4.4 - The Weight of a Stone

     Garsea sat with one leg hanging out of a window of one of the tallest towers in Tourmaline, 300 feet off of the ground. The sun, like a fiery demon crawling from the planet’s heart, bared its teeth above the eastern peak of mountains that flanked Tourmaline. With patient rage it set the towers ablaze first, before moving down onto the streets, bathing every corner of the city in blinding light. In another time, Garsea would be hidden away waiting for the distant comfort of the moon. That was another time, another Garsea. The city, even blazing with light, was a beautiful sight to behold.

     He glanced down and saw a brown and silver spider scurrying up his leg. It hopped from perch to perch, unaware of the danger it was in. As it leaped for the windowsill, a gust of air greeted it and pushed it outward into the open air. Garsea reached both hands out and clasped them safely around the spider, allowing the momentum of his movement to carry him outward into a freefall. He brought his hands close to his chest and laid back, feeling the air rush through the folds of his robe. A cry rang out from the streets below, and then another, and another. You’d think they’ve never seen a mage before, Garsea thought to himself. He pursed his lips and breathed in, whistling a wavering tune. His nearly fluorescent green robe sparked to life like a flower in bloom. Three tangles of cloth blossomed outward and redirected the wind to his back only twenty feet from the ground. His robe, now looking more like the trifold wings of a Yveian dragon, carried him forward gracefully above the heads of the Saorins going about their morning routine. A few scoffed at the show, while others smiled and pointed. A child clambered up on a wagon and leaped from it, trying to tag the bottom of Garsea’s robe, laughing as he clattered into a heap on the ground. After rounding a corner, Garsea whistled again, quick and sharp, and his robe lowered him gently to the ground. He placed his still cupped hands on a stone wall and opened them. The brown and silver spider tentatively crawled out, then found a nook in the stone and disappeared. 

     “Not even a goodbye,” Garsea said. “How cold.”

     “Are we interrupting, or can we all go about the work we came here to do?” 

Sarah Manley

     Garsea turned to see archmage Morilex with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. The man could melt iron with a look, and if that failed, his scrollwork was sure to do the trick. Morilex was responsible for scribing dozens of spells previously unknown to the Barge of Souls. Unfortunately, all of that talent came from one of the most joyless, ignorant churls Garsea had ever known. 

     “Morning sir,” Garsea said. One of the earliest lessons he had learned from the mages was to never address Morilex by name. Asken, one of the three mages behind Morilex and Garsea’s closest friend amongst them, had learned that the hard way. It took months for his writing hand to be functional again. Next to Asken was Cybelia, and another mage that Garsea didn’t recognize. He was no older than twenty, but his face was grim and looked like that of a seasoned veteran. 

     “The rookie is taking the lead on this one,” Morilex said. “Garsea meet Kalidev, Kalidev, Garsea.” 

     Garsea looked at the rookie and nodded. 

     “Welcome aboard.” 

     Kalidev didn’t respond but nodded back, and held Garsea’s gaze. He straightened his shoulders ever so slightly, widened his stance, and shifted his boots to face Garsea directly. Ahh, I see your game, Garsea thought. Mages like Morilex asserted themselves with pure force, but Kalidev was a posturing kind. He wanted to dominate a room without you realizing it. A baby bird learning how to steal from his brothers, Garsea thought. He turned away from Kalidev and looked at the tower where their assignment was. Like most of the wealthier towers in Tourmaline, it was a hybrid of stone and arcane-infused iron called iridium. Gaps in the stone were reinforced with it, creating dazzling pockets of silvery-blue translucence. This tower specifically, was home to one of Tourmaline’s twelve Saorin governors, as well as one of the ten Carshgan governors.  

     “What exactly is our objective at the home of Unsu and Taravi?” Garsea asked. 

     Kalidev stepped forward confidently. 

     “Taravi is late on his taxes by two months,” he said. “In addition, an anonymous tip was sent to us regarding the illegal use of candleblood within the premises.” 

