Chapter Twenty: Bad Moon Rising

The evenings were drawing in fast now. And as of this moment, as our story comes around to its ending stanzas, the Guild, apart from the dim glow from the occasional globe light, was shrouded in darkness, a timid anticipation drawn about it like a clock against the chill night air. Far above, the +moon was already rising high in the sky, bright and open like an eye. Watching, waiting.

In the High Lord's Residence, a once ambitious young man looked out over the Guild gardens before him. Though it was now late, this had been his first chance to look at them from this vantage point, this being his first night in his new home. It had been a day of hectic decision-making and constant flurries of activity, but he wanted to take in the view from his new bedroom just once before attempting to settle down to sleep.

He wondered at the sight before him, a sight he was now supposed to lead over and protect above all other commitments. A pensive look of worry shadowed the elegant features of his face, and in one swift pull of his magic, he brought the blinds down to hide the sight from his eyes. There were too many thoughts passing through his mind- too many decisions to make and too many consequences to face.

The first: the consequences of the death of the High Lord, now nine months ago. The Guild had followed its ancient customs to the letter. It had grieved, then it had deliberated, had made its decision and now it was ready to announce it in a fully throated voice to the entire world. Tomorrow, its new age would begin, a new High Lord at its head. It was amazing to think how much had changed in just ten or so months for the man at the window.

He had been called before the King and the Higher Magicians at the palace almost three months prior to this night. He had stood waiting patiently as they gazed upon him with great solemnity, until the King had finally spoken. The man had known what the monarch was about to say, of course, every single person in the room, from the greatest magician to the humblest messenger boy, did. But tradition dictated that this conversation occurred and was witnessed.

"Lord Akkarin," Merin had said in his deep, official tones, ones that Akkarin would once have made fun of, "I have come to the end of my period of deliberation. I, with the help of the Higher Magicians, considered several candidates from numerous angles and took the advice of many people across the Allied Lands. In the end, the decision was unanimous and easy. Lord Akkarin, it had been decided that you will be the next High Lord of the Magicians' Guild of Kyralia. Will you accept the honour and take the necessary vows?"

The King had stared him down across the long table, bejewelled fingers placed carefully on its edge, his dark grey eyes seemingly wanting to catch the most minute of movements in Akkarin's body, the smallest twitches of his face. Testing the steel of his nerve, his commitment. As if Akkarin had the choice to run away from his fate at this point. What was the King going to do if he saw something he didn't like? Bang his fists down on the table and say that the last three months had been a waste of time and they needed to start again? Honestly, this was all a circus, pomp and pageantry that once upon a time, these two men would have laughed heartedly at.

This is a very strange position for us to find ourselves in, Akkarin had mused to himself at the time. I suppose he was always destined for great things, and maybe I wanted to be as well… but I don't think either of us when were mere boys, playing at being knights in the gardens of the palace he would one day inherit, expected that I would end up as the most powerful magician in the Allied Lands, and for both of us to be in such powerful positions so young. We were mere children who would have been terrified of the tasks ahead of them, but would have fought bravely not to show it…

But now they must put aside what was done and over with, and whatever residual fear might remain. Childhood was over, and duty had begun. Forget Akkarin and Merin. Now, King and High Lord. The dice had been rolled, and fate had spoken.

With genuine humility, Akkarin had bowed his head and accepted a fate he desperately didn't want. "If you consider me worthy of it, Your Majesty, then of course I will."

Merin nodded once. "I do. You will spend the next three months preparing for your role, after which you will officially be invested at your Ascension ceremony, which will take place after the court's Winter festivities. Congratulations, High Lord." The man had then rose and, unexpectedly, inclined his head to the new leader. The others around the table had quickly followed his direction.

"High Lord," they had murmured- and if was from that moment on that people seemed to struggle to maintain eye contact with him. Even Balkan, who Akkarin knew had considered him something of a product of his own making, now stoically looked down at the table. But then again, maybe he had his own personal reasons for that.

A part of Akkarin wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of all this…again, pomp and pageantry. Little did these fools know they were bowing to a former slave. Another part of him wanted to cry for exactly the same reason.

They can never know. They can never know any of it. Ever.

Looking back on it now, as he stared out in the darkness on the eve on the aforementioned Ascension Ceremony, that meet seemed even more ridiculous than it had then and there. The decision had been unanimous, the King had said- ha! But of course it had been unanimous! Because the Higher Magicians had been given no choice but to vote for him. It's amazing what people are able to overlook to avoid a candidate they don't like.

There had only been two real contenders besides Akkarin. The first was, of course, Balkan. But he was swiftly dismissed as he simply wasn't enough of a character within the Guild, or indeed within the wider magical community, to have made enough of an impact. He was reliable, efficient, but was…oh I don't know, he was missing something necessary in a High Lord. Noticing this change in the wind of his prospects, Balkan stepped aside from consideration, citing that he believed he was in the right position as Head of Warriors at this moment in time. He then threw his weight behind Akkarin's 'campaign' (though it should be noted that Akkarin did none of the campaigning himself, others did it for him), because, as he said to Akkarin in private, he would rather have seen the Guild up in flames than in the hands of the other candidate.

