The merchant

  Clarissa is studying accounts with pursed lips and frown lines between her brows. Something is not right about this particular report. The trade of lashilis should be far more profitable than is being reported. The raids of the Nethyar make an impact, true, but they have been relatively quiet for the past few months and there has been no indication that the harvest of lashilis is significantly less this year than the last ten. She taps her enchanted quill against her lips, a tell that she has tried to eliminate completely, but to limited success. When she realises what she’s doing, she places the quill down on the table with precise movements.

  A sudden whistle makes her jump and she’s glad that no one is here to see it. Pushing her chair back, she walks over to the artifact in the way she has mastered – a smooth glide which hides how quickly she is actually moving in its seeming unhurriedness. Even alone in her office, she refuses to show any loss of composure. Never mind that this is an artifact that she would never have thought would activate – had hoped would never activate – for all that she decided it was worth the investment. The consequences of an undetected, unchecked rift that opens within a certain distance of her can be either good or bad for business depending on the rift – and what might emerge from it.

  But just as she reaches the artifact, it goes silent. Clarissa frowns, the creases between her eyes deepening once more. Such a short opening? The seller of the artifact indicated that it only sounds while a rift is active, but such a short opening can only mean one thing: it was intentional. Natural rifts generally either do not fully establish, or they gape open for far longer.

  Her hand empty of a quill, she taps her lips with one finger, this time not even aware that she’s doing it as she stares sightlessly at the map-covered wall before her.

  An intentional rift. No, a Pathway. Someone has summoned something. And given that the artifact has a limited detection range and that it was quite a strong signal, judging by the volume of the whistle…. It has to be someone relatively close. In Moriax or Nethya for sure, and probably not someone in Forestheart – on the other side of the mountains, the signal would be far weaker.

  Nethya seems unlikely – what benefit would the desert nomads receive from a summoning? They know their raids are tolerated only because chasing them into the desert would be far more costly than a few small villages or trading caravans every year. Could the Damayar be intending to invade again, using the Nethyar once more as a distraction? It would not be the first time. Arguably, the Nethyar could have summoned some great beast to serve as part of that, though even their Tamers would surely struggle to control something which could cause enough damage to the Moriaxar defences to be an adequate distraction.

  It’s possible, but Clarissa’s Situational Analysis Skill indicates that it is not probable. The Pathway was only open for a very short time. Whatever was summoned, it was ready to come through.

  Maybe the summoning was far closer to home than the Nethyar. The Competition has already started; maybe someone has decided to seek an advantage? An illegal advantage?

  Clarissa smiles in satisfaction as her Situational Analysis Skill is far happier with this possibility. It is no guarantee – her Skill is not infallible in its judgement, and mostly uses what she herself already knows when she is alone like this. But if someone has just opened a Pathway to give their House a leg up in the competition…that is valuable information.

  And Clarissa, of all people, knows what to do with something valuable.

  The mage

  Treaxor sighs heavily and scrubs his hand across his face. It’s almost the end of his shift and he can’t wait for it to come to a close. When he agreed to become one of the retainer mages of Crownseat, he thought it would be more glamorous than this.

  It’s not to say that he has any problems with the salary – he doesn’t. It might not be a massive amount of gold each tenday, but he has lodging and board in the castle itself, which is worth more than his salary alone, and he’s also given a budget for tools of his trade and a stipend for his personal necessities. As the mage who offered him the job put it, the salary is pure profit as long as a mage lives within his extensive benefits. Which, apart from those mages with Skills high in demand, is more than can be said about most jobs.

  No, the issue Treaxor has is with his current job. Monitoring the alert network. No one likes doing it, and now he knows why: it’s so boring.

  At first, it was interesting – a network of enchantments and artifacts that stretches across the whole of Moriax is beyond impressive. Treaxor is no enchanter, but he knows enough of the trade to realise just how much work went into establishing the network, and how many different people had to cooperate to do so.

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  Treaxor knows it’s important – the network gives a warning of any beasts above a certain Tier encroaching onto inhabited lands, forces above a certain size or average level, weather which is likely to cause significant damage, even fires which reach an inferno stage. And these are all things the king needs to know as soon as possible. But the reality of the situation is that these disasters happen very infrequently – fortunately so.