     Garsea glanced at Morilex, and then to Asken behind him. Asken glanced back at him and ever so slightly furrowed his brow. We don’t touch governors of Taravi’s status for tax issues and substance abuse. He thought. There is something Morilex isn’t telling us. 

     “Very well,” Garsea said. “Archmage, Kalidev, after you.” 

     Kalidev turned and held the door open for Morilex, who marched ahead. 

     “Catching bugs again?” Asken whispered as he stepped up next to Garsea. 

     “Simply spending quality time with my peers, as usual,” Garsea whispered back, nudging Asken gently in the side. 

     As with most towers of substantial size in Tourmaline, this one had a foyer to greet and vet visitors. The walls were a labyrinth of curated hanging plants, curling and spiraling towards spotless hickory floorboards. Beneath the green cascades, Garsea could see splashes of vivid life in the dozens of paintings adorning the walls; paintings that would surely be on prominent display in a tower of less prestige. On the left side of the room was an oversized desk, almost completely concealing an undersized san renomo boy who couldn’t be older than eighteen. His two horns curled halfway back from his forehead and then twisted upward like antennae. He peered over the desk at the mages and waved them over. 

     “Good morning sirs and madam,” he said, nodding to Cybelia. “Do you have an appointment today?” 

     Kalidev approached the desk with the determination of a man entering a gladiatorial arena. Garsea nearly laughed out loud at the rookie but managed to clear his throat to mask it.  

     “I will assume you are simply doing your due diligence, but mages of Tourmaline do not make appointments,” Kalidev said. “We are here to see governor Taravi posthaste.” 

The boy quickly nodded and shuffled through the parchment in front of him, spilling a mug of hot tea in the process. He mumbled something under his breath, moved everything away from the spilled tea, then placed a sheet and a quill on the top of the desk before the mages. 

“Forgive me. Please sign in here and take the lift to the eighth floor.” he said, pulling a rag from beneath the desk and patting it down on the tea. 

     “Our business is off the record today,” Kalidev said. He didn’t give the san renomo a chance to respond, instead immediately turning away and marching towards the lift. Morilex followed, with Asken and Cybelia behind him. As Garsea passed the desk he pulled a miniature scroll from his sleeve and whispered the written incantation. The scroll spun twice in his hand before vanishing into dust. 

     “Watch your elbow,” he said to the san renomo, who was still mopping up tea. The boy looked to his side where his mug was suddenly upright with billows of steam wafting off of it. “I hope white tea will do, it’s all I had on me.” 

     “Thank you.” The boy said. 

     Garsea winked at him, then followed the other mages into the lift. One of the walls on the inside of the lift was pulsing in purple opal tones, with emblems representing each floor in cold blue. The amount of spellscribing on display in the lift was staggering. Spells could be etched onto any surface with enough time and a skillful hand. An extra line of script was required for an activation keyword or sound. For Garsea’s cloak, his whistle was required to activate the levitation spell. The lift, on the other hand, was permanently active. Not only that, but Garsea counted at least four distinct spells, one for propulsion, one for controlled descent, one for recognizing occupant inputs, and one for the light show on display. He suspected a fifth and potentially sixth, based on the door closing and the shifting parts within the lift itself. Kalidev pressed the emblem representing the eighth floor and the small chamber shook, then shifted upward. Even with such an investment of spells, it was a lot of weight to carry against gravity. The stairs would be faster than this, Garsea thought. 

     “Sir,” he addressed Morilex. “May I offer the rookie a piece of advice?” 

     Morilex waved a hand approvingly and stared dead ahead, thoroughly disinterested in his company. 

     “Go easier on the doorman next time,” Garsea said. “They tend to have more information than most of the top tower bureaucrats in this city. It would behoove you going forward to keep them in your good graces.” 

     “What makes you think I am the kind of person who needs their information?” Kalidev quickly responded back. Garsea laughed at first, assuming the rookie was joking. 

