Epilogue: So it was in the Beginning
‘The divine is so entwined in the culture of this Kingdom that even the very calendar reflects thus. Nine days in a week is an obvious connection, but how so forty days in a month? Well, dear reader, the mathematics reveal the answer. In a year there, one can fit nine of these forty-day months with five days left aside at the end, the longest night of all being the turning point of the year. In these so-called “Dark Days” it is said that the bridge between us and the Skein thins, that foul creatures prowl the night, and black magics are plotted or practiced. But, one should never believe everything they read.’
From ‘A Traveller’s Guide to Forsara’, by Joona Frantz, 2903 S.F.
The 5th Dark Day, 3042 S.F. - Three years and three months since The Scourging.
It began with screaming.
The noise was a thin wail that rose in pitch and volume to put one’s teeth on edge as electrum capacitors onloaded the thaumaturgic energy, growing in heat and brightness in a room that was already hot as a furnace in the deepest darkest winter. It was genius, really, such a simple thing with a simple goal that yet required a combined proficiency of Thaumaturgy and engineering to accomplish. Many of the dozen capacitors in the vaulted sub-level room were at least a century old yet still worked with admirable efficiency, their stored energy slowly leaking over the course of hours to heat vast tanks of water overhead, which in turn was pushed through miles of pipeline to heat scores of rooms and corridors.
Watching the Apprentices at their work, the Grand Thaumaturgist ruminated on the necessity of such a thing. Comfort was an obvious benefit, yes, as was cost-efficiency, for the College had not needed to purchase fuel in such a long time, an added bonus in these past difficult years. He knew the real necessity, however, was the lesson it taught to the young prospects. They needed to regulate their channelling: divest too much of their energy and they would become tired and burned out, divest too little and they would be pulled from bed in the middle of the night to restart the boiler.
He remembered his own time in this room with a nostalgia coloured by decades apart, toiling under the watchful eye of old Master Sundberg, gods rest his blackened old soul. The Grand Thaumaturgist frowned. No, the gods should have no business with a mage’s soul, but platitudes like that were quite ingrained and hard habits to stamp out.
With relieved groans from the Apprentices on duty, the Master in charge released them from their toil. Uniforms were donned, brows were wiped, and the young men and women of the Forsaran College of Thaumaturgy went off to find their tutors for the last tasks of the day. Competent mages being in short supply nowadays, even one in such an elevated role as he was required to take youngsters under his wing, and the two of them handpicked by him, a boy and a girl both past their nineteenth year of life, now stood patiently before him.
A curt gesture and they fell into step behind him, up the stairs and into the building proper, following through long corridors and grand halls, up further staircases with richly-carved banisters, and past windows through which the snow fell ever-thickly on an already-carpeted city, the yellow glow of its lights burred and fuzzy.
In the tumultuous day of The Scourging it quickly became clear that The College had, thanks to the powers of the Thaumaturgists in residence, remained more unscathed than most other buildings in the capital, even the Royal Palace. As such it became an immediate focal point for the survivors, the chaotic mob desperate for protection from tooth and claw and terrible fire. Things would have ended there had the army not arrived to instil some order and organisation into the proceedings.
For the days and weeks and months that followed, the College had been the nexus from which Fennia was retaken, street by street, until the Aldaz-built city walls were recaptured, the great gates closed, and any breaches finally sealed. That effort had been paid dearly in the blood of soldiers, mages, and civilians, but it had bought their survival. More than that, it had bought the continuation of humanity, the continuation of Forsara. They could now rebuild.
The College emptied of non-mages and an echo of normalcy returning, the Thaumaturgists needed leadership and guidance in their newly-minted place as society’s heroes, the military’s officers, and the novice Regent’s advisors. With little challenge or fuss they had elected him as Grand Thaumaturgist, not that he had ever dreamed of putting his name forward, even in The Time Before.
Funny how things change.
Pulling from his reverie, he unlocked the door to his office, then froze. On his cluttered oaken desk, amid piles of books and half-finished papers, stood a large black raven. His eyes flickered to the window then back to the bird.
‘Whose familiar is this?’ His Apprentices shook their heads.
The Grand Thaumaturgist sighed and ushered them inside, closing the door and standing before the bird as his Apprentices closed curtains and lit lamps.
‘Speak,’ he commanded.
The raven’s mouth opened and out from that maw spoke a voice he recognised. ‘Quick warning, I just saw the Regent at the main entrance, hope Krummi gets to you before she does!’
The bird’s mouth closed and it ruffled its feathers, neck outsretched expectantly. ‘Yes, fine,’ the Grand Thaumaturgist said, scratching it behind the head. It clicked its beak appreciatively then imploded, collapsing in on itself until it disappeared with a pop of displaced air and a single stray feather.
He hurried into action, settling in the plush chair behind the desk as his Apprentices moved to stand silently at his shoulders.
‘…Three… Two… One…’ he counted under his breath.
