“Magic may come from the earth. And from the blood. And from the stars. And be combined as the letters of the alphabet are combined to form words. The only limitation is the sorcerer’s imagination.”
~Philosophies of Magic
Bezra Umal
1092 BU
After a quarter-century, the Osseomancer — that Doom Weaver and Deceiver King, that Dark Lord worshiped by all things vulgar and without shame — had been defeated. At long last, the Great Alliance had pushed back his hordes. Inch by inch, they forced them from their lands until they converged on the Osseomancer himself. In the final, terrible battle, he was vanquished. With his power shattered, he was cast from his mortal form to wander the twilight worlds weak and alone.
A quarter-century of fighting. A quarter-century of fear. A quarter-century of death.
The land would take just as long to heal itself. And only the magic of time could aid it.
For a generation, his armies had swept across the kingdoms. In each, they opened graves and tombs to swell their ranks. Everywhere they marched became inflicted with the blight. The necromancy he used to command his forces leached into the land. Fields became barren. Crops withered. Streams dried. Livestock perished. His armies did worse, devouring all before them with sword and with torch.
Each kingdom endured the onslaught as best they could, but alone. Only when they united as the Great Alliance were they able to turn the tide.
Even in defeat, his magic lingered. The land remained desolate. More monsters than before roamed undeterred, let loose by his enchantments. Travel became difficult. Crisscrossing armies had scarred the roads, leaving them washed out and eroded. Bandits became emboldened and willing — in their hunger — to rob travelers for the smallest trinket. In the ebb and flow of the war, retreating armies had ordered bridges destroyed behind them, often with magic. Now, they found the same magic could not easily repair those bridges.
It was a testament, then, that despite the dangers and the difficulties and the longing for home, almost everyone had come to Athyzia.
Athyzia.
Beautiful, wise Athyzia.
Powerful magic protected the academy’s towers and libraries and gardens. Such magic had not come easy, or without cost. The same wards had shielded the nearby mountains and lake below. Everything had been preserved and kept safe.
Now, Athyzia was full again. Everywhere Nauveena looked, she found activity. Mages bustled from one library to another, eager to resume their research. Guests explored Athyzia’s winding paths and towers. The smells of cooking wafted from the kitchens. Around every corner, Nauveena could hear conversation — and laughter.
Nauveena too had returned to her old routines. Once more, she walked with her graying mentor. She carried pen and parchment. She took notes. She could almost forget there had ever been a war at all. However, instead of Snorri’s lessons on incantations, they discussed the council, and the council made it impossible to forget such things.
“And Skiel?” Snorri asked as they entered Athyzia’s courtyard.
“It is only Veeslau and his manservant,” Nauveena said. “They were easy to find accommodations for.” She now stood almost a head taller than the mage. He walked slower as well. Nauveena had to shorten her strides so she would not outpace him.
They always made an odd pair — now even more so — Nauveena, with bronze skin and dark hair, walking besides her mentor: rounder, shorter, grayer. Athyzia had guests for the first time in years and Nauveena had dressed for the occasion. She wore her finest dress of purple damask, embroidered with silver stars and moons. The long fabric of the hanging bell sleeves fell almost to the ground. She had put on every piece of jewelry she owned; not much, but enough for decorum. Snorri? Snorri wore the same tired robes he always wore. He could have been in his study, not greeting every scion from Qadantium to Künner.
“Right, right. How about the merchants?” Snorri skipped from one topic to the next as each thought occurred to him. “They wished for space to work.”
“It has been provided to them in the Library of Practicalities.”
The members of the Great Alliance had arrived one after the other. They came from the northern kingdoms: Yülk and Künner, and the mysterious lands of Skiel. From Druissia, which had suffered the sharpest of the Osseomancer’s blows, withstood it, absorbed it and struck back. From the sun-soaked vineyards of Qadantium and Dunisk and the wealthy southern ports: Phyrza and Olmtpur and Valinka. The dwarves had arrived only the other night.
The Great Alliance could not be dissolved. Not yet. Their primary goal — the Osseomancer’s defeat — had been achieved. But the world was now shattered and needed to be rebuilt. A new age was before them, a new chapter to be written. And they would write it together.
Only one contingent had yet to arrive.
Snorri normally strode aimlessly, finding it easier to think while walking. Now, he went with purpose. He led Nauveena to Athyzia’s first tower. It might not have been the tallest, but from its parapet they could still see far and wide.