     “Oh...oh you’re being serious,” he said, after Kalidev met his laughter with a deadpan look. “There is no being alive, mage or not, that doesn’t need the information of others. You can’t get by with staring contests you know.” 

     Kalidev didn’t respond. The lift shuttered for a moment, then continued upward. As they passed the fifth floor, Cybelia spoke up. 

     “Archmage, may I ask why we are going about this particular job so urgently?” 

     “Should we allow it?” he responded. “Is the city not worthy of its taxes? Should we become a hive of candleblood addicts? If so, then by all means, let’s reverse the lift and go home.”

     Morilex the great mangler of intentions, Garsea thought.  

     “Of course not sir, I should have chosen my words more carefully,” Cybelia said. “I suppose what I meant to say is that five mages for a visit to a Saorin governor is a heavy investment and I only want to be sure of what we’re in for.” 

     “The involvement of candleblood always complicates things,” Morilex said. “Only a fool would think otherwise.” 

     Seems like an artificial show of force to me, Garsea thought. No word spreads faster through a city than an “off the record” mage visit. This is intentional. He subtly flicked through the scrolls in the quiver on his waist until he found the one he was looking for. As carefully and quietly as he could, he slid it into his sleeve. The lift buzzed and shook, then came to an abrupt stop. The door opened on the eighth floor. 

     “Welcome to the office of Taravi Tennesen,” a woman said as she bowed to the mages filing off of the lift. “My name is Solacine, Taravi’s personal assistant. Taravi would be delighted to see you all, right this way.” 

     The woman, broad-shouldered and standing upright like a board, glided across the room to a set of double doors which she effortlessly pushed open, and waited patiently for the mages to step through. As soon as they were through, she silently closed the doors behind them. Garsea scratched his forehead to cover his involuntary wince at the sunlight in the office. A window like a giant’s eye took up most of one wall, letting in furious beams of light that clattered violently off of the wooden floor and ornamental suits of armor scattered about. Garsea suddenly felt like a spirit trapped within the sharp halls of a prism, bound by glass and light and a suffocating tightness. Directly ahead of the mages, seated behind an ornate desk covered in masterfully crafted flourishes and carvings, was Taravi Tennesen. To each side of the desk were terracotta pots housing weeping figs that nearly reached the ceiling. In front of the desk were two well-made but clearly uncomfortable wooden chairs. 

     “Hello there archmage and apprentices,” Taravi said, nodding his head. “Please, have a seat.” Morilex and Kalidev took the two chairs in front of the desk while Asken, Cybelia and Garsea formed a crescent behind them. 

     “Taravi this is no cordial visit. Severe allegations have been directed against you and your staff,” Kalidev said. 

     “Cybelia, Asken, Garsea, search the rest of this floor,” Morilex commanded. “If there is candleblood here, we will find it. I can promise you that, governor.” 

     Garsea had slid as far towards the weeping fig as he could when Morilex and Kalidev took their seats. He shook the scroll loose in his sleeve, letting it fall into his cupped hand. Only Taravi could see him, and Garsea had positioned himself in a way that obscured his arm behind the weeping fig. With one motion, he flicked open the scroll and pressed it to the bottom of a leaf on the plant. As the scroll unraveled it immediately triggered the spell, adhering to the underside of the leaf. 

     “Of course sir,” Garsea responded to Morilex and exited the room with Cybelia and Asken in tow. Asken immediately began questioning Solacine, and Cybelia made for one of the adjoining rooms. Garsea pushed another door open and glanced inside. A storage room, dimly lit by one covered window. He stepped inside and left the door slightly ajar. He pulled up the heavy hood on his robe and spoke the incantation linked to the spell he had attached to the weeping fig. For a moment he heard muffled voices, then, like he was rising from the depths of a pool, the voices cleared and he could hear the conversation taking place in Taravi’s office. 

     “-is all necessary?” Taravi’s frustrated voice cut in at the tail end of a question. 

     “These things can’t just happen, Taravi,” Kalidev responded. “Failsafes must be put in place. This will protect both of us.” 

     “At the end of today, Unsu will be removed and this entire tower will be yours,” Garsea heard Morilex’s voice for the first time. “You know as well as I do that if we went directly to a Carshgan governor, the people would cry foul. By clearing your floor first, and working our way down, any blame will shift entirely to our anonymous tip, and away from you or the mages. Calm yourself, governor.” 

     “The Tennesen estate has given enough to the mages to pay your salary a thousandfold,” Taravi said. “Am I not deserving of a bit of peace? I expect these things to be more properly handled in the future, Morilex.” 

     Garsea had heard enough. He growled the incantation that deactivated the spell and ripped his hood off. Five years of digging through the muck and hating himself more and more each day. Five years of living beneath the sun. Five years of wearing the green garb of the mages. All of it just to prove that the happy union of Ghulra and Yve wasn’t as the city would have its people believe. 

     During The Collapse, when the kingdoms of the Barge of Souls broke down and became one nation to fend off the infected dead of the central Kingdom Vesh’Tal, the Saorin kingdom of Ghulra opened its doors to the Carshgan kingdom of Yve. Yve bordered Vesh’Tal, and was one of the first to feel the wrath of war. Ghulra generously welcomed all the refugees of Yve, and shortly thereafter the city of Tourmaline was founded. It was a bastion of harmony among the many discordant cities where Saorins and Carshgans stood at odds. The war ended and Tourmaline continued to stand as an exemplar of what a truly undivided city could be, while cities like Yulfang and Gliss consumed themselves. As the Barge of Souls moved further and further away from The Collapse, a single flaw in the beautiful gem that was Tourmaline began to show itself. The Saorin people of Ghulra were able to hold stable throughout the Collapse and subsequent war. The Carshgan people of Yve lost their entire kingdom to the claws of Vesh’Tal. Tourmaline’s great shame was that very disparity, and now in the tower of two governors, it was showing itself to Garsea. 

He reached inside his robe and took out two heavy pouches of candleblood. He had no intention of making this easy for them. He placed both satchels in the storage room and then stormed out into the waiting room where Asken was still inquiring of Solacine, joined by a rather bored-looking Cybelia. 

     “Asken!” he barked as he marched across the room towards the stairs. “Lockdown that room. I found two full pouches of candleblood. I’m going to secure the perimeter. Cybelia, keep Taravi’s personal assistant here. I don’t want her getting word to Taravi before I can keep this contained.”

     Asken’s eyes went wide, but he nodded and immediately withdrew a scroll to place a seal on the storage room. Cybelia positioned herself between Solacine and the entrance to Taravi’s office, eager to have a clear objective. Solacine looked devastated for a moment before it manifested into a wild rage. 

     “You!” she shouted at Garsea as he entered the doorway to the stairs. “You planted it! I know you did! We had an agre-” 

     Garsea watched her choke back her own words, realizing they would do nothing but incriminate her. Before descending the stairs, Garsea slowly put a finger up to his lips while staring her down. He barreled down the stairs until reaching the third floor, home of Unsu Varkir. 

     As was the case with most Carshgan floors of the towers in Tourmaline, this one was void of any windows, and delicately illuminated by a chandelier. A young man, asleep at the welcome desk, jumped and flinched awake as Garsea burst into the room. 

     “Uh, he-hello welcome to the office of Unsu Varkir, how may I assist you?” he stuttered. 

     “There is going to be a raid on this office in moments from Morilex and a handful of mages,” Garsea said. “Go and wake Unsu. This is crucially important, have there been any unexpected visitors in the last few days?”

     The receptionist jumped up from the desk. 

     “Not that I can remember,” he said. “...wait, there was something. A repairman needed access to Unsu’s office to fix a damaged floorboard. That was two days ago.” 

     “Unlock the office. Taravi has planted something there to frame Unsu,” Garsea said. 

     The young man moved towards the office door, then stopped. 

     “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he asked. 

     “Life abounds beneath the simplest light,” Garsea said. The first half of an old Carshgan prayer. 

     “A quiet star in the dead of night,” the young man finished the prayer and nodded, then unlocked the door to Unsu’s office. 

     “He worked on the floorboards in the corner, just there,” he said. He lingered for a moment, then turned and rushed off down one of the hallways to wake up the governor, leaving Garsea alone. Wasting no time, Garsea darted across the room to the corner the boy had pointed out and began pressing the floorboards until one popped up, left intentionally loose. He removed it and found, resting peacefully beneath, six pouches of candleblood. Six pouches wouldn’t have just lost Unsu his job, Garsea thought, they wanted to bury him. He carefully placed them inside a pocket of his robe and replaced the floorboard just as it was. As quickly as he arrived, Garsea vanished back into the stairwell. Time was of the essence, and the less Unsu knew, the better. From the stairwell, he could hear the lift rumbling downward from the eighth floor. Morilex was as subtle as a firestorm, but he was no fool. His plans were being aggressively dismantled, and there would be no question as to who was the culprit. Kalidev would be hungry to show his master what kind of pain he was capable of inflicting.  As for Asken and Cybelia, it was hard to say what role they had played. Ignorant of the plot, surely. Enabling of the system, most definitely. This would be the last Garsea saw of any of them if he was lucky and quick enough. He hoped that Asken and Cybelia would be shaken enough by this to at the very least, question their role in it. There wasn’t much resilience in that hope, but still, it fluttered in the face of the wind. 

     He cleared the last four steps in one bound as he reached the first floor. Before exiting into the lobby, he plucked a scroll from the quiver in his belt and spoke the incantation through heaving breaths. I need to exercise more, Ysopra help me I can barely breathe, he thought as the scroll dissipated and the spell took effect. The man who stepped out into the lobby was no longer Garsea the saorin mage. He never truly was. The spell was an illusion of course, but it was an illusion of the man he had always been. Lazar the carshgan shoemaker. Gone was the telltale green robe of a mage, and in its place were dark brown overalls and a heavy gray tunic beneath. Gone were the satchels of scrolls and scribing equipment, in their place simple carving tools and traveling equipment. Gray hairs speckled the thick beard that he shaved off long ago. He smiled and nodded to the san renomo sitting behind the desk, sipping his white tea. The boy looked up and nodded, looked down at his paperwork, then quickly glanced back up, but Lazar was already pushing open the door to the city street. 

     Two blocks away from the outer perimeter of the city, Lazar felt the air leave his lungs and a tightening in his stomach. He glanced around, afraid that Morilex had found him and was in the process of placing some nefarious spell upon him. The city was bustling, but Morilex was nowhere in sight. He rubbed his forehead and wiped the sweat from beneath his eyes. Did I change anything? He thought. All these years, for what? Can Unsu be bought off? Will his secretary spread the word of what happened? Can Morilex keep it all contained? I never thought I would feel this...empty. 

     Lazar had imagined a grand exit. Many a night, when his carshgan heart yearned for the moonlight, he would lay as still as he could and imagine the day he would abscond. The city he loved would be flipped on its head, in the process of reimagining itself. Every system retooled, every structure rebuilt. He imagined throwing a single stone, thoughtfully and carefully, triggering an entire rockslide with it. He now realized what a fool he had been. The past was a behemoth, a tremendous mountain of stone, high enough to hold the future at bay. There would be no rockslide. Instead, Lazar was one in a nearly infinite line, stretching from the foot of the mountain to the bounds of time and space. The one closest to the mountain lifted a rock and passed it to the person behind them. They continued to pass the rock until the last of them could let it loose into the disinterested kingdoms of the void. There would be no sudden rockslide. No miraculous revelation. The mountain would shrink down, stone by stone, so long as people continued to line up. Lazar hadn’t shifted time, but he had moved a stone. That was enough for today.