Jynn held up his gloved hand, a single finger raised in warning. “But remember, low magic is the power that gods and demons wield through their temples and cults. This is the battleground upon which cosmic forces fight for the world. It is easy to create unintended consequences when you may not see the results for days, or years, or even within your lifetime. And to make an error with low magic, or to attract the wrong attention, can be the unmaking of a mage, or a whole order, or even an entire people.”

“You think that’s what happened to the Sten?” Meryl looked with worry at the table full of arcane apparatuses.

“Who can say?” said Jynn airily. “Hubris can bring the mighty low.”

“So we’re not going to use low magic then?” Selena looked disappointed.

“What? Oh, no. Of course we will.” Jynn chuckled and waved the concern away. The classroom filled with relieved laughter. “But we’ll be very careful. And we have tools to ensure that we won’t run afoul of any existing destinies. A wand of ebony and nornstone, for example, can help us measure the latent fate in our immediate proximity.” He picked up a midnight wand that was so long it nearly extended from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder. He held it out as if bestowing a sword to the class. Midnight runes glimmered along the wand’s length in a blue so deep they could only be discerned from the dark wood by the reflection of the glowstones above. “It should be a small matter to determine if local events are totally mundane”—he pointed to the base of the wand with his free hand—“or the signs of Arth-shaking prophecies that could define the end of the Seventh Age.” Here he indicated the notch at the end of the wand. “All we need to do is channel air and fire to—oop!”

A blinding burst of blue light flashed as soon as the archmage channeled magic into the wand, leaving nothing but a colored smudge across the vision of those who hadn’t closed their eyes fast enough. A thin tendril of black smoke rose off the wand’s tip.

“What does that mean?” asked Balorox.

“It means that many of the Order of Twilight’s relics have stopped functioning after millennia of neglect.” Jynn waved the wand up and down to extinguish any residual flames, then set it back down with a shrug. “Regardless, our use of low magic will be ethical and sensible, and as the next generation of the Twilight Order, we⁠—”

The archmage was interrupted by a sudden flurry of banging on the wall to his side, accompanied by a muffled storm of angry Ruskan.

“One moment,” Jynn told his students with a short-lived smile. He stepped up to the wall, grabbed a broom that seemed to have been propped against it for no other purpose, and banged on the wall with enough fury to match the assailant. “Enough, Mrs. Ur’Kretchen!”

“You talk too loud! You always screaming! And you magic my apartment!” bellowed the creature on the other side of the wall, ostensibly an elderly woman but possibly a greater demon. She had a gravelly voice, a thick accent when she spoke Imperial, and—if the plaster shaking off the stone wall was any indication—a siege mop. “Too loud always, and always magic! Make cat go crazy!”

“I assure you we’ve done no. Such. Thing!” Jynn growled, smacking the wall with his own broom handle to punctuate each word. “We do not care about your cat!”

Another Ruskan tirade broke out, though Jynn could hardly understand it. He had forgotten some of the mother tongue since his childhood, and he suspected his mother never would have allowed him to use the sort of language that Mrs. Ur’Kretchen was employing in the first place. Yet it was moot profanity; slipping back into Ruskan was usually a sign that the old neighbor’s fury was abating. The banging stopped, heavy footsteps shuffled away from the wall, and somewhere in the adjacent apartment a cat yowled.

“Ahem. My apologies.” A sheepish grin flitted across Jynn’s face as he returned the broom to its corner. “Another reminder that we’re all looking forward to the order raising enough funds to afford a proper tower.”

The faces around the classroom pulled into deliberately blank expressions; students of omnimancy did not need another reminder that the Order of Twilight lacked the amenities of those of the Sun and Moon. Their newly reinstated school received a pittance from the Academy of Mages, and just as the Twilight Order walked the gray boundary between noctomancy and solamancy, they also balanced between meager progress and insolvency.

Jynn struggled to find the right words to bring his lecture back on target, but he was saved when the great bronze bell at the Temple of Musana marked the hour and the end of class. “Next lecture I’ll share what we’ve begun to uncover in our studies of Stennish artifacts!” he shouted over the shuffling of parchment and quills. “And look!”

The students followed his gaze to the prophetic vault, where the black sphere of nothingness had disappeared in a cloud of glittering particles. A small porcelain plate balanced amidst the sculpted branches, bearing an egg and herring sandwich. Jynn carefully reached between the stone rods, picked the sandwich up, and took a theatrical bite. “Still fresh as the day I made it—after a week!” he proclaimed to light applause. “And now, who has the question?”

He scanned the classroom for a standing student, as he had written in his ledger of experimental prophecy, but found none. The mages assembled remained seated, leveling questioning glances at one another.

“Nobody?” Jynn’s brow furrowed. “There should be a someone looking for an answer amongst you. I specifically prophesied a seeker would be standing.”