When they reached the top, Nauveena understood why they had come. The druid Malachite waited for them. He still wore his weather-beaten travel cloak despite having been in Athyzia for many weeks. Neither had he trimmed his rust-colored beard.
“Anything?” Snorri asked him.
Malachite shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Where are they?” Snorri rubbed his hands together as he looked over the ramparts.
“They will come.”
“They are the last,” Snorri said, “and they have the least far to come.”
Typical of the elves, Nauveena thought. The young sorceress could see the elves’ forest of Saphalon from the tower. It too had protected itself against the Osseomancer’s curses. Now, it sat like an emerald, alone on a sea of gray.
How many evenings had Nauveena watched that glimpse of forest at the base of the mountains? A sister to herself, isolated as the tides of war struck against her and she could only muster enough magic to protect her own sphere. She protected Athyzia as the Academy of Mages went to fight in the pitched battles. Snorri had taught her all he could, and still, at times, it did not feel like enough.
She had looked at the elves’ forest for strength. They too withstood the attack as surge after surge came, each somehow stronger than the last. She wondered if the forest’s protector did not look longingly at her high upon her tower, alone in the world.
From the tower, Nauveena could also look north, although she tried not to. In the north lay the Osseomancer’s terrible stronghold: Pravulum, the tower from which he’d commanded his forces. In the final battle, the Great Alliance had prevailed and splintered the stone fortress with their combined magic. Months later, it still smoldered, replaced with a column of ash that would remain for a generation.
“We not only wait on the Elf Queen of Saphalon,” Nauveena said. “The elves from the Wilds also plan to attend. As does Free Oak.”
“The Wilds are not so far,” Snorri said. “The Bogwaah also lays beyond the Vurve, and they arrived three days ago.”
Nauveena knew this only too well. The burgomaster and his entourage had made their presence well-known to Athyzia’s kitchen staff.
“As I understand, the elves of the Wilds might have been delayed,” Malachite said. “The orcs continue to be a problem.”
Snorri sighed. The council was his idea. Nauveena knew how anxious he was to begin.
“The elves will want to meet separately first,” Malachite continued. “To hold their own council, on matters that would not concern men.”
“Which makes me wonder why they are coming at all.” Fallou, the First Protector of Leem, appeared on the tower and approached the group. In recent days, Athyzia had been filled with much joy and much laughter, but none from him. Nauveena wondered if the First Protector had ever laughed in all his lean years. Between his gray hair and gray vestments, only one expression appeared: an ever-present glare. “The elves rarely concern themselves with the matters of man; why should they in this case?”
Fallou always managed to appear unannounced, as if out of thin air. Nauveena might have guessed by magic, but she assumed the Magic of Order precluded such uses. She knew little about the strange cult, even though it had existed in the eastern realms for more than a century.
The First Protector had a knack for appearing at inopportune moments in a conversation. It was not the first time Fallou had asked about the elves.
“That’s exactly why they should,” Snorri said. “What an opportunity we have before us. Never before has such an alliance formed. We are tasked with putting the world back together. Everyone who worked to defeat the Osseomancer should be involved, and we will be better off for it.”
“Involved how exactly? Will there be a vote of some sort?” Fallou asked. Again, not for the first time. Many wondered about the council Snorri had planned. Fallou in particular. He asked every time he talked to Snorri and Nauveena.
Nauveena already knew Snorri’s answer, but this did not stop her mentor from saying it once again. “I have thought it all through,” he said. “All through. Of course, it is a most important issue. And it will be the first one we discuss. Once we have everyone together.”
“It is not just the elves we are waiting for,” Malachite said. “What about the island of Rocee? Or the monks of Clovis?”
Snorri shook his head. “Rocee has not returned our invitation. Fallou, perhaps you have heard from them? I know Faulsk does much trade with them.”
“They have become quite isolated since the war. They wanted to protect themselves. Many did.” Did Fallou’s words harbor a slight? Nauveena thought they might. Then he sneered, imbuing his words with their intended malice. The Osseomancer’s army had conquered many kingdoms, leaving behind orphans and widows and the blight. The middle kingdoms had fallen first and remained under his yoke for the duration. Much of Faulsk fell before his armies marched into Rheum.
Yet many lands within the Osseomancer’s path survived. Athyzia lay close enough that Nauveena could see Pravulum on a clear day. Still, Athyzia remained untouched. It had not suffered the desolation of the other lands. Those kingdoms that had suffered remembered those who had shut their doors. Nauveena knew such resentment was unjustified. She had been ordered by the Academy to protect Athyzia at all costs. Many books in Athyzia’s libraries contained ancient knowledge the Osseomancer coveted.