  But after almost a tenday of staring at a map which, apart from the way it glimmers to his Mage Sight looks just like any old map of Moriax, he can’t wait for the time to end and for another pair of mages to take their turn. He’s not even allowed to practise his magic or do research in case it means he doesn’t realise when an alert comes through. All he’s allowed to do is busywork which takes little of his attention and which often threatens to put him to sleep faster than just staring at the map itself.

  Checking the clock impatiently once more, Treaxor sighs again. Still half a clock to go. And he’s hungry. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against his chair. He’s not going to sleep. Just…rest a bit.

  When the beeping invades his ears, at first Treaxor thinks he’s dreaming. Opening his eyes groggily, he stares uncomprehendingly for a moment at the flashing light.

  Then he explodes from his seat as he realises that the network is sending an alert.

  Rushing over to the map, he mentally goes through what he’s supposed to do in the case of an alert.

  Hands shaking, he reaches over to touch the light. It seems to be over…Azaarde? No, somewhere in the countryside just off to the north-west. Touching the light, Treaxor extends his mana into it – the reason why it has to be a mage who watches over the network.

  The network reaches back to him, informing him of the threat. Treaxor blanches, his hand dropping away from the map – a rift! A rift has opened! In Moriax!

  And then, as quickly as it had begun sounding, the alarm ends. The flashing stops. Treaxor touches the network map again, confused.

  The rift has…closed? There is no other explanation he can think of. Even if the artifact which was detecting the rift was destroyed, there would be a feedback into the network which would have informed him that that had happened. It was just a temporary rift? Does that happen?

  It’s above Treaxor’s pay-grade, he decides. Moving over to the desk, he sends mana into the green crystal and activates it. If the rift had stayed open, he would have had to activate the red crystal and notify the King directly. But as it has closed, Treaxor figures it would be a better option to call in the head mage. Let her decide whether the king needs to know.

  Treaxor settles back into his chair as he waits for his boss to come. On the one hand, he might have just registered a country-shaking event that will have consequences for years to come. On the other…at least he isn’t bored any more.

  The Oracle

  The Oracle is singing as she combs through some wool. This is always her favourite part of spinning – seeing how the hairs turn from a chaotic fleece to an ordered and fluffy mass ready for twisting into a thread. A thread which can then be dyed or left in its natural colour, which can create beautiful works of art, or simple clothes to be worn. The possibilities sometimes seem endless, and they all come from the transition of chaos to order.

  Sometimes her gift is more of a curse. She sees far too many possibilities; chaos beckons her and far too often it is almost impossible to refuse it. One day she won’t be able to resist its temptation. And like the wool, she will return to that from which she was made. Of course, the price of that is her life, but she knows that one day it will not seem too much to pay.

  She pauses. Somewhere, somewhen, there is a disruption. The threads of possibility in her mind flicker and many of them disappear entirely.

  Breathing in and out slowly, she puts her wool carding to one side. She leans down and traces a shape in the dirt before her feet – three circles, each smaller one held entirely inside the previous. Reaching into her pouch, she withdraws a handful of runes. Closing her eyes, she breathes over them, keeping her question uppermost in her mind. And then with another breath, she casts the runes on the ground before her.

  Leaning down, she observes the pale stones carefully. The ones which have fallen outside the circle, she removes; the ones which have fallen without the rune showing, she puts to one side. Then she regards those which remain.

  The stones are not necessary: her power is innate. Something between inherited and granted, an Oracle is not made; she is born. And for reasons which have never been clear, only women are truly able to unlock their gifts though men can prophecise in different ways. However, the stones help to tame a vision which falls far more onto the chaotic side of the scale than the ordered one.

  As she observes the stones, possibilities flicker in her mind and are set aside, deemed as irrelevant to the situation, the world, the reality at hand. Everything is possible, but only a very small fraction of that ever becomes real. Sorting through the probabilities is exactly what an Oracle does.

  When she finishes observing the stones which are within the circle and facing upwards, she turns over the stones she had put to one side. It can be useful too to see those possibilities which might have impacted the future, but are now no longer relevant, plans which have fallen through, expectations which have been met or surpassed, realities which were close to coming to fruition, but have instead failed at the last moment. More possibilities in her mind can be pressed aside, revealing the last few which gleam like gold.

  Closing her eyes, the Oracle sinks into those possibilities. Not too deeply, never too deeply. That way lies the madness which has claimed so many of her ancestors. And then she smiles.

  Her efforts have paid off. Her almost unprecedented forwardness in offering advice to kings and lords has paved a way to a brighter future.

  Though, even her sight cannot tell if it will be enough.

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