Someone cleared their throat at the door. Jynn turned as a familiar figure stepped into the room.

“Well, I did have one question,” said Heraldin Strummons.

“What now?” Burt asked. He stretched as the party walked up the road to the New South Gate. Mount Wynspar reared up before them, the great city of Andarun spilling down its front like a frozen waterfall.

“Now we do some investigatin’,” said Gorm. Winter was settling onto the mountain and the surrounding plains, which meant sunset came earlier each day. As the Dwarf took in the city, the sun’s last rays bathed the Wall in amber light, and across the tiers lanterns began to flicker to life. “We need more information, and we need to be discreet.”

Kaitha sighed, conjuring a cloud of frosty mist in front of her face. “I have a couple of appointments. But I don’t have another quest lined up yet. I’ll put in some discreet inquiries about that eagle.”

“Yeah,” said Laruna. “I need to talk to the Academy about the pyromancers, but I can ask about alchemical fire while I’m there.”

“Take half that charred log to your Academy folk,” said Gorm. He looked back over his shoulder. “And for ye, Burt?”

“I’ve got paperwork and meetings.” The Kobold leaned out of Gorm’s rucksack, puffing a cigarette as he considered the city. “The chieftain will want an update on your suspicions.”

“We’ll need her help once we find proof,” Gorm said. “We can’t take on Johan without the Shadowkin.”

“Let’s start with getting the proof, then,” said Burt. “Lady Asherzu ain’t going to stick her neck out on the word of Lightlings alone. We’ve seen how that goes.”

“Aye.” Gorm grimaced as he started walking toward the city in renewed earnest.

“And what will you do?” Kaitha asked him.

“Look for evidence,” he told her. “Sniff for clues. There’s a couple of old friends I want to check in on.”

The Elf held back a laugh, but he could see it dancing behind her eyes. “Something about the way you say that makes me think they may not be happy to see you.”

Gorm shared a look with Gaist. “That depends on how accomodatin’ they are.”

Chapter 5

“Go away. We’re closed!” called the acolyte, her voice muffled by the thick oak door of the Temple of Al’Matra.

“No ye ain’t.” Gorm pounded his fist against the door with the rhythmic obstinance of a battering ram. “Not for me.”

Another acolyte spoke out, his voice cracking with worry and adolescence. “Uh, the high scribe was very clear that you’re not to⁠—”

“You’re not supposed to say that!” hissed the first acolyte.

“Eh?” said Gorm, pounding harder. “If’n I need to have another chat with Pathalan, I can start knockin’ on the door with me axe!”

“No!” cried the Al’Matrans in unison. A hurried, hushed argument played out on the other side of the door. Eventually the door swung open, and the pair of acolytes grudgingly bid Gorm enter. The taller of the two, an Elven woman, nodded to a pock-faced young Human, indicating that he should guide Gorm to his destination.

The adolescent acolyte nodded back to the Elven one, gesturing for her to accompany the Dwarf. Scowls broke out, then escalated into a full-on pantomimed argument that Gorm ignored and brushed past.

Tension filled the Temple of Al’Matra whenever Gorm Ingerson walked through the door. Acolytes and scribes spoke in hushed whispers in the moldering hallways. Clergy members moved to their destinations with a bit more urgency. Scribes suddenly found excuses to check the records in the deepest recesses of the temple archives.

This air of unease was in part because the Temple of Al’Matra seldom had any visitors. People in need of divine aid had a lot of gods to choose from, and most of the other deities were sane, or at least more sane than the All Mother. Most Al’Matrans in the temple chose to serve there because, if you could put up with the dingy accommodations and the occasional silly task, the meals were free, the beds were warm, and you had to be at least ostensibly respected as a clergy member in city business. For almost everyone who could afford their own room and board, there were better temples to pray at. The temples of Fula or Erro, in particular, provided very favorable ratios of blessed comfort to required devotion.

Yet among the thin ranks of regular visitors to the Al’Matran temple, Gorm Ingerson was the most well-known and least welcome. He was loud, smelly, brash, and all the other typical complaints the followers of an Elven goddess might mutter about a Dwarf in their sanctuary. Yet those minor offenses faded in the shadow of his worst sin: the berserker had very strong opinions about the way the temple should be run.

“This floor’s gettin’ disgustin’ again,” groused the Dwarf, stamping through rows of crumbling pews. “When was the last time ye dusted in here?”

“I-It’s just that not many p-people come into the sanctuary,” said the adolescent acolyte, rushing to catch up with him.

“It ain’t about impressin’ visitors. It’s about respect!” Gorm traced a thick finger along the edge of an ancient seat. It squelched, and his fingertip was black when he held it up. “And the roof’s leakin’ again?”

“It’s the statuary, sir,” added the Elven acolyte, hurrying after them. “The All Mother insists we keep them on the upper terraces, but they’re made of heavy granite and the wood in the roof isn’t what it once was.”