through Gerda’s features before she enforced placidity on her face again. A quiet sigh escaped her as I could almost see the gears of her mind turning for a means to be rid of me.

“I’ll tell you what.” Gerda extracted a piece of paper from a drawer and began writing. “It’s entirely possible my assessment is wrong and by dint of sheer determination you might manage to overcome the… vast hurdles before you. But that is something only the oracle could tell us right now.” Melting the end of a wax stick with a tiny flame from her fingertips, Hutmacher smudged it on the paper and stamped a seal into the wax before it hardened. “Bring this pass to the temple guards. They will direct you to the oracle. If she says you are destined to become a wizard, I’ll admit you. If not, further discussion would be a waste of everybody’s time.”

She held out the piece of paper, and I took it in trembling hands. I was just working through the shock of the cold, blunt rejection. It was not the outcome I was expecting, and I was growing acutely aware that my last ray of hope was the tiny slip of paper between my fingertips.

***

There was not one Temple of Zhal in Zhalskrag, but many, though they all shared a common priesthood and guard organization. It didn’t take long to find out that the particular temple I wanted was carved into the side of the mountain, up a winding trail from the city proper. Graymire needed to be out of his stall for a while, and I didn’t feel all that inclined to slog up the mountain. So, I rode for the mountain. The lower trails were wide and shallow, allowing me to pass the trudging pilgrims without inconveniencing any of us. Some of them were the same sort of ragged travelers I’d seen on the pilgrim trail. Others were better dressed and prepared. Some were so well off as to be borne up the mountain on palanquins. Though the trail started at the edge of the city proper, getting a shallow gradient on such a steep spar of rock required meandering side to side along its face. Stubborn trees clung even to the almost sheer surface of the lower reaches of the mountain. Their foliage obscured the fork in the trail until I was upon it.

The pilgrims were taking the left fork, where most of the signs on the post pointed. The one sign pointing the other way read “Magisterial Temple”. It was this route that I took. Nervously fiddling with the Inspectrix’s note, I guided Graymire up the mountain. Of course she wouldn’t see me becoming a wizard. I’d been teaching myself in my meagre spare time, using the limited assets in Ritterblume’s library. Surely the Oracle would correct her. It would be a bit of a slog to catch up with those students who’d had better access to information, but I’d make it. Steeling my spine, I shored up my certainty. The path continued out of sight from the intersection, them levelled out into an open court in front of a pillared edifice. The temple proper was carved into the side of the mountain, with a pair of hooded statues flanking the entryway. The black basalt was polished to such a high sheen that I almost mistook it for obsidian at first glance. At second glance, I found a lack of places to tie a horse to. Eventually I affixed Graymire’s reins to a low-hanging tree branch.

A priest in ivory and gold robes intercepted me before I reached the entrance. He was small and wispy, but flanked by a pair of stout monks whose vestments were trimmed in black. I presented my note from the Inspectrix. The old priest looked it over. He gave a nod.

“It is in order, but you must leave your sword here. Weapons are not permitted within the temple proper.”

I paused, but unbuckled my sword belt and handed it to one of the monks. The old priest gestured towards the entrance, and I headed inside. The primary passage was lined in reliefs layered in shades of gray, like cameos writ large. What tales or allegories might have been contained within were lost on me. I could barely see the artwork. Small lanterns in mirrored nooks made the pretense of illuminating the space, but the temple was deliberately enshrouded in shadows. The monks remained by the entrance, and I followed the old man’s lead up a stair curving off the side of the passage. The smell of sulphur grew stronger as we climbed, and the labored breaths of the priest evolved into weak coughs. I pitied his constant exposure to the fumes as we reached the gates of a shrine. Two hooded statues held up the arch, faceless gazes boring into anyone approaching along the hallway.

Ebon doors swung inward to reveal a square chamber lit by four blue flames. Choking, mephitic vapors fed those braziers and cloaked the room in a smoky haze. A three-legged stool sat atop a cracked plinth in the middle of the small space. A spiral inscription in sigils that seemed to slither in the inconstant illumination marked the walls. My eyes fixated upon them, trying to work out what language the script was in that I might translate it. As my gaze squirmed along the spirals, the hag entered. Draped in what looked like acres of black silk, the shriveled husk of a woman creaked her way to the stool and climbed atop it.

In a spark of epiphany, I realized the inscription was in pre-runic dwarfish, but the verbiage was modern. The script had been banned by the Dwarves as Malum in se, a form of blasphemy not requiring heretical content to be an affront. Its presence in this shrine, in this unusual textual form almost distracted me from my reason for being here.[35] A polite cough drew my attention back to the cataract-fogged eyes of the hag. An arthritis-knobbled hand gestured at a block before the plinth. From the two smooth depressions on the tiny bench of stone, I realized I was meant to kneel upon it. I did so and folded my hands before me. With her voluminous raiment covering the rift in the plinth, the silk fluttered with the movement of unseen vapors redirected to her collar.

