Part 4

At first, the city appeared every so often in the heat haze, an apparition of unknown origin and distance. Sonea lulled in the saddle, her body protesting at the constant bumpy ride. Savara had no such pains. She rode upright and regal, searching the surrounding wastelands constantly for any sign of danger. So far, they had only met bandits here and there, highwaymen certain of their superiority over the magicians. Of course, a few tricks and they scampered, but there were worse things than bandits in these lands. Savara had explained that a rigid peace had existed between the Ichani, held together by Kariko's group. Them gone, several Ichani were looking to become leader, and that meant danger for any who stepped into the wastes.

One night, Savara had woken Sonea and silently gestured for her to join the Sachakan on a rock. Lying on her stomach, Sonea watched two tiny magicians battling fiercely. Flashes of light and booming sounds shook the rock beneath her, but eventually the victorious Ichani broke through his enemies shield, taking his life. Sonea felt sick as the dead man fell into the swamp, and turned away. Savara however seemed pleased by this turn of events, saying that the defeated Ichani had plans to destroy Sachaka's government and rule the country themselves.

Yes, the city was becoming clearer now. Gleaming spires and minarets rose out of a white stone metropolis. Sonea gawped in open appreciation, and Savara looked happy to have finally made it home. They continued at a steady pace towards the towering gates, meeting more and more travellers on the road. Eventually their horses were making their way through dusty streets and strangely clothed men and women, bearing stranger items of all shape and size.

An hour later they were the only two horses making their way up to the palace, which stood on a slight hill above the city. The sun was still high in the sky, and Sonea was sweating uncomfortably. She had donned her Black magician's robes in an attempt to look presentable, but they had become dirty and dusty in the desert this morning. Cursing, she tried to clear them with magic, but with little luck. Her efforts were halted, however, by the appearance of the main building of the palace. White marble towers stretched off seemingly into the clouds, previously obscuring each other. Long windows adorned with coloured glass depicting epic battles were positioned along the wall facing her. The gardens in front were immaculate, and there were even fountains, something she was sure affected the rest of the cities' water supply. Guards in cloaks and golden armour stood unmoving around the courtyard, spears in hand. She could sense that each of them could easy defeat not only her, but probably half the guild too. Probably got all that strength from the people underneath this hill, she thought.

Savara gave the horses to an attendant, and then led Sonea towards the set of huge doors. She was suddenly extremely nervous, and out of habit, called Akkarin

Akkarin – His reply was immediate.

Sonea. I've missed you.

I'm here, at the palace. She sent him an image of the impressive front wall of the palace. Sensing his awe, she said

I'm about to request an audience with the monarch. Are you going to listen?

How could I resist? She imagined him chuckle, then broke the connection, knowing he had donned his ring. Savara was looking at her quizzically.

"Shall we continue?" She asked, smiling slightly.

"Yes, certainly," Sonea replied. "I would love to see more of your wonderful palace.

* * * *

It felt good to be rid of that damn chest. He breathed, remembering his name was Doplin, and stretched young limbs. Stepping out into the light, he felt the sun kiss his skin for the first time in centuries, and it felt good. He felt nothing for the squealing, squirming little magician lying inside his conscious. He could suck it's energy whenever he wanted. That would shut it up. Even now it was begging for mercy and freedom, and it was grovelling with all it's will.

Opening the chest once more, Doplin took out one of his many orbs, and placed his hand on it. Instantly it glowed white hot, and he felt the magician's mind slide out of his own and into it. Placing the orb carefully down, he searched through his other belongings, looking for anything that might jog his memory. Eventually he came across a robe, his robe he remembered, and he took it out and laid it next to the orb. What he found next was what he had been searching for; his staff. Normal magicians didn't need staffs to channel their magic, and neither did he, but it had some use, he knew. The trouble was that he couldn't remember what that use was. Maybe there were more answers outside.

The heat was intense, but he remembered that he liked it like this. He headed to where there seemed to be most activity. Some sort of archaeological dig seemed to be happening, but he was drawn to the single significant find they were likely to discover besides himself in these ruins. How he knew this, he had no clue, but he headed straight for the doorway cut into the mountainside. On the way, however, he was approached by one of the men.

"Milord? The dig is progressing slowly. We haven't made much progress, sir, and we apologize." For a moment, Doplin had no idea what to say, but decided on a safe,

"I will forgive you today, but more progress is demanded of the rest of the week." We carried on in, and found himself in a long corridor, heedless of the protests of the worker. His sensitive eyes guided him through the passage, until he found himself in a large room. Immediately he felt enormous power here. The walls gleamed with magic, and occasionally it escaped to flicker across the room and into oblivion. Then, he was brought to his knees by a booming voice, a strange accent leaving his head throbbing.

Who is this to disturb my slumber? Doplin didn't know how to answer, so he merely said

My name is Doplin. That is all I know

Then you shall know more...

Immediately, a flush of memories broke into Doplin's mind, the sheer volume sending his mind writhing. He was setting off from a place called Arvice, him and lots of others. They trekked across a high place where the air was thin and the rocks plenty. Then they were attacking the enemy, and he sensed that they didn't belong there. As his shield fell he fled on a stolen 4 legged beast up into the mountains, there stumbling across a group of women, leading a solitary existence in a hidden valley. One fierce one had attacked him on sight, driving his weak form into the cliff itself. He ran through passage after passage, before coming to a dead end. He blasted his way through the fallen roof and soon found his way to the surface. He emerged once more into brilliant sunlight. Strange men in stranger clothing greeted him, showing suspicion and regret that he had found them. They had tricked him, telling him to lie on a piece of stone, and thrust a knife into his belly. The last memory was of them rising into a white light, then nothing.

You were the sacrifice. The one who must be lost. Those men were monks, living a life high in the Elyne Mountains. They worshipped me, but they were not the first to do so. I outlive all men of this place. Some know me as the Oracle. My name is Narvelan.