The capital

Before we invest our power of attention on the further travels of the former human and newborn mage, it behooves itself to take a second glimpse at the person of the emissary Estas Araseon.

As we have learned, Estas was bound to the King by a most significant institution of the mages. It was a magical leash, the most cunning way for a disrupting cosmic mage to make sure the conquered would behave and not rise against the new sovereign.

Indeed, the master exerted great control, but usually, such a liability came with great advantages. Not exclusively restricted to political forthcoming, the pupil and prodigy also benefitted from the transmittance of the highest of all goods–knowledge. It was said that when young Astaros had to endure his tuition (to him, it really was a heavy albatross), he taught himself how to carefully maneuver the leash as to enjoy the greatest freedom possible, causing, of course, much turmoil to be read about in different chapters.

Estas, however, was not the magical genius we so unintentionally mentioned before. He was a former prince, enjoying all the splendor and attention that came with such a position. In his mind, when he became the King’s pupil, a terrible blow of fate had occurred. Providence herself had turned her will against him.

He had not just lost sovereignty of a territory that was to be his, but he had also been degraded to the hopeless position of a hostage. For the King had no time and certainly no intention to teach his newly acquired ward anything of interest. He was busy extending his host. So, it was for Estas to find more entertaining tasks than procrastination, for in waiting we truly turn old. He squandered his wealth over wine and women, sharing the society of thespians, dramaturgists, philosophers, and sculptors–the kind who neither washed their hands after creating a piece of eternal magnificence nor before performing the act.

On one of his debaucherous travels, he met Kosartes, who, knowing exactly who Estas was, introduced him to a woman of the ruling dynasty. We have already had the pleasure of meeting her.

Kalia Aurian had initially believed that Estas was a token of confidence from the King of the Valley of Wind (now a mere High Mage) for the good relations she had desperated herself to cultivate and thus employed him as her emissary. He would’ve told her the truth, but the King of the Ancient Lands was shrewd. He had sealed his lips in that regard.

She had made a great mistake and was just beginning to become aware of its severity. Estas, on the other side, was as embarrassed as only the male ego can be, and so he had not found a way around the sway of the King. He sought other ways out of his punishment that were less mortifying.

Now why was Estas in the Ashlands at the time of the trial?

The reason for this ought to be recognizable even to someone who is not accustomed to a mage-dominated society. We will mention it, nonetheless.

The Ashlands were amazingly protected. So much so, that the cosmic mage could not venture their estates via disruption. They had to walk by foot (imagine that).

These humans and their craftiness held multiple ancient artifacts, permitting them great protection from mages. Estas Araseon believed he could bargain for one that could free him from his leash. He was about to enter the market of Ashrain and vie for hidden products when he suddenly felt… his powers return. Then he saw a pillar of smoke and could’ve sworn to catch even some wind on his soft skin, as though a massive repulse had shaken these lands.

He disrupted immediately, to go after the origin.

But he arrived too late. He could not enter the burning shrubbery, it was too hot and his vertices were still dampened by the numerous other protection mechanisms the Ashlands had installed over the decades. So when he arrived, there was nothing to be found. Only a captive being carried out by a strong hoplite unit that daunted even an experienced battle mage such as he was.

There were stories of course. Great stories as only the imaginative and naïve can think of, but Estas had to get to the bottom of things on his own. He was a former prince. He had to think and see for himself. So he waited and he waited for days.

It turned out that a mage had entered the forest, somehow cloaked. There was a trial being held against him at some hamlet adjacent to the forest, where the people suffered the most from the smoke. He went there immediately.

There he found Varion and the distinction was clear. A grandness of an idea electrified his synapses and had someone watched the emissary swinging back and forth on the rooftop at that instance, he would have seen lightning in the eyes. Lightning and greed.

It was fixed then. If Estas could trade him in exchange for his freedom, he would.

Kosartes was just the person who could grant him another audience with the Aurian king’s second in command.

🏛️

“The Grand Idea, what a sublime thing.”

“A splendid resolution, indeed. And the speech he gave on matters of the state!”

“Yes,” repeated the citizen as she marched out of the confederation of pillars and archways with what appeared to be her son. She wiggled a scroll before his eyes. “Ready for the assembly?”

