The Last Guardian (3 page)

To sum up, Khadgar knew previous little of this supposedly great mage he was assigned to work for.

And as he considered knowledge to be his armor and sword, he felt woefully underequipped for the coming encounter.

Aloud, he said, “Not much.”

“Eh?” responded Moroes, half-turning on the staircase.

“I said I don’t know much,” said Khadgar, louder than he meant to. His voice bounced off the bare walls of the stairway. It was curved now, and Khadgar was wondering if the tower was truly as high as it seemed. Already his thighs were aching from the climb.

“Of course you don’t,” said Moroes. “Know, that is. Young people never know much. That’s what makes them young, I suppose.”

“I mean,” said Khadgar, irritated. He paused and took a deep breath. “I mean, I don’t know much about Medivh. You asked.”

Moroes held for a moment, his foot poised on the next step, “I suppose I did,” he said at last.

“Whatis he like?” asked Khadgar, his voice almost pleading.

“Like everyone else, I suppose,” said Moroes. “Has his druthers. Has his moods. Good days and bad.

Like everybody else.”

“Puts his pants on one leg at a time,” said Khadgar, sighing.

“No. He levitates into them,” said Moroes. The old servant looked at Khadgar, and the youth caught the slightest tug of a smile along the old man’s face. “One more set of stairs.”

The final set of stairs curled tightly, and Khadgar guessed that they had to be near the tower’s highest spire. The old servant led the way.

The stairway opened up on a small circular room, surrounded by a wide parapet. As Khadgar had surmised, they were at the topmost tip of the tower, with a large observatory. The walls and ceilings were pierced by crystalline windows, clear and unfogged. In the time of their climb, night had fallen fully, and the sky was dark and strewn with stars.

The observatory itself was dim, lit by a few torches of the same, unwavering light as found elsewhere.

Yet these were hooded, their lamps banked for observing the night sky. An unlit brazier sat in the middle of the room in preparation for later, as the temperature would drop toward morning.

Several large curved tables spread around the outer wall of the observatory, decked with all
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manner of devices. Silver levels and golden astrolabes acted as paperweights for foolscap, or as bookmarks keeping ancient texts open to certain pages. A half-disassembled model, showing planetary movement through the celestial vault, sat on one table, fine wires and additional beads laid out among the delicate tools next to it. Notebooks lay stacked against one wall, and others were in crates jammed beneath the tables. A map of the continent was stretched on a frame, showing the southern lands of Azeroth and

Khadgar’s own Lordaeron, as well as the reclusive dwarven and elven kingdoms of Khaz Modan and

Quel’Thalas. Numerous small pins bedecked the map, constellations that only Medivh could decipher.

And Medivh was there, for to Khadgar it could be no other. He was a man of middling years, his hair long and bound in a ponytail in the back. In his youth his hair had likely been ebon black, but now it was already turning gray at the temples and along the beard. Khadgar knew that this happened to many mages, from the stress of the magical energies they wielded.

Medivh was dressed in robes simple for a mage—well cut and fitted to his large frame. A short tabard, unadorned by decoration, hung to his waist, over trousers tucked into oversize boots. A heavy maroon cloak hung from his broad shoulders, the hood pulled back.

As Khadgar’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that he was wrong about the wizard’s clothing being unadorned. Instead, it was laced with silver filigree, of such a delicate nature that it was invisible at first blush. Looking at the mage’s back, Khadgar realized he was looking at the stylized face of some ancient demon-legend. He blinked, and in that time the tracery transformed itself into a coiled dragon, and then into a night sky.

Medivh had his back to the old servant and the young man, ignoring them entirely. He was standing at one of the tables, a golden astrolabe in one hand, a notebook in the other. He seemed lost in thought, and

Khadgar wondered if this was one of the “things” that Moroes had warned him about.

Khadgar cleared his throat and took a step forward, but Moroes raised a hand. Khadgar froze in place, as surely as if transfixed with a magical spell.

Instead the old servant walked quietly to one side of the master mage, waiting for Medivh to recognize his presence. A minute passed. A second minute. Then a period that Khadgar swore was an eternity.