His voice aching from the atmosphere within the shrine, the priest spoke. I almost didn’t recognize him. “We, the most penitent and faithful, beseech you, the all-knowing lord of forgotten secrets. Grant us a modicum of foresight into what the future foretells for this supplicant.”

The hag croaked out a response. To less of a polyglot, the syllables would have sounded like gibberish. It was an obscure tongue, ancient and little-used. I, however, knew what the hag said as she uttered the words. “Blood, a storm. Commander. Conqueror. Thronebreaker. Sire of kings.”

“Liar,” I spat in the same tongue, rage bubbling up within me, “Fraud.” I rose to my feet, looming over both oracle and priest. My hands tightened into clenched fists.

The hag’s eyes snapped open, a blue glow pulsating behind her pupils. “Ingrate. Get out!” I turned on my heel and stormed from the shrine lest I batter the hag and priest to a pulp with my bare hands. The route through the darkness was not hard to figure out – down the stairs and towards the daylight. The monk holding my sword belt presented it to me, before taking note of my expression. I grabbed the blade and scabbard, hurling them with an inarticulate snarl into the trees. The leather tangled with the branches as it shook the foliage. Startled, Graymire reared back, his forehooves pawing at the air. I ignored the brute and stormed off down the trail, fuming like the mountain at my back.

Seeing the pilgrims trudging up the other fork, I moved to interpose myself before them. “These oracles are nothing but charlatans!” I bellowed, “Turn back.” Jeers greeted my warning, followed by stones and whatever else the pilgrims could scoop off the trail. Ducking a fistful of animal droppings, I scurried off the path into the shelter of the trees. There I found a near-precipitous drop. Skidding down the hillside, I grabbed at the anything to arrest my descent. Branches snapped and my hands slid over rough bark, tearing at the skin of my palms. My bootheels failed to gain sufficient purchase on the dirt they slid along, creating a small avalanche of leaf litter and small rocks before me. Finally the ground itself stopped me by levelling out and sending me spilling onto the forest floor.

I had remained more or less upright all the way down, but the jarring passage had left my legs aching. My hands had been slapped and torn so often I half expected to see naught but bloody stumps, but the actual injuries were merely superficial. The smell of soil filled my nose as I drew in a few pained gasps. Groaning and sore, I rose to my knees and set my eyeglasses back into their proper position. Hutmacher set me up. There had to be some meaning coded into the notice telling the ‘Oracle’ what type of omens to portend. The atmosphere and the cypher of a dead tongue would trick most rejects into accepting that it simply wasn’t in their fate.

Seething, I forced myself to my feet.

What good was it to rage at the Inspectrix or the Academy? Not even the Emperor could force them to accept someone as a student. The thought didn’t make me feel one iota better. And I had no idea how to get from where I was back to the city. Climbing back up to the pilgrim trial was not impossible, but it would be a lot of work, and I didn’t want to face the mob again. At least none of them had followed me down. I couldn’t map the fork in the pilgrim trail to a spot relative to the city, so I was at a loss as to which direction to head. But if I could get a clear view, I could use the towers as a landmark to guide me back. First, I would need to get somewhere with a view that wasn’t just trees.

Brushing dead leaves from my clothes, I started walking.

As the rage ebbed, it uncovered a void where my hope had resided. What did it matter if I made it back to town? I had nothing to look forward to. Just sailing back to Salzheim, leeching like a parasite off my relatives until a political marriage netted me a parcel to administer, or a bureaucratic posting somewhere. My walk slowed to a trudge as my shoulders slumped, and it was a struggle not to shuffle my feet through the underbrush. Voices snapped my attention away from my mental funk.

“I told you this was a bad spot,” the first said.

“No you didn’t,” the second replied.

“Maybe not, but I was thinking it real hard.”

“How long are we going to wait until we decide no one is going to come along?” a third asked.

“And now it’s raining,” the first whined.

Though the foliage blocked most of the drops from directly striking the ground, enough were spilling off the leaves that I felt their icy touch. I sighed. “Figures,” I muttered. I hadn’t stopped my slow advance, and now I was in full view of the three men. Dirty and unkempt, none of them would pass for anything but peasants. Their filth-stained brown garb had been on their hides for far too many days in a row, and I was glad there wasn’t enough wind to carry their scent my way. The chestnut-haired one furthest from me nestled a crossbow in the crook of his arm. It looked better cared for than any of the lot. The tallest of the lot had the wiry, corded musculature of a man who worked more than he ate. The hatchet in his hand looked laughably small, though the keen edge gleamed. The short one closest to me had a fat face, though it was probably from inflamed cheeks, as he appeared to be missing a number of teeth. He drew a long seax with a grin that showed of his discolored dentition.

The short one was confirmed as the second voice as he said, “See, someone came along. And that’s a pretty purse he’s got, too.” My eye flicked to the pouch on my right hip as my hand went for the sword on my left – only to remember I’d chucked it at a tree by the Temple.