“Yes, Sister.” His eyes lit with genuine interest. “I cannot wait to hear you speak of the great philosopher.”

She inclined her head. “Remember: it’s as the philosopher said. This is not about diminishing the gifted ones. This is about elevating ourselves so we may adjoin our reason with theirs.”

“Yes, but of course…”

As they left, another foray of bustling citizens emanated from the peristyle and distracted Varion with similar exultations.

The entrance hall of the philosophical school was surrounded by a ring of white stone, where Varion listened to drizzling water circulating through a botanical garden. Indeed, as he came closer and could see the light reflecting from white blossoms, he also spotted more colors.

They were so tumultuous that it was hard to concentrate on one scenery alone. Again, his head swung to the side, where the city of marble and tree embraced the rising sun. From the foot of the Opharos Hill, he could now make out the agora to the south–the marketplace that was a marble platform almost of the size of a hippodrome, sprouting with stands, tents, exotic fumes, and goods. And people.

His homeland maintained a picture of mage-country where the lofty ones chased and abused those below, their states brittle and fractured through hatred and partition. But what he witnessed here was a permutation of elements most diverse. The aqueducts, masterpieces of engineering transporting tons of water into basins, bathhouses, fountains, small canals, and pipes for general use, were his favorites, the most impressive monuments of civilization. Even more so than the city wall that was so tall and broadly stretched out, it looked as though it supported the horizon.

To the east spacious restaurants invited his culinary senses, their seats cushioned inside wooden bars, their couches dutifully arrayed at side lanes to grant view of the shops, perfumeries, brothels, and gambling dens of the alleys. The latter two illegal in his homeland, their owners belonged to the busiest here. Strangest of all was that he had never been to Doomsbane and yet it felt familiar.

Further to the north towards the summit of the Opharos Hill, white villas grew from the glades of olive groves, not broadly erected like in the Ashlands, but tall as twenty-foot pillars, incorporating amaranth trees that worked both as foundation and weight distributor.

The emissary Estas interrupted Varion’s lingering gaze, urging him forward. As they walked beneath the archway, they met the philosopher amid vine bushes and pines, where he established himself before a fountain, his black curls dangling from side to side as he shook hands and passed on similar scrolls that the people outside stashed behind their belts.

Estas had told Varion that he should file for admission into the Pantheon as that was the only way for a bastard mage to better his life. There was not an inkling of a movement around his physiognomy, as he’d spoken the words. The frozen but outright way he had said this had led Varion perceive the statement as a lie, though why the emissary had made up the argument, he could not deduce.

In a couple of years, Estas promised, if Varion studied diligently, he would be able to apply for apprenticeship to a highborn. But as the King had left Doomsbane on short notice with his highest officials and the acropolis was locked from any unregistered entrance, the House of Admissions was also closed. He was for philosophy, therefore.

He pushed him further.

“Today was a day of arduous travel,” he heard the philosopher say to the person before him. “Tomorrow will be better.”

An old man hid the scroll. Then he took the hand of the literate that was even known in Ashrain and shook it vigorously. “We hope and pray that you succeed, Kosartes.”

The philosopher spoke again. “So you are come to reconsider?”

“I was in the civil war. I know what it is like to slay your kinsmen. And now that they lured my son into their legions, the royalists afford me nothing.” He scoffed. “Hail the Grand Idea!”

“Shush, eager, old man.” Kosartes frowned. “Speak of this no more and tomorrow go to the Mount of Many as the paper instructs. Understand?”

“Ah, a scroll with the sigil of the portal guild. No one but a High Mage could decipher their sonnets. Hence, no soldier will deem it worth checking. Brilliant, my friend.” The man bowed repeatedly. “Absolutely brilliant. Naked as during my birth, I shall vindicate the mountain. And while the authorities will suspect nothing but the usual festival, we can have ourselves a taste of that freedom we aspire to establish for everyone.”

The philosopher laughed, euphoric. “Very wise. Now leave, and please keep your wisdom to yourself. At least for a while. I must concern other attendants.”

After bowing once more, the man left with the scroll attached to his belt and a dutiful fist placed upon his heart.

Varion was next. While Estas pushed him forward yet again, the philosopher bent behind a wooden casket and fetched out more scrolls with spiral insignias. As Kosartes dragged his eyes away from the emissary, a discomfiting expression pushed the wrinkles toward the top of his head.