Finally, the robed figure set down his astrolabe, and made three quick jots in the notebook. He closed the book with sharp snap, and looked over at Moroes.

Seeing his face for the first time, Khadgar thought that Medivh was much older than his supposed forty-plus years. The face was deeply lined and worn. Khadgar wondered what magics Medivh wielded that wrote such a deep history on his face.

Moroes dipped into his vest and brought out the crumpled letter of introduction, the crimson seal now bloodred in the steady, unflickering torchlight. Medivh turned and regarded the youth.

The mage’s eyes were deeply set beneath his dark, heavy brows, but Khadgar was aware at once of the power within. Something danced and flickered within those deep green eyes, something powerful, and perhaps uncontrolled. Something dangerous. The master mage glanced at him, and in a moment Khadgar felt that the wizard had taken in his sum total of existence and found it no more intriguing than that of a beetle or flea.

Medivh looked away from Khadgar and at the still-sealed letter of introduction. Khadgar felt himself relax almost immediately, as if a large and hungry predator had stalked past him without giving him a second look.

His relief was short-lived. Medivh did not open the letter. Instead his brows furrowed only slightly, and the parchment burst into flames with an explosive rush of air. The flames clustered at the far end of the document from where Medivh held it, and flickered with an intense, blue
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flame.

When Medivh spoke his voice was both deep and amused.

“So,” said Medivh, oblivious to the fact he was holding Khadgar’s future burning in his hand. “It seems our young spy has arrived at last.”

Two

Interview with the Magus

Is something wrong?” asked Medivh, and Khadgar suddenly felt himself under the master mage’s gaze again. He felt like a beetle again, but this time one that had inadvertently crawled across a bug-collector’s work desk. The flames had already consumed half the letter of introduction, and the wax seal was already melting, dripping onto the observatory’s flagstones.

Khadgar was aware that his eyes were wide, his face bloodless and pale, and his mouth hanging open.

He tried to force the air out of his body, but all his managed was a strangled, hissing sound.

The dark, heavy brows pursed in a bemused glance. “Are you ill? Moroes, is this lad ill?”

“Winded, perhaps,” said Moroes in a level tone. “Was a long climb up.”

Finally Khadgar managed to gather his senses about him sufficiently to say, “The letter!”

“Ah,” said Medivh. “Yes. Thank you, I had almost forgotten.” He walked over to the brazier and dropped the burning parchment on top of the coals. The blue ball of flame rose spectacularly to about shoulder height, and them diminished into a normal-looking flame, filling the room with a warm, reddish glow. Of the letter of introduction, with its parchment and crimson seal inscribed with the symbol of the

Kirin Tor, there was no sign.

“But you didn’t read it!” said Khadgar, then caught himself, “I mean, sir, with respect…”

The master mage chuckled and settled himself into a large chair made of canvas and dark carved wood.

The brazier lit his face, pulling out the deep lines formed into a smile. Despite this, Khadgar could not relax.

Medivh leaned forward in his chair and said, “‘Oh Great and Respected Magus Medivh, Master Mage of Karazhan, I bring you the greetings of the Kirin Tor, most learned and puissant of the magical academies, guilds, and societies, advisors to the kings, teachers of the learned, revealers of secrets.’

They continue on in that fashion for some ways, puffing themselves up more with every sentence.

How am I doing so far?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Khadgar, “I was instructed—”

“Not to open the letter,” finished Medivh. “But you did, anyway.”

The master mage raised his eyes to regard the young man, and Khadgar’s breath caught in his throat.

Something flickered in Medivh’s eyes, and Khadgar wondered if the master mage had the power to cast spells without anyone noticing.

Khadgar slowly nodded, steeling himself for the response.

Medivh chuckled loudly, “When?”

“On the…on the voyage from Lordaeron to Kul Tiras,” said Khadgar, unsure if what he said would amuse or irritate his potential mentor. “We were becalmed for two days and…”

“Curiosity got the better of you,” finished Medivh again. He smiled, and it was a clean white smile beneath the graying beard. “I probably would have opened it the moment I got out of sight of Dalaran’s

Violet Citadel.”