The first voice – the tall man with the hatchet – chuckled as he stepped forward. “Looks like he forgot his blade too.” Seeing the third man pluck a bolt from his quiver, I knew I had to act. Fleeing was out, so I rushed the biggest of the three. Taken off guard by my burst of speed, he almost forgot to swing. Catching his wrist on the downstroke, I slammed my forearm into his throat and hooked his knees out from under him. He toppled, and I plucked his hatchet from his grip. With a click, the string on the crossbow locked back. The crossbowman was already tipping the bolt into the groove, moments away from bringing it to bear. Whipping the hatchet through the air, I hurled it at him.

I’d expected the man to duck, allowing me to cover the distance and get the weapon out of his hands. Instead, his eyes merely widened, and the bit of the hatchet sunk into his skull. His whole head snapped back and he crumpled on the spot. Screaming profanities, the short man with the seax lunged at me. Compared to the fencers in Farcairn, he was slow, and I sidestepped the thrust. Grabbing his wrist, I slammed the heel of my palm into his chin. What was left of his teeth shattered and he staggered back, losing his blade to me. Arms of iron cord wrapped around me from behind as the tall man grabbed me. The now-toothless short man pulled a new blade from his boot. This one was shorter, but with my upper arms pinned to my sides, he could still gut me.

Reversing my grip on the seax, I sank it into the tall man’s upper thigh. He cried out in pain and loosened his grip. I ripped the blade free in a welter of crimson. I’d bit an artery with that blow. A startled expression crossed the short man’s face as the seax flicked out and snicked across his throat. Rivulets of red poured down his shirt. Spinning about, I sank the long knife up to the handle in the tall man’s chest. Sadness and regret stared at me from his brown eyes as scarlet foam spilled over his lips before his life seeped away and he slid from the seax to the soil.

I swallowed hard as I stared at the bloodied blade in my hands.

Trembling, the reality of what I’d just done sank in. They had been bandits, sure, but I’d never killed anyone before. Goblins and Skrael were different. They weren’t human. Goblins even bled green. It wasn’t the same as snuffing out the lives of three men almost by reflex. I let the seax fall from my fingers and numbly walked around, trying to come to grips with what had happened. The fight replayed in my mind. Everything I did, everything they did, every option not taken. Not finding a good answer wasn’t a comfort.

Then the ground fell from under my feet.

Woven branches covered with leaf litter disguised the pit the three men had dug in the ground. At the slow amble I’d been moving, I slid down the side wall and avoided landing on the stakes littering the bottom. The shock jolted me out of my previous fug. I blinked at the crude wooden spikes. The rain had picked up and was thundering against the foliage. Despite the cover, it ran down my cheeks in icy rills. Tugging one of the stakes free, I stabbed it into the side of the pit and tried to climb. All I succeeded in doing was ripping muddy rents in the wall. Each attempt ended with an undignified slide back to the bottom. I contemplated grabbing a second stake, but the soil didn’t strike be as being able to hold my weight. And with the rain, it wasn’t going to be getting any stronger.

Slumping against the side of the pit, I sat down.

I could dig myself a rut until the incline was shallow enough to slither out. But why bother? There was nothing to look forward to if I got out of this hole. I shook my head at the futility, mine and that of the bandits. How many hours had they spent digging this pit, hiding the soil removed, making stakes and disguising the hole? They couldn’t have dug it where there was pilgrim traffic – they’d have been spotted. Digging it here meant no one fell in. Well, except one dumb sod. Letting out a long sigh, I stared up into the rain.

A branch hit me in the face.

Snarling, I pushed it aside. It was tied to a leather strap. Blinking in confusion, my gaze followed the leather up into an equine face. Graymire stared down at me from the edge of the pit. It was no surprise he’d managed to rip the limb off the tree he’d been tied to – it wasn’t that thick. Following me down the hill, however, that was unexpected. Standing, I untied the reins from the branch. Immediately, Graymire began backing away. I hurriedly wrapped the reins around my forearm and scrabbled against the muddy wall. Slipping, slithering, and feeling as if my sword arm were about to be ripped from its socket, I squirmed out of the hole in the ground.

Sitting amongst the dead men, I wished I was back in the pit. At least there I didn’t have to look upon my bloody deeds. Graymire nuzzled the side of my head, and I patted his neck, leaving a muddy handprint behind.

“Might as well find some shelter,” I sighed, rising. The closest thing my rudderless meandering turned up was a basaltic spar jutting out of a cliff at an angle. Tucked up against its root was a modestly dry patch. I sat there for a while, listening to the hammering rain. Growing tired, I lay down, faced the rock, and cried myself to sleep.

[35] I implored Prince Kord to tell me what the inscription said. It turns out, he can’t actually remember. I was greatly disappointed and contemplated how to get a linguist into the oracle chamber to find out.

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