Chapter 4
"I'm sorry Gilleah, but I'm afraid our business here is concluded."
Carhillion massaged his aching temple and regarded the pleading, piteous man before him. This folly had gone on long enough, and Carhillion feared that any further grovelling would tip him over the edge. A quick glance to each side told him that the rest of the Fold felt much the same. Glocken, his counterpart on the other side of the crescent table, rubbed his eyes and drummed his fingers on the mahogany surface. Salda examined the crumbled parchment which bore her notes, few of which pertained to the matter which had gathered them all in the Atrium of the Fold that bright, hotter-than-average afternoon. Azal, the Forossan sage, tapped his staff on the ground rhythmically. Olenford, seated at the apex of the crescent, cleared his throat, "Gilleah, you are hereby dismissed from the Fold. You may remain in Melfia, where you may continue to teach and to research as you see fit. Any further research into these 'Dark Sorceries', as you put it, shall guarantee your permanent expulsion from the Academy."
The man known as Gilleah, distinctive in his sable robe and wave of silvery, almost transparent hair, sunk to his knees. He had done this a number of times during the afternoon's proceedings.
"I tell you I'm on the verge of something!" he wept, his voice cracking has he emphasised verge, "Just let me…"
"You should leave now, Gill." Salda's was soft, but her razor-sharp glare halted Gilleah's words in his throat. He stood- a grey strip of dust now adorned the knee-line of his robe- and drifted out of the circular Atrium with drooping shoulders.
"Awfully generous of you to let him stay in Melfia, Ford." Glocken drawled, one auburn eyebrow raised.
"Gilleah has a brilliant mind, as well you know," mused Olenford, fingers steepled beneath his ancient eyes, "his discoveries regarding the Golden Sorceries altered the landscape of arcane study in ways even I could not have foreseen. I hope that in time he will come to his senses."
"He's been on the brink for years now," Carhillion offered, "he discovered far more than light-manipulation during his studies of Oolacile."
Azal slouched in his chair, resting his rough-hewn wooden staff upon his knee. "Perhaps we should have given this more thought. These new Sorceries of Gilleah's could have certain… applications."
"Hold your tongue!" Salda snapped, "To allow ourselves to embrace the power of the Dark is to invite the Abyss into Melfia. I don't know how you do things in the east, but we uphold certain standards here."
"Few hundred years ago you'd have said the same about Pyromancy, yet Glocken sits here with the rest of us." Glocken shrugged at this and offered a smile which said well, he's not wrong.
"We will speak no more of this matter today," Olenford spoke, concluding the discussion, "now we should all make the most of the few hours we have left of the day. I, for one, intend to spend my afternoon relaxing in the gardens." He looked to each of his peers in turn, smiling warmly, before they began to file out. Glocken was the first to go, followed by Salda with her notes clasped to her chest. Azal raised his grey hood as he swept through the tall oak door, in spite of the heat. Carhillion lingered, waiting as Olenford gathered his sheafs of paper and rose from his chair.
"You have more to say on this." it was not a question.
"I side with Azal in this case," Carhillion said as he left the Atrium, matching Olenford's surprisingly brisk pace, "perhaps there is some merit to Gilleah's suggestions. We could learn much from studying the Abyssal sorceries."
They crossed the courtyard, shaded by the Academy's spires. The gardens where Olenford enjoyed his afternoons lay on the eastern side of the institution, surrounded by a high stone wall.
When the wizened scholar did not respond, Carhillion continued nervously, "Of course, I am not blind to the risks- caution would be paramount- but this Academy has always prided itself on the breadth of its collective knowledge. Everything from the Soul Arts to the Pyromancies of the swamps, yet we are so afraid to study the Dark. Does that not seem strange to you, Master Olenford?"
Olenford allowed for a few moments of silence to pass between them before he replied. In those moments, Carhillion noticed for the first time just how ancient the sorcerer was, just how weary those sea-green eyes were. Olenford had been among the first sorcerers to make land in Melfia after fleeing old Olaphis. He and his peers had imparted their knowledge of Sorcery to the inhabitants of the southern land, building the foundation for the Academy, an institution which surpassed even the Dragon School of Vinheim. Olenford was the last of that original Fold. He had seen every last one of his kinsmen pass on, slowly replaced by younger, fresher mages. Glocken, the master Pyromancer. Salda with her deep understanding of Crystal Sorceries. Gilleah, fascinated by magics thought lost to time. Even Azal, an honorary inductee to the Fold, more warrior than sage. And Carhillion, who was Olenford's greatest acolyte, although the old man would never admit it aloud.
"I would be a liar if I told you that I disagree," Olenford spoke slowly, deliberately, "all my life I have sought knowledge. I desire more than anything to understand the true nature of our world, the unseen cogs which grind and spin, invisible to our human eyes." They had crossed the threshold of the garden, and now walked between beds of Catarina tulips and Carim roses.
"Yet when I look at this Academy, and the great works we have accomplished, I am filled with pride. I could not bear to see our land of Melfia obliterated," he fixed Carhillion with a pointed look, "for that is what would happen if we were to carelessly dabble in the magics of the Abyss. I have seen its power with my own eyes."