Because that final nominee was, of all things, a woman.

I mean, I ask you. The audacity. The disrespect.

Never in the history of the Guild had a woman ever been considered strong enough to lead. It should be remembered the number of women who had joined the ranks of the Higher Magicians was vanishingly small. Aside from Vinara, who had had to work incredibly hard to reach her position, there had been no other women Higher Magicians in over eighty years. So when a woman's name was put forward as a candidate for the great chair in the Guildhall, the Guild had taken in a joined gasp horror. The title High Lady was considered a contradiction in terms- by even, sadly, the women of the Guild themselves. If we teach our daughters that they are not good enough for something, they will believe it, even if its to their own detriment. What is probably the most insulting differentiation of all this was that women were considered intelligent enough to become magicians, they weren't generally considered to have what it took to lead men to victory. I know, that logic baffles me too.

And so, the short list dropped down to one. And that one man, if he had had any other choice, would have asked not to be nominated, then begged not to be chosen, if it hadn't been for the second consequence of recent events that was on his mind this particular evening.

And what was that the second consequence on Akkarin's mind? It was the presence of black magic wielding Sachakans within Imardin's own walls- and with them, they brought a fear so dark and terrible, and yet so real.

It had started some six months ago, just as the selection process for the new High Lord was beginning. The first sign was a strange death which Akkarin had heard about through Lorlen, who was proving to be an excellent source of information as the Administrator's Assistant. The body, Lorlen said, had been found in a prominent area of the northern part of the slums- if foul play was involved, it was almost as if the murderer had wanted it to be spotted. And here was the other strange thing- there was no obvious cause of death, save for a long, shallow cut on the man's skin. Because of that, the City Guard had thought it prudent to involve the Guild in the investigation- either this was an illness that the medics couldn't identify, or it was a particularly malicious murder. And here was the strangest part of all- held tight in the man's cold hand was a piece of cloth with scrawled letters on it. With a sense of foreboding, Akkarin had nonchalantly asked what the words were, and Lorlen had shrugged.

"Oh, something in a different language, I didn't recognise it. The Administrator has asked me to look into having it translated- say, do you think someone from the Great Library would be able to help? That man who helped you when you were there, you said he was good with languages?"

As the sense of foreboding intensified, Akkarin felt the slightest of chills run down his spine. He murmured something about seeing what he could do, then had slipped off as quickly as he could.

He didn't feel good about breaking into the Administrator's office to find the scrap, and felt even worse when he couldn't find it and realised he was going to have to break into Lorlen's desk. But when he read the words written on the dirty piece of material, and took it back to his rooms for Takan to confirm his worst fears, he knew that any guilt he felt needed to put aside for the greater good.

I'm coming to get you, Kyralian, it said. Did you miss us?

After a full day of trying to deny this was happening, Takan eventually talked some sense into him, and sent Akkarin out to do the only thing he could- he had tracked down the person responsible and had killed him with the magical ability he had sworn to himself he would never use again, to make sure that no other innocent slum dweller was hurt. Akkarin didn't know what made his nausea worse- the fact he had had to kill yet again, or that it was clear that Kariko was truly planning on upholding his blood oath to his brother.

Time had passed and no other strange deaths occurred in the slums, much to Akkarin's relief- as by this time the decision had been made that he was to become High Lord, and he had many preparations to make and things to learn. But that didn't mean that more slaves wouldn't come- and then, eventually, the man himself would. Once he had built himself enough of an army, he was coming to get them.

But as the Administrator had walked in him through what the Guild expected of him, Akkarin had slowly realised, whilst laying awake for half those nights, that perhaps these two events- the death of the High Lord and the presence of the Sachakan slaves, were somehow serendipitous. As High Lord, and the only person who knew about the threat from Sachaka, he would be able to watch the events of Imardin without anyone thinking anything of it- a part of his role was ensuring the safety of not just the Guild, but of all Kyralia. He could adopt an air of mystery about himself, make himself seem unapproachable and aloof to all but a select few. He could slip away without anyone raising an eyebrow, and know things he apparently wasn't supposed to know. He could make himself into a myth, a legend, a…well, a parent, he supposed.

To his revulsion, Dakova had been absolutely right. It was all about smoke and mirrors now.

There are an infinite number of ways to finish a story- a cautionary tale's warning to be heeded, a fable's lesson to be learned, I could go on. Me, you ask, as you once again wonder where I am headed in such philosophical terms? How do you plan on finishing your story? Me, I plan on finishing this story very simply- with the truth.

And the truth was that this was a bad moon that was rising over Guild this night, and it couldn't be stopped. Its evil glare would cast a long shadow over the Guild, a darkness no one would notice but this young man alone, for many years to come at least. A shadow that couldn't be stopped, a fate that could not be overcome.

Because here's one last truth for you: As far as we try to run, as fast and we try to escape, we cannot get away from the tales that insist on being told.

But all that's another story.

Fin

From my little part of the world to yours, may I offer you the warmest of seasonal greetings and all the best for 2020. Can you believe we're about to enter the THIRD decade of the century, and I have made it to the end of my second story? EEEEK! But wait. There's more. Don't go anywhere. Love, Cece xox