Much more would have been lost if Athyzia had fallen.
Still, she often felt guilty for having spent the war in the protected sanctuary, especially when so many others had fought and died. Could they have opened their doors to others? The war had created many refugees. Could they have offered safe haven?
“Very well,” Snorri said. “All we can do is invite them. As for Clovis, the monks declined our invitation. They wished us luck and have sent a dozen hogsheads of their ale instead.”
Malachite’s eyes lit up. “Between that and all the Qadantium wine Prince Javee brought, we will have quite the party.”
“‘Party?’” Snorri said. “‘Party?’ No, there will be no party. We have partied since Pravulum fell. No, now is when the work begins.”
As Nauveena's mentor said this, the wind shifted direction. The standards of each Alliance member had been unfurled from the tower’s heights: the golden sun of Dunisk, the crimson bull of Druissia, the oracles’ eye, wide and staring, and the gray letters of each middle kingdom in simple calligraphy. Each swung as the wind came from the south. From Saphalon.
A hawk swooped down to land on Malachite’s shoulder. The bird put its beak to the druid’s ear, and Malachite nodded in understanding.
A moment later, and Nauveena could hear a song of lutes and ocarinas upon the same wind. She saw their procession first. The Elf Queen in all her glory came forward on a white mount. Her golden hair sprayed out from a tiara of diamonds and white flowers.
On either side of her rode the other two elven representatives: one from Free Oak and one from the Wilds. Each brought a retinue that flared out behind them in separate columns. Even from a distance, Nauveena could tell them apart. The elves of the Wilds were broad-shouldered and taller than their Free Oak cousins. Their leader cut his hair into a high mohawk. He sat sternly on his mount.
Free Oak had sent the poet Csandril Em’ Dale to represent them. His pointed ears poked through his long golden hair. He always appeared to be winking or about to tell some jest, and Nauveena thought he might be, even now, as he bounced in his saddle in rhythm with the elven minstrels.
After all the struggles of the war, the clashes of armies, the fall of heroes, and the wisdom of mages, Nauveena could think of no stranger sight than all three elven kingdoms riding together — and approaching Athyzia.
“Yes,” Snorri repeated to himself. “Now is when the work begins.”
***
Nauveena heard Snorri repeat the phrase to himself as they descended the tower’s stairs. “Now is when the work begins. Now is when the work begins.”
The refrain had been a rallying cry for him as he sent invitations across the lands. He had worked happily and eagerly, never more at peace than when he had a task before him.
But, Nauveena knew he also worked anxiously. Typically, his work involved experiments alone in his atelier. Alone in his work, he could proceed in his own fashion. The council would be another matter entirely. For the council relied on others — many others — and that introduced more variables than any experiment Snorri had ever conducted before.
“Now is when the work begins,” he muttered as he rushed into the courtyard, out of breath after descending so many stairs. “Now is when the work begins,” he said faster and perhaps louder in his excitement, but ultimately, not loud enough.
Because no one — besides Nauveena — seemed to hear him.
Athyzia’s gates burst open. The elves’ entrance became a gallant procession, a parade led forward by their music. The Elf Queen Em’ Iriild rode at the head. The long trek over open country had not touched her white dress, which appeared as if it were fallen snow. The elven seamstresses had undoubtedly spun a bit of their magic into the weave, so that it changed consistency as she moved. Even her horse’s caparison was made of a finer silk than anything Nauveena had ever worn herself.
Those watching from the tower — Nauveena and Snorri, Malachite and Fallou — had not been the only ones to hear the elves’ approach. Practically all the Alliance members came out in one mad rush, flooding the courtyard.
The elven minstrels did not stop their songs. As the other members of the council came to greet them, their music only changed in rhythm and instrumentation. Drums struck a steady beat that one could not help dancing to, as if it were an enchantment.
If Nauveena had time to study the matter, she might have guessed that it was. Elven songs had their own history and a field of study all to themselves. At another time, she might have found the matter quite curious. But now, she found she was not immune to their effects.
“Make way, make way.” Snorri pushed through the crowd. He became lost in the sea of heads, but eventually emerged besides the Elf Queen. Nauveena followed behind her mentor, fighting the urge to dance.
“We are thrilled to have you.” Snorri took the Elf Queen’s hand in his and shook it wildly. After a moment that was long enough to be polite, the queen removed her hand so gracefully that Snorri didn’t notice. “Thrilled to have you,” he said as he continued to shake his now-empty hand. “Never before has such a council been called: elves, dwarves, and men. We will create a peace like no other.”