They came to a black iron bench, its back shaped in a simple net pattern. Olenford sat, head tilted back, eyes closed. He almost looked as if he were asleep. Carhillion sat beside him.
"If we allowed Gilleah to pursue his project Melfia would suffer the same fate that befell Oolacile. Do you understand?"
"Of course, Master Olenford."
"And just like that, everything we have worked for would disappear, to be rediscovered in a thousand years or more by another ambitious madman."
Silence settled upon them. Carhillion watched a hummingbird flit between the flowers. After a minute he was sure the elderly mage had fallen asleep.
"I think I'll be leaving soon." Olenford said, startling Carhillion.
"Leaving, Master? Where will you go?"
A smile appeared on Olenford's face, one that was sad but not devoid of humour. "I have no earthly clue. Of late I have dreamt of a northern land. There is Fire there, but also a great deal of darkness. Sometimes one calls to me, sometimes the other. Sometimes both at once, and I feel I will split in two. Soon enough I shall need to answer their call. But not yet. Not yet."
"This northern land- you don't think it could be…" but Carhillion did not finish his thought. Olenford had started to snore.
Gilleah swept through the Academy town like a dark storm cloud. Beads of sweat ran down his arms and thighs, swaddled in his thick black robe. Students watched him with mixed disgust and amusement, many already aware of his humiliation. He paid them no heed, staring straight ahead as he strode down the high street.
Cowards, he thought bitterly, every last one of them. All I need is another year, maybe less.
He turned a corner. A gaggle of young men and women dispersed as he passed. He saw the way they looked at him. Of course there was the disgust, of course there was the twisted amusement, but worst of all was the pity. He had been a member of the Fold, one of the most senior scholars in Melfia. He had earned the respect of the great Olenford when he had discovered the Golden Scrolls and deciphered the ancient wisdom they held. And now, as he stood on the brink of the greatest discovery in the Academy's history, they saw fit to dismiss him. Sweat rolled down his face but he hardly noticed. His wispy grey hair was plastered to his scalp.
Finally, he was home. He marched up the three steps and produced the key from his robe with a shaking hand. The key struck the brass escutcheon several times before it finally slid into the keyhole. He threw the door open, and once he was in, slammed it shut. The room was pitch black and reeked of old dust. He fumbled for his desk, found a box of sulfur matches, struck one against the side of the box, and lit a candle. He slumped onto his wooden stool and sat for a while, face buried in his hands.
Something felt wrong. He sat up and stared around the room.
In the corner of the room, in his favourite armchair, sat a woman. She was clad in a sleek purple dress with pale sleeves which flared outwards like the petals of some exotic flower. A domino mask obscured her entire face, except for her mouth, which was drawn in a slight smile. Thick black hair cascaded from the top of the mask. Gilleah leapt to his feet, toppling his stool.
"You are Gilleah, formerly of the Fold." her voice was distant, almost alien, "My name is Zullie."
Gilleah made a grab for his birch staff, which leaned against the wall close to his desk. The witch made a vague gesture with her hand- Gilleah saw that her fingernails were painted the same shade of purple as her dress- and a small black orb whirled through the air. The orb struck him in the forearm, knocking him to the ground.
Now the woman was standing. She moved towards the old sorcerer and it was as if she were gliding. Gilleah cowered on the floor, clutching at his arm and shaking.
"Thah-thah-that wuh-was Dark suh-Sorcery!" he managed to say through gritted teeth. The woman who called herself Zullie smiled.
"In a way, yes. I'm not here to hurt you, Gilleah. I actually have a proposition for you. One I think will benefit you greatly."
"Y-you broke into my huh-house and now yuh-you're making demands?" he hissed.
The witch knelt so her eyes were level with his. They were black eyes, he saw them through the slits in her mask. She raised a pale hand, inches from his quivering face. A black flame danced across her fingers, hopping merrily from one purple talon to the next and then back again. Gilleah's eyes followed the dancing ember, enthralled.
"You desire to harness the power of Dark, as they did long ago in the time of Oolacile," she said in her inhumanly beautiful voice, "I can teach you to do that."
"Y-you can?"
The black flame began to grow, until the witch held a ball of dark fire in her hand. A smoky white corona enwreathed the flame, and two white dots appeared within the blackness. To Gilleah they looked like eyes.
"You will be the most powerful sorcerer in Melfia. The Fold will not be able to withstand you. Even Olenford will be forced to accept your superiority. But you will need to do something for me. There is a man approaching Melfia by ship. His name is Alva. He will arrive in perhaps two months. His intent is to learn of the Undead Curse, so that he may find a cure for it. You must halt his search through any means you see fit." the black flame sputtered and vanished, leaving no smoke, "But he cannot die. If you remember but one part of our conversation it must be that. Do you understand?"
Gilleah nodded vigorously. Struggling to speak through a mouth flooded by saliva he managed to say: "Suh-stop h-him from learning about the cuh-Curse, d-do not let him d-d-die."
"Very good." the witch Zullie stood up tall and turned away from the pathetic wreck of a man.
"W-wait!" he cried out, and she turned back to him.
"When w-will you beh-beh-begin teaching m-me? Ab-about the d-d-Dark?"
Zullie moved over to Gilleah's fallen stool, righted it, and returned to the armchair in the corner.
"How about we start right now?"