The literate was about thirty-five, sporting a grey tunic over his round belly. His feet were bare, and in general, the summit of his body was cleaner than everything below his shoulders, as though he would cover his appearance at any moment with a refined cloak to become presentable to the finer societies or leave his clothes behind, dishevel his hair, and be embraced by the mob.

With a luminary gaze that sparkled with impetus and sagacity, his already big eyes widened and made him appear as an owl taking in its surroundings. Whereas before he had given off a morose squint, he now rolled his tongue and produced from the back of his throat, “By the Grace of the Gods. A face I know.”

The philosopher had not spoken this to the emissary. Estas still took the duty of the query upon himself. “You offer messages of freedom to the people. What do you have to offer to two destitute mages?”

“The day I meet one is the day my arse farts gold,” he said in a jocular fashion that Varion found instantly enjoyable. “Estas!” Kosartes smiled, replacing the horrified expression that had blemished his face. “Did Kalia send you?”

“No,” he said. “She has not called on me since. Neither has the…” He chewed at the word, “King if that is your next question. He has left me and restrained me to inactivity. Me, a young man, while he, old and experienced, wanders the hemispheres. I am in dire need of some action, friend!”

Kosartes rubbed his chin. “Then you shall have it. We could use someone like you, but what about your fellow here? Is he a royalist such as yourself?”

Varion increased the pace of his mind, his synapses reacted, searched faster, and tried to make sense of the situation that followed. The people around them had fallen back at the sight of the cashmere that the highborn wore. A mere grunt of his made them take another step back. “I wouldn’t say that. He comes from the Ashlands.”

“Ashlands? The human area. What did you–Well, we could use someone like you!”

Estas ruffled his hair. “And what do you have to offer in return?”

With a straight face, he said, “You like being in the King’s service?”

“No.”

The philosopher smacked his knee. “Nobody here does! And I am sick of the authorities for cutting my scriptures in half. Yesterday my last manuscript returned. They deleted the whole part about the difference between consul and king.” He wiggled his index finger. “I tell you, as soon as I find a man or a woman brave enough to publish my work unsolicited, I will be satisfied forever and promise to retire.”

“You will sooner fart gold,” determined Estas cold-heartedly.

Varion, however, was intrigued. He asked, “What is the difference between king and consul?”

“The difference,” Kosartes said, perambulating between the vine stocks, the corners of his lips moving to the side, “between consul and king is that one gets to fuck and rule empires on his family’s volition while the other has to earn those privileges first.”

The statement spoken aloud–very aloud and with clean diction, caused such delight that the surrounding people forgot about the two mages and laughed ostentatiously. They fell over each other’s shoulders, acclaiming the veracity of these words and acknowledging the fact that candor begot humor, but safety not. Varion couldn’t help himself and joined in guffawing.

The only one who was not infected by the candor was the one whose last resort appeared to be the new faction. “I am not in the mood, friend. I need to speak to the Dame of the Realm. Urgently.”

“And what do you have to offer in return?” mimicked the philosopher with glee. As he saw into the dark shade of the emissary, he raised a palm as if he would scold a friend, straight-forward but not maladroit. “Be better than the common merchant, Estas. If you end up seeing everything as a transaction, you may find yourself one day at the center of a market with a casket full of goods, a pocket full of money, and a life void of any reason to exist.”

“Spare me this, word-wobbler. You would have more luck teaching virtue to a cyprian.”

“And so let it be!” Kosartes exclaimed happily. “Don’t mistake yourself, friend. There have been more than one or two whores in history who turned out to be great philosophers.”

Varion sneered. “Did one of them give you a discount by any chance?”

Again, Kosartes threw his head back and laughed heartily. “The boy understands. Here, in my school, we have a goal that makes us rejoice. For the song of liberty is a sweet one. It is you, Estas, who has yet to experience its greatness. Are you ready then to join us?”

He bristled. “Anything as long as it frees me from the shackles, he has thrown around me!”

“Then you, the only one besides Kalia who can get us access to the King, have the most important of all tasks.”

“What would that be?”

“Tomorrow, lad. Join us and I shall tell you tomorrow.”