The door opened and in strode, without waiting to be invited, Lady Maja Greseth, Protector of the Realm, Reclaimer of the Broken Lands, and Regent of Forsara until a viable claim to the throne could be verified. Not that anyone expected to find someone with the blood of Forsar in their veins anymore. It had been over three years.
She set herself down in the chair opposite with a weary thud, stray orange hair drooping from the golden circlet about her brow and tired green eyes regarding the Grand Thaumaturgist expectantly.
‘Well?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Good to see you too, Maja,’ he replied calmly. ‘How is the little one?’
‘Still alive and giving their governess hell,’ the woman’s mouth twitched, the only thing resembling a smile he had ever seen from her. As far as he knew, she had been pregnant during The Scourging and heavily so, taking over her husband’s seat on the much-diminished Baron’s Council after the death of her husband that very same day, displaying an iron will and a talent for organisation that served the resurgent state well. Once it became clear that a formal hierarchy needed to be established, she was made Regent.
‘You always try to distract me, Torbeon,’ she added scoldingly.
‘And you always fall for it,’ the Grand Thaumaturgist replied.
The Regent sighed and rubbed her eyes.
‘Yes, well, it is good to keep what is important firmly in our minds,’ she admitted. ‘Now, answer the question. Any progress?’
Torbeon Savonet, Grand Thaumaturgist of the Forsaran College, glanced at the papers on his desk, mostly reports from subordinates, and picked one from the top.
‘Gudfred, one of my mages on the frigate Wayward Son passed me his report not three days ago,’ he replied neutrally. ‘They pursued as best as they could for half a month, even going as far as that island, what was it… a yes, Havnoy, but reporting no signs of that stolen ship having recently been there. They unfortunately had to call off the search as conditions worsened and the sea ice crept further south.’
‘Shit,’ the Regent hissed.
Since the debacle at Buktmunn port, there had been stirrings in the Barons’ Council and unrest in the populace. How could pirates have struck at the very heart of the nation, breaking criminals from gaol and absconding with a warship of the Forsaran Navy, all at great loss of life for the sons and daughters, wives and husbands, that had been doing their best to keep everyone safe? Perhaps the Regent was beginning to lose her touch, her grip on the wider picture? Or so the insidious threads of rumour went.
Maja had desperately needed a win to squash dissenters, proof she was still up to the task of rule.
‘Where is a war with Jodlund when you need one?’ she muttered.
‘Not that Jodlund even exists anymore,’ Torbeon pointed out.
‘True, a collection of warlord princes spending more time fighting each other than Frekir does not a nation make,’ she snorted.
‘We could pick a fight with the Galasi?’ he joked.
‘Which we both know they would win.’
Torbeon nodded, conceding the point. Warlike to a fault, it had ever been tradition for all Galasi to spend at least two years mandatory service in the standing army – or navy – before being allowed the status of adulthood and full citizenship. The side-effect of this had been a populace ready for any threat, meaning they had come out of the end of the world comparatively well, if the reports were to be believed.
‘We can try again in the spring, Maja, if they even survive the winter,’ he told her, trying to be reassuring. They were friends of a sort, as much as their respective positions allowed.
‘No, no point,’ she shook her head. ‘I need something else, a win or at the very least a distraction, or I may not survive the winter.’
‘I will see what I can do,’ Torbeon assured her.
The Regent nodded her thanks and stood to leave, gathering her coat about her. At the door, she paused.
‘It was good to see you too, Tor,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Maja,’ he responded.
She exited and the moment the door closed, the Grand Thaumaturgist rubbed his brow and sighed. It seemed as if the more civilisation returned to how things were in The Time Before, the more difficult things became.
‘Politics…’ he muttered. ‘I must also remember to reinforce the rule that all familiars require nametags…’
Glancing either side, he remembered his two Apprentices, silent and dutiful.
‘I may as well let you go now, I cannot have you filling my shadow all night.’ The pair began to leave and he gestured to the girl. ‘Stay a moment, dear, if you will.’
The girl turned and stood stiffly as the boy made his escape, only sitting when the Grand Thaumaturgist gestured for her to do so.
‘How are you finding things?’ he asked her. ‘Your instructors treating you fairly?’
‘Well enough, Grand Thaumaturgist,’ she replied, ‘And yes, they are.’
‘We are alone, little bird, you know you do not need to call me that.’
The girl smiled.
‘Sorry, papa.’
Tobeon returned the smile to his daughter, Thorun, last surviving member of his family and the light of his life. Those blue eyes held so much of her mother in them, and of course her sister, Aina. There was not a day that went by in all these long years that he did not miss them.
‘I am glad to hear you are doing well, truly.’
‘How are you doing, papa?’ she asked. ‘Dare I say but you look tired.’
‘Oh I am, little bird,’ he chuckled ruefully. ‘But you know how it is. There is always so much work left to do.’ He glanced back at his desk, to a report from Asgeir Klepp, promising a breakthrough come the springtime thaw. ‘Always so much to do.’
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