Queen Em’ Iriild curtsied. “It is an honor to be invited,” she said. “I believe in the aims of this council. May the dark nights of the war bring forth a glorious dawn.”
“Yes, I do hope so,” Snorri said. “It is always darkest before the dawn, they say. But a new day. A new day it is. And I hope we can get started right away. I know you came as fast as you could, but we can have no delay.”
“You’d like us to go right to chambers?”
“Most certainly. Why not? Seats have already been set up on the terrace. Why delay when we can begin building this new world order?”
“A new world order can wait one day more, certainly. I have barely gotten off my horse. It has been a full day’s ride from Saphalon. And I hardly imagine you can get anyone else here to focus.”
As others rushed from their rooms and the kitchens and the libraries to greet the elves, a great feeling of joy swelled through Athyzia. For so long, such emotions had been stored away deep down and protected. Now, they surged out.
Snorri looked crestfallen. Nauveena knew how eagerly he wanted to begin. She remembered how anxiously he had dictated each invitation to her. Mages had many ways to send letters quickly, but that did not always mean a quick response. Snorri did not know if he would be received kindly, or rebuffed. Even for a two-hundred-year-old mage — the leader of the Academy of Mages at that — rejection was hard.
“Don’t look so upset.” Queen Em’ Iriild comforted the mage with the lightest touch to his shoulder. “The Osseomancer has fallen; it is right to celebrate. At least for tonight. Tomorrow, we can remake our world.”
The Elf Queen’s touch and kind words were enough to buoy Snorri’s spirits. He smiled up at the queen. She returned the smile before handing the reins of her horse to a squire. She then clapped three times in the direction of her minstrels, a signal to increase the tempo.
The poet Csandril Em’ Dale took the Elf Queen’s cue as well. He effortlessly scaled the flagpole in the center of the courtyard in two easy hops, until he hung well above the gathered crowd — just below Athyzia’s standard of a tower on a purple field. Those gathered looked up, eager to hear what he had to say.
“Men and dwarves, my fellow elves,” the poet pronounced. “All those who stood against the evil of our age. Happy are we all that you stood and fought and lived. Without your strength and bravery and resolve, Pravulum would not now be a crater, the armies of the undead would not now be vanquished, and the safety of all innocents not now guaranteed, but — and most importantly — we would not be here to have the celebration I assure you we will have tonight.”
The tumultuous joy bounding over the pave stones hit a fevered pitch as Csandril finished his address. His last words were drowned out in shouts and claps. Snorri had no hope now.
The elves’ music swelled to accompany Csandril as he leapt from the flagpole. He was caught by the crowd and carried forward in a sea of well-wishes and hoorays. Soon, all that Nauveena could hear was clapping and the stamping of feet against the stone.
Soon, Nauveena forgot all about her mentor and his conversation with the queen. She quickly went from tapping her toes to swinging from arm to arm, skipping to the tune and humming it herself. The elven song was indeed contagious, and soon, everyone had joined in.
Malachite, the druid, danced clumsily, his boots meant for wandering the world and not dancing. Csandril Em’ Dale added his own lyrics to the song as he danced, recounting many of the battles fought over the years. Javee, the Prince Regent of Qadantium, added his famous pyromancy to the show by igniting sparks of flame whenever he snapped his fingers. In between dances, draughts of Clovis ale and glasses of Qadantium wine were handed around generously.
Eventually, even Snorri joined in, becoming the most comical of all, and certainly the least graceful. Years of study meant he did not dance often.
Only those adherents to the Magic of Order refrained. They followed the First Protector of Leem to the scriptorium to illuminate manuscripts instead.
***
The dancing continued for the rest of the afternoon. The music’s enchantments made it possible to dance without end for hours, until the sun set over the Falls of Yalde and the winter moon crested above the mountains.
As night settled in, the kitchen laid out a great feast. Everyone took turns to pause from the dancing to eat. Such a spread had not been seen since before the war: Whole wheels of cheese from the dairies beyond the Vurve. Mozzarella from Qadantium’s buffalo. Pickled onions from Vabia. Herring from Faulsk. Salted cod from the Sea of Skiel. Smoked salmon from the Hiel River. Caviar from the Dark Sea. Oysters and calamari from Ciri Daahl. Goat from Zabia. A Wabian goose the size of a small lamb. Roasted game hen from Upper Tuvisia. Ham and pancetta from Lyrmica. Mutton from Rheum. Venison from the Wilds.
Desserts had not been forgotten. For this, they had apples and plums from Dunisk. Pears and blueberries and raspberries from Saphalon. Wild honey from Free Oak. The southern merchants from the independent cities had brought chocolates from the Distant Lands. Those from Valinka had even brought fruits from such orchards that only goblins could find.
It seemed anything that had survived the blight had been laid out on the central table. Everyone brought something. Even the dwarves offered cave mushrooms, although these remained untouched by everyone except the dwarves.
Candles floated above the courtyard, where long tables had been positioned around the dance floor. For the first time all year, the day’s warmth lingered past evening. The end of spring. The Atmospheric Mage said summer would not be long now.
Even with the added stamina of the elven songs, the mood slowed with the coming of night and the addition of food. Accordingly, the minstrels gently wound down to a less spirited waltz. The celebrants orbited into smaller groups.
Nauveena leaned against a balustrade to sip a glass of wine and rest. After hours of dancing, she felt the need to retreat. She always felt more natural on the outside, watching. A student by nature, she couldn’t help but study whatever was put in front of her — in this case, the interactions of Athyzia’s guests, put together after so many years apart.
Never before had so many kings and mages, queens and lords, ambassadors and heads of state, warriors, princes, and poets gathered. Each had fought on separate fronts during the war, only coming together in the final cataclysmic battle. Now, they reminisced and shared stories.
One of the elven warriors from the Wilds regaled the southern merchants with his exploits. The merchants — in their strange southern fashions — leapt back with gasps at one point as the warrior became a bit too graphic. He had evidently shattered many orc skulls.
Prince Javee and Csandril Em’ Dale sat together, smoking among the oracles of Xanthous. They animated their tales with smoke rings that transformed into scenes of battle. Nauveena could hear the oracles’ laughter over the music as Csandril Em’ Dale provided commentary.
As a smoke ring passed, Nauveena smelt the fragrance. Sweet and pungent, it could provide prophecy all on its own. Qadantium was known for more than just its wine.
The Magic of Order returned from the scriptorium to eat. They still kept on one side of the tables, as far from the elves’ song and the drink as they reasonably could. Still, a few bobbed their heads to the music. One or two carefully glanced over at the oracles gathered around the prince and poet.
Nauveena did not pay them much attention, however. Instead, her focus had shifted to the far corner, where King Bane of Druissia sat in deep conversation with the Elf Queen and the witch Venefica. Nauveena specifically studied Venefica. The witch’s black hair was weaved into tight braids, the tips of which had been dyed with the blood of scarabs. She wore a crimson dress, bright against her brown skin, and many jangling talismans: around her neck, on her wrists, piercing her ears and in her hair. The magic of witches bordered on superstition almost as much as folk mages’ — except witches’ magic often worked.
Nauveena was studying this group so intently, she did not notice the druid Malachite wander over to her. He carried a carafe of wine, and refilled Nauveena's glass, catching her attention.
“I wonder what they are discussing,” Nauveena said, too distracted to drink.
“Do not be so suspicious.”
“She supported him.” Nauveena made sure to keep her voice to a whisper. “She served him. Now she is here.”
“That was early in the war.” Malachite tried to sound reassuring. “And it was a long war.”
“They called her the Witch of Pravulum.” Indeed, Venefica had been one of the Osseomancer’s chief servants. She had given aid to him and done his bidding.
“She has the trust of King Bane now,” Malachite said as if to end the matter. And it did. Everyone had been surprised when Venefica arrived with King Bane at the council, and more surprised when he said she would be his advisor.
Nauveena looked to the king of Druissia. His black skin had begun to wrinkle, his thick beard had begun to gray. Still, he looked formidable with his broad shoulders and ceremonial gold armor. He had withstood assault after assault from the Osseomancer. No one’s trust carried as much weight.
Still, Nauveena wondered what he and the witch were discussing with the Elf Queen. Each kept their voices low. Nauveena could not hear them from across the room, especially as the conversation and laughter of the others threatened to drown out even the music.
They especially could not be heard over the dwarves and the northerners, the rowdiest bunch by far. Already, Malachite’s focus had shifted to this more boisterous group.
“Have you heard what’s going around?” he asked, changing topics, smiling as if he knew some secret.
Nauveena looked in this group’s direction now, forgetting about the witch for a moment. The dwarves sat on ale barrels or stood on the tables to be as tall as the northerners. Each northerner was well over six feet tall, including the women. Queen Breve was at least a foot taller than Nauveena, who was not short by any means.
Of all the warriors, the northerners were the most fearsome — short of, maybe, the elves of the Wilds, who made a habit of fighting orcs. They had wild beards, braided in elaborate fashions, and terrible scarring, more likely from the wars among themselves than those with the Osseomancer. Each northern warrior wore armor encrusted with bones and gems. The dwarves too, with their armor, had an impressive showing of rubies and emeralds and gold and silver.
“No, what’s that?” Nauveena asked.
Among the northerners, Malachite specifically glanced at Ümlaut, the king of Yülk, who excitedly told a story from the war. The king punched the air to mimic some fight that had taken place against the army of undead. The dwarves laughed and mimicked the action themselves.
“Seriously? You haven’t?” Malachite beamed with excitement at finding someone who hadn’t heard his rumor. “You see the one talking?” he asked. “King Ümlaut?”
Nauveena nodded.
“His wife” — Malachite pointed her out with his gaze — “is sleeping with the king of Künner.”
Nauveena gasped. Not from the shock of it, but because she thought the northern queen Malachite pointed out was the wife of the king of Künner. All night, Nauveena had seen Queen Breve interact with Caron, the king of Künner. Their interactions were enough to make her think they were wed.
King Ümlaut was much older than his bride. His dark beard had been peppered gray for many years. His body ached in the cold, and it was always cold in the north.
Caron, on the other hand, was a fierce warrior. His rippling biceps and forearms were sliced with runic tattoos, dark against his pale skin, that imbued him with a ferocious power in battle. Like many of the northerners — including King Ümlaut himself — Caron was one of the legendary berserkers. Looking at him, Nauveena didn’t doubt it.
“In the north, it is customary for the women to fight as well as the men,” Malachite said. “The northern kingdoms formed an alliance early. They made their stand on the Yülk, where they fought the Osseomancer for many years. It is said that quite often, Caron and Breve would ride together into battle. They disrupted the enemy behind his lines, and at night, they would camp together. And the blood lust of battle would turn into something else.”
“I mean, it seems very obvious,” Nauveena exclaimed. “Just watch them.”
As Ümlaut continued his story — now miming the act of choking some long-gone advisory — behind him, Breve traced the strange markings along Caron’s muscles.
“I would have thought they were together,” Nauveena said.
“Me too,” Malachite laughed.
“Who knows?”
“Everyone — everyone except Ümlaut.”
They both laughed now.
When they had finished, Malachite said, “That is not the only rumor I have now heard about the north.”
“Oh, really? What else?”
He looked from side to side. “Maybe that, we should discuss somewhere else? And at another time.”
“I never took you for such a gossip,” Nauveena said.
“Someone has to be,” Malachite said. Then his tone became more mournful. “Without Caeruleom.”
Both glanced away. Neither had yet spoken of the blue wizard to one another, although both thought of him often. In the penultimate battle, the Osseomancer had made one last push against the Alliance gathered at his doors. He rode out against them and quickly routed those gathered on the plains before Pravulum. Many fell before his terrible power.
All seemed lost until the wizard Caeruleom met the Osseomancer in battle. The world cleaved in two as they collided. Lightning cracked, and stars fell from the sky. In the end, the Osseomancer retreated to his tower, broken, and the tide of war turned once and for all.
But when the smoke cleared, it was seen that the wizard had sacrificed himself in the cause. His staff had shattered. Vanquishing the Osseomancer had proved too much, even for his great power, and he could not remain in the world any longer.
Caeruleom had often come to visit Nauveena. He had brought news of the war and gossip and secrets and jokes. She had looked forward to his coming.
Both Nauveena and the druid grew quiet. It seemed now terrible to be celebrating when so many others could not. Over years of war, many had perished. How could they celebrate when those others were not here to take part? The celebration came from their sacrifice and felt unearned.
Just then, Snorri approached, carrying a stein of ale. “Can you believe this?” He hiccupped. “How will they be in any state to begin tomorrow?”
“How will you be in any state?” Nauveena laughed. She had never heard her mentor slur his words before.
“Now, don’t worry about me.” Snorri wagged his finger sternly. “I will be fine. Yes. I will be fine. It is the rest I worry about. But we will begin tomorrow regardless. We have many long days before us. Much work.”
He took a drink from his stein, leaving a foam mustache from the beer.
“But maybe we can start in the afternoon.”
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