Cathartis Chapter 4

Chapter 4 – Descension

Tibelor stood at the window of his chamber as he looked over the black and white towers of Beshir. The grand and sprawling city sparkled in the starlight and moonlight, occasionally lit by magical orbs of light. Streets paved in black and white granite spiraled outwards from the great black tower of the Suppremage. The quiet calm was only occasionally broken the chanting of a spell or zapping of magical lightning. The air smelled clean and crisp with a hint of electricity from the magical discharges of mages in training. A month had passed since his trials and he now wore the black robes with silver trim of a full Ondai mage. He bunched matching hooded cloak around him as a chilly breeze swept through the open window. Pulling the window closed, he turned back to his writing desk, where he sat, opened his journal, and began writing:

Day 223, 532 A.W. I have made progress in mastering the basics of fire, ice, and lightning. I can summon rage, indifference, and excitement at will, even under more adverse conditions than in my trials. I am good at hiding my emotions, and often catch the other trainees off guard. I gain strength each day and I can withstand more casting exhaustion than ever before. As I continue my research, there is little indication that Ondus are capable of mastering the magic of lighter emotions. I have been unable to replicate my use of hope magic and the Archmages have let the matter drop. Neither they nor I can explain the circumstances I encountered in my trials. They chalk it up to a fluke in the magic used to create the trials, perhaps a malfunction or an illusion. I have the lingering feeling that it had something to do with the link I formed with Anjor. They still won't allow me to see him or speak to him and barely acknowledge that he still lives. This mystery plagues my mind. I must see him again, research this phenomenon further, so I may unlock powers unimaginable by my colleagues.

Tibelor sat blankly for a few minutes, tapping his pen against the paper. How could he understand when they wouldn't answer his questions? They blocked him at every turn. Any of the dusty books he found which may have contained answers mysteriously vanished from his room. The Archmages told him to drop his dangerous lines of questions,and his brother and sister mages kept telling him his obsession would ruin him. As they days went on, the more he wondered, the more he questioned, and the more he knew that he had to see Anjor again. No one could gain power without taking risks, but was this the risk he was willing to stake his life on?

The next day as he walked through the training grounds, he saw Ondus mages practicing the approved arsenal of spells. The beginners threw fire, ice, and lightning at practice dummies, while the more advanced mages dueled with each other. The air felt hot and the hair on his arms tingled and stood on end. One particularly creative mage, Staela, summoned a grisly wolf behind her opponent. As he readied a fireball, Staela's wolf pounced on him, turning rage into surprise and panic, rendering him temporarily unable to cast. The wolf had him pinned and in his panic he tapped out. Staela dismissed the wolf, her opponent stood, bowed, and walked away in embarrassment and rage. Tibelor was surprised when the boy didn't throw a wayward fireball at a practice dummy, or a bale of hay. Tibelor gave Staela an approving nod.

The boy was sweating from the strain and was panting hard. He stalked over to his Cathart who stood on the side of the training grounds. Tibelor watched the scene as memories of his own trial flashed through his mind. The young mage gave the Cathart a slap on the face, and when the Cathart's eyes glowed red with anger the young Ondai mage drew on the anger, pulling a ribbon of red from the Cathart's eyes to his own. The young mage's eyes flashed red briefly before returning to emerald green, and the mage appeared completely refreshed. The sweat quickly dried up, his panting returned to regular breathing, and he stood tall and ready for another duel. Tibelor shook off the uncomfortable reminder as he continued on to Archmage Daustine's chambers.

Tibelor climbed the winding staircase of Daustine's tower until he reached the stone doors at the top. It smelled musty and the air was chilly compared to the air outside. His footsteps echoed up the stairs with him. At the top he stood before the grand stone door and took in its magnificence. He couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. He pulled the golden dragon-head knocker three times, until the door creaked open. He stepped into the dimly lit chamber and the door shut behind him.

“What is it Tibelor? I am very busy” Daustine continued to write without glancing up. His tone masked the irritation Tibelor knew was hidden beneath.

“I would like to make another formal request to see the Cathart, Anjor. Before you say no, it is for research purposes, which could be highly valuable to all Ondus mages. I know...” Daustine cut him off with a wave of his hand. Tibelor kept tight control of his temper, as any proper Ondus mage would.

“We have been over this, and you still cannot see him. It is too dangerous. I am surprised you would ask again, after being denied three times already.”

“I have money, I can buy him, even though I already purchased him once when I began training. You know my family is wealthy, my father is the royal treasurer...” he was cut off again.

“I know who your father is, stating it again will not gain you any favors.” Daustine glared at Tibelor from under bushy black eyebrows, “And besides, he is not here anymore. He has been transferred to a remote research facility. You will never see him again, so drop it.”

Anjor was gone? It could not be, he knew it was a lie! Somehow he just knew, he felt that Anjor was still close by. If the Archmage was going to resort to lying about something like this it meant he was afraid. That just reinforced to Tibelor that he had to see this research through. He would have to find another way of locating Anjor, so he decided to take a different approach. He kept his face impassive and kept any tone in his voice from betraying his emotions.

“I suspected as much, Archmage. I did not expect you to fulfill my request this time either. What I really came here to ask is why are we always training as if for war?” Tibelor hoped he looked calm, because he was trying to summon sorrow. He tried to remember what it felt like in the trials.

“You have been told since you were a boy, we train in case any of the Catharts or the Munds dare to oppose us. Why are you asking me questions you know the answer to?”

“Yes, I know that, but the Catharts and the Munds offer no threat to us. They are like flies to us. How could they even hope to oppose our power?” Tibelor focused on Anjor, on the apparent loss of Anjor, and summoned all the sorrow he could muster.

“I do not have time to give you a lecture right now. You can go ask one of the history professors. I am certain they would be more than willing to engage you in a lengthy discourse on the matter of The Great Ondus Empire. I, for one, have research to do.”

While Daustine was distracted by his short rant, Tibelor was able to summon a depth of sorrow he had rarely experienced before, and when he did he was able to reach out with his thoughts and probe Daustine's mind. Anjor. Dungeon. Castle. Then it was gone like an exhaled breath. Tibelor felt empty and exhausted. He used all of his skills to hide the emotion, to keep his face calm. Hopefully Daustine was too distracted and wouldn't notice the brief intrusion in his mind. He would not suspect mental spying; Tibelor did not have a Cathart on hand to draw sorrow from, so it would seem nearly impossible. Somehow, he had done the impossible yet again.

“What are you staring at? Are you trying to intimidate me? You will not get very far with that tactic, not against an Archmage,” Tibelor realized he had briefly sunk into contemplation while pretending to listen to Daustine's rant past its termination.

“No, Archmage, I meant no disrespect. I was distracted for a moment. I realized my line of inquiry is at an end and I was just coming to terms with it.”

“There, see, was that so hard? You are young, controlling your baser emotions is not yet second nature to you, but you are learning. Now, you have a class to teach today, correct?”

“Yes, thank you Archmage. I will see myself out.”

Tibelor turned with a flourish of his cloak towards the doors and walked out with a confident stride. Tibelor dreaded teaching the apprentices the basics. They were so slow at it and prone to mistakes and useless frustration. The mental training required to focus on only one emotion, to amplify it, and to make it manifest, took years of training. These apprentices thought they knew everything because they could spark some kindling into flame, so he usually had to demonstrate a large fireball decimating an entire column of practice dummies to drive home how little they knew. Then would spend most of the class asking him to show them how to do it, and the only honest answer was never good enough for them. Practice, training, control. They wanted shortcuts, but there were no shortcuts. Only the occasional Ondus apprentice would gain enough mastery over their emotions to ascend to the ranks of Ondus mage and take the trials, as he had done just one month ago. Then again, he had always shown more aptitude than the majority of the apprentices they sent his way. Most of the aspiring apprentices would be turned away at the end of the Summer and many of them would return to being laborers or merchants and forget about emotional control and casting.

Later that evening Tibelor watched the group of apprentices leave his training ground. He knew most of them would not be back for classes next year. They did not have the emotional control, the mental fortitude, or the true desire to become mages. They would serve their purpose making tools, weapons, trading, and mining for precious metals. They would never know the true power they might otherwise possess. They had their place in the Empire, and Tibelor had his, but he had the ability to become so much more while most of them did not. They were not much better than the Catharts when it came down to it, but just because of their noble Ondus bloodline their station in life was somewhat higher than the Catharts.

The moon rose over the towers as Tibelor returned to his chambers. He was a little tired, but he had managed to reserve most of his strength today. He held back on his demonstrations so he would have the energy for what came next. He put his hooded cloak on, gathered some of his books and his journal, and a few other supplies he would need on his travels. He was not planning on coming back until he could unlock the mystery of the bond between him and Anjor. He did not take much; he could not make it obvious to anyone looking in his room that he intended to be gone for an extended time.

“I am just a single mage in a mighty empire. I live to serve. I am insignificant.” He repeated the mantra over and over, trying to convince himself of the lie. It was hard, considering his ego and true feelings, but after a short time the mantra worked and he started to feel insignificant. He took hold of the feeling and cloaked himself with a spell of invisibility. He went to the mirror and saw right through where he should have been. Not even a shimmer this time. He was getting good at this, but then an image of him began to shimmer in the mirror. Control yourself, focus on insignificance. The shimmering was gone and he fixed his mantra firmly in his mind. He crept to the door and slowly peeked out.

The hallway was empty, occasionally lit by a hovering globe of light. He quickly slipped out and slid the door closed. He walked as quietly as he could to the stairs and padded down to the base of the tower. He heard a noise from the outside door, so he flattened himself to the inner wall. Two Ondus mages stepped into the tower, talking amongst themselves. They were his fellow professors, Galadar and Relucor.

“Did you see the look on their stupid faces. They still have no comprehension of true power”

“Obviously, they are not much better than Catharts if you ask me. The council should put better screening policies in place. It is a waste of our time to train such untalented wretches.”

They continued up the stairs, and Tibelor slipped out the door