But sobriety had snuck up on Gorm under the cover of his melancholy, and now his emotions were coalescing into curmudgeonly determination. “What are ye lot on about? Don’t ye have work to do? Such as cleanin’ out this sanctuary, for one!” Before anyone could answer, the Dwarf shouldered an unfortunate scribe out of the way and stormed out of the temple. Burt stepped over the prone Human, careful not to spill his drink, and scampered along in pursuit.
The clergy of Al’Matra sagged as the pair left the temple, disappointed that they hadn’t any answers as to what happened with the statue. They quickly went rigid again as they realized, virtually in unison, that in their eagerness for answers they had left the statue unmonitored. The acolytes and priestesses crept back to the sanctuary door like mice approaching a sleeping cat. The first scribe to peek around the door shrieked in terror.
The statue of High Scribe Niln was staring directly at the door, his mouth set in a wide grin. One of his eyes was squeezed shut, as if to give the shocked Al’Matrans a mischievous wink.
“Are you trying to make a joke? Is this supposed to be clever?” Laruna’s brow knit as she glared at the apprentice manning the registrar’s desk.
The hapless solamancer behind the desk withered under a glare as dry and heated as the desert sun. “I… I, uh, sorry miss. I thought you were making a joke as… I mean, no, of course not. My apologies.”
Laruna snorted. “Just enroll me in these classes and then we can both move on.”
“Yesss…” said the clerk, finessing an unspoken “but” into a prolonged sibilance. “Have you, maybe, considered some courses that are more, ahem, rigorous?”
“These classes are what I need.”
“Of course, of course,” stammered the clerk. “It’s just that, well, an illustrious hero such as yourself might be more interested in plumbing the mysteries of existence, or the latest weaves for refracting light and heat. These classes are more focused on… basics.”
“They’re what I need,” she growled again.
“People may think it strange to see a grown woman—”
“They’re what I need!” snarled Laruna, with enough force and heat to send the apprentice diving behind his desk for cover. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. “I need to fix some… basic things,” she said evenly. “I can handle people giving me strange looks.”
A legion of dour faces stared at Weaver Ortson. The throne room was packed with people, and every one of them wore a fine suit and a deep scowl. The only sounds in the great, stone expanse were the sibilant hiss of the sand falling in the hourglass, and an occasional cough echoing through the chamber. He felt naked and exposed, a rigid grin his only defense against the impatient stares.
Ortson glanced at the hourglass. There was just under a minute to go by his judgment, but it felt like a small eternity. A glass cloche was set on the table next to the timepiece, and in it a small, pink sprite waited patiently.
Industry leaders and nobles were ready with their own sprite stones, preparing to issue buy or sell orders the moment the sprite spoke. Agekeepers and town criers lined the walls, quills ready to record history in the making. Queen Marja, on the throne behind Ortson, was watching the tiny, glowing figure with manic concentration.
All eyes were on the sprite. Unfortunately, according to Nove’s fifth principle of universal irony, that only served to further delay the announcement.
Anyone who has had a birthday party, opened holiday presents, or watched a clock for the end of a particularly painful class knows that time seems to pass more slowly while waiting for a desirable event. The philosopher-scientist applied a more rigorous methodology to this axiom, using Nove’s Constant to devise a mathematical model that showed how attention and anticipation delay events and distort time. Nove’s writings on his fifth principle of universal irony posited that enough people watching a pot over a fire could actually postpone the water within it from boiling indefinitely.
Nove famously attempted to prove the theory in a grand experiment involving a cauldron of water, a bonfire, and an arena full of students, with tragic results. The combined attention of thousands of philosopher-scientists in training suppressed the water from boiling for well over an hour, nearly long enough to rule out any other conceived explanation for the delay. Yet, just before the designated time passed, a sudden distraction arose. Sources disagree on whether it was the call of a passing waterfowl, a flatulent professor, or the confluence of the two, but some noise caught the collective attention of the student body, causing them to momentarily ignore the pot. The sudden shift in perspective and expectations caused ripples in the Novian counterforces at work in the pot, releasing all of the pent-up energy in one horrible instant. The boiling water vaporized in a violent explosion that shattered the cauldron. Three graduate students were killed and many more injured by the shrapnel.
Though the attempt to conclusively prove Nove’s fifth principle in a laboratory failed spectacularly, most great minds on Arth accepted it as true. Ortson Weaver certainly found it credible as he sweated under the collective glare of the assembled nobles and merchants. It took a small eternity for the last grains of sand in his hourglass to finally fall.
“Thank you for your patience, ladies and gentlemen,” the guildmaster announced. “The, ah, notice period for the announcement of the king’s messenger sprite from the dungeon of Wynspar is over. As you can see, this is the same sprite that visited the throne room earlier today, and many witnesses can attest that nobody has been privy to the information within.”
The hush only deepened in response. Ortson could practically hear their fingers quivering above their sprite stones.
Weaver nodded to a noctomancer standing behind the throne. The wizard had lank hair, a quill in his front pocket, and eyes filled with contempt for anyone who didn’t know sorcery. He lifted the cloche and wove a glowing ring of air and shadow with an expert gesture of his long fingers. The magic drifted down over the sprite, so that she was standing at the center of a temporary magic circle.
“I have—!” The sprite’s voice boomed like thunder and ended in an ethereal screech.
“Sorry,” mumbled the wizard. He wove a few strands of air to modify his magic circle.
“I have a message for Weaver Ortson!” the sprite said, and now its voice was appropriately amplified for the entire audience to hear.
“Has the message been played before?” Weaver shouted. He was one of those unfortunate people who conflates volume with decorum.
“The message has not been relayed!” chimed the sprite.
“Excellent,” said Weaver. “Well then, play the message, and be ready to play it again.”
The sprite immediately popped up and into motion. “Hello? Hello? Has the message started? Yes, right? Ha! This is Johan, Champion of Tandos. We’ve reached—what is that?”
The sprite’s voice changed a bit. “What are you—arghhh!”
The crowd let out an audible gasp as the second speaker cut off in a scream.
“What is that?” shrieked the sprite. “No, no, no—aaaiiee! Bettel!—Aaaaarg!” The sprite paused to let out a hideous, bestial roar, unlike any creature Ortson had ever heard. It was followed by another death scream, and then a grim gurgling. Another voice chimed in, sounding more like Johan’s, but ragged and rasping. “Tell Marja… tell Marja I love her! In this life or the next, we will be together—aaarrgh!”
Ortson’s next three heartbeats lasted an eternity in the stunned silence of the room.
“Shall I play your message again?” asked the sprite.
The throne room erupted. Marja screamed and fainted. Financiers hollered orders into their sprite stones. Green and red sprites cascaded up toward the windows, bathing the world in otherworldly light. Bannermen began shouting for order. They may as well have gone down to the docks and yelled at the Tarapin to stop flowing.
Only Weaver Ortson remained motionless. Questions raced through his mind as he stared at the messenger sprite waiting patiently on the table. “Shall I play your message again?” it repeated.
“I’d rather eat a boiled basilisk than listen to that farce one more time!” snarled Duine Poldo as he stormed up the streets of Mistkeep. “I’d be sick to my stomach either way, but at least with the basilisk I’d be spared all of the dismal theatrics!”