Khadgar took a deep breath and said, “I considered that, but I believed they had divination spells in operation, at least at that range.”

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“And you wanted to be far from any spell or message recalling you for opening the letter. And you patched it back together well enough to fool a cursory examination, sure that I would likely break the seal straightaway and not notice your tampering.” Medivh allowed himself a chuckle, but drew his face into a tight, focused knot. “How did I do that?” he asked.

Khadgar blinked. “Do what, sir?”

“Know what was in the letter?” said Medivh, the sides of his mouth tugging down. “The letter I just burned says that I will find the young man Khadgar most impressive in his deduction and intelligence.

Impress me.”

Khadgar looked at Medivh, and the jovial smile of a few seconds before had evaporated. The smiling face was now that of some primitive stone god, judgmental and unforgiving. The eyes that had been tinged with mirth earlier now seemed to be barely concealing some hidden fury.

The brows knitted together like the rising thunderhead of a storm.

Khadgar stammered for a moment, then said, “You read my mind.”

“Possible,” said Medivh. “But incorrect. You’re a stew of nerves right now, and that gets in the way of mind reading. One wrong.”

“You’ve gotten this sort of letter before,” said Khadgar. “From the Kirin Tor. You know what kind of letters are written.”

“Also possible,” said the master mage. “As Ihave received such letters and theydo tend to be overweening in their self-congratulatory tone. But you know the exact wording as well as I do. A good try, and the most obvious, but also incorrect. Two wrong.”

Khadgar’s mouth formed into a tight line. His mind raised and his heart thundered in his chest.

“Sympathy,” he said at last.

Medivh’s eyes remained unreadable, and his voice level. “Explain.”

Khadgar took a deep breath. “One of the magical laws. When someone handles an item, they leave a part of their own magical aura or vibration attached to the item. As auras vary with individuals, it is possible to connect to one by affecting the other. In this way a lock of hair may be used in a love charm, or a coin may be tracked back to its original owner.”

Medivh’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he dragged a finger across his bearded chin. “Continue.”

Khadgar stopped for a moment, feeling the weight of Medivh’s eyes pressing in on him. That was what he knew from lectures. He was halfway there. But how did Medivh use it to figure out….

“The more someone uses an item, the stronger the resonance,” said Khadgar quickly. “So therefore an item that experiences a lot of handling or attention will have a stronger sympathy.”

The words were coming together tighter and more rapidly now. “So a document which someone had written has more aura to it than a blank piece of parchment, and the person is concentrating on what they are writing, so…” Khadgar let his thoughts catch up for a moment.

“You were mind reading, but not my mind—the mind of the scribe who wrote the letter at the time he was writing it—you picked up his thoughts reinforcing the words.”

“Without having to physically open the document,” said Medivh, and the light danced within his eyes again. “So how would this trick be useful to a scholar?”

Khadgar blinked for a moment, and looked away from the master mage, seeking to avoid his piercing glance. “You could read books without having to read books.”

“Very valuable for a researcher,” said Medivh. “You belong to a community of scholars. Why don’t you do that?”

“Because…because…” Khadgar thought of old Korrigan, who could find anything in the library, even

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the smallest marginal notation. “I think we do, but for older members of the conclave.”

Medivh nodded. “And that is because…”

Khadgar thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“Who would write if all the knowledge could be sucked out with a mental twist and a burst of magic?”

suggested Medivh. He smiled, and Khadgar realized he had been holding his breath. “You’re not bad.

Not bad at all. You know your counterspells?”

“To the fifth roster,” said Khadgar.

“Can you power a mystic bolt?” asked Medivh, quickly.

“One or two, but it’s draining,” answered the younger man, suddenly feeling that the conversation had taken a serious turn once more.

“And your primary elementals?”

“Strongest in flame, but I know them all.”

“Nature magic?” asked Medivh. “Ripening, culling, harvesting? Can you take a seed and pull the youth from it until it becomes a flower?”

“No, sir. I was trained in a city.”

“Can you make a homunculus?”

“Doctrine frowns on it, but I understand the principles involved,” said Khadgar, “If you’re curious…”