The directions I was given in Dromán brought me here, thought Fionn. And I doubt the brothers of the Academy would be wrong about something as important as this.
The mage felt Sir Bearach snort at the back of his mind. Or their mind. Lately, Fionn wasn’t quite sure. The knight had opened up to him a little on the ferry, but once the Tower of Sin appeared on the coastline, Sir Bearach went quiet, only to speak again once Fionn realised he was lost.
Do you even know what you’re looking for? asked the knight. I’d expect the Academy Chapter of Penance to be on a busier street than this.
Fionn agreed. The Saltworks were the residential epicentre of Penance. Despite its name, this district didn’t smell at all like the sea. The streets were also void of life, with the buildings either side of Fionn almost derelict in their stature.
We’re definitely at the right address, Fionn reassured himself, yet he still felt unsure. The streets of Penance had been nameless since the Fall of Sin, so they could be only identified by numbers. The Academy Chapter was supposed to be located in the fourteenth building on the eighth street of the Saltworks.
Are you sure it wasn’t the eight building of fourteenth street? asked Sir Bearach. That area seemed far livelier—
“No!” said Fionn, out loud. He immediately felt grateful that there was nobody around to hear him. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. It is supposed to be right here!
He half hoped to see the Academy building before him when he opened his eyes, but was instead confronted with the same plain, clay-terraced building as before. A stained wooden door hung in its frame, splintered and cracked throughout. Although he had passed it a dozen times, only now did Fionn notice the number “14” chalked out on the ground before it. As he went to take a closer look, Sir Bearach spoke again.
Don’t tell me it was here all along. Gods, tell me anything but that!
Fionn’s gaze caught a tiny metal sign next to the door, roughly the size of an envelope, with thin letters scratched into its surface: Conleth the Red.
Who’s that? asked Sir Bearach. He sounds like a Pyromancer.
Fionn frowned. He’s the one we were looking for. He stood back and looked up at the tenement building, two stories tall and box-like, identical to the hundreds of others in the Salt-works. This is the Penance Chapter of the Academy.
I was expecting more, said Sir Bearach. The Academy of Dromán is a sight to behold. This is the type of house a dozen commoners would share.
Fionn ignored the knight’s remarks—at least, he ignored them as best as he could. His oversized hand rapped upon the wooden door with more force than the mage had intended, causing it to open slightly.
Unlocked, said Sir Bearach. I’d put money on the place being looted long ago.
That brought a smile to Fionn’s face. From what he was told, Conleth the Red was one of the greatest living Pyromancers, a Master of Fire for longer than most of Fionn’s tutors in Dromán had been alive. No sane person would dare attempt to burgle the home of someone capable of turning the city to cinders.
“Firemaster Conleth?” called Fionn, slowly pushing the door inwards. “I was told you’d be expecting me?”
The door immediately slammed shut, causing Fionn to jump away from it in fright. He had been sure there was nobody on the other end.
“Expecting you, so I was!” cried someone from inside the house. “I was expecting you a bloody moon ago, and I was about to give up expecting altogether!”
The voice was shrill and sharp, speaking quick words that cut through the air, like daggers against a chalkboard.
“I was delayed,” said Fionn. “There was an accident on our journey here. I was wounded and healed before I could continue here on foot.”
There was silence. Fionn considered repeating himself for fear that he wasn’t heard, until the door slowly creaked open.
The inside of the tenement’s hall was visible, with wooden floors and stone walls holding empty torches at eye-level with Fionn. It took a moment for the mage to realise that the house’s occupant was standing before him, less than half the height of the door.
Conleth the Red did not look at all like his voice had suggested. The aged Pyromancer leaned in against the door as if standing alone was an effort. Thick-rimmed glasses hid most of his face, his pale mouth thinned into a shrewd line. He wore loose, grey rags that Fionn supposed must have once been red, before the passage of time had removed whatever colour they had.
The man himself stood little over four feet tall, his height stunted by a hunched back. In fact, more of the mage’s body seemed to be leaning forward than was standing straight, indicating that he could have once been a tall fellow.
“There was supposed to be another one,” said the mage, leering up at Fionn. “Slaíne something-or-other.”
“She didn’t make it,” said Fionn, making a special effort to keep his voice from quivering. “I’m the only one who did.”
Conleth grunted and beckoned Fionn inside. He led the young mage through a narrow hall toward a room at the back of the building.
“Seán got fed up waiting for her,” said the Firemaster. “He’s gone back to Dromán now. He never did like it here.”
“So, it’s just you?” asked Fionn as they stepped through the remnants of a kitchen, with an old stove against the back wall and a round, wooden table in the centre. Every other surface of the room was covered in books and loose pages. On the floor stood piles of leather-bound tomes, some stacked taller the Firemaster himself.
“Aye,” said Conleth. “All the others left. They call this a Chapter of the Academy, but it’s more a footnote than anything.” He gestured absent-mindedly around the room. “Everything you need to study is here. You’ll be sleeping on the top floor. There’s a bed up there, I think. It’s been a while since I used the stairs. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Conleth pushed past Fionn and made his way to a three-legged stool in the corner of the kitchen. He sat and picked a book from the ground, and began reading, ignoring the bewildered Fionn standing in the centre of the room.
“Is that it?” he asked. “Aren’t you supposed to teach me how to master the element of fire?”
The old mage lowered his head and gazed back at Fionn. “You’re not ready yet,” he said, and returned to his book.
“How do you know that?” said Fionn, his voice rising only slightly.
“Because you lot never are. Come, conjure some fire for me here. Show me what you learned in all your years at the Academy.”
Fionn narrowed his eyes with frustration. I’ll show him alright, he thought, raising his right arm to click his fingers together.
With a pang of embarrassment, Fionn realised that the flint-rings he once wore on his arm were no longer in his possession. This didn’t seem to be the concern of Conleth, however.
“Curious,” he said, slowly rising to his feet. “I hadn’t noticed that until now. My eyes are not what they once were.” He took a step towards the young mage, eyes focused on his over-sized arm. “Such a curious monstrosity. How did it happen?”
Fionn swallowed deeply. “I don’t see why you should know. Put me on the course to be a Firemaster, and I’ll share some of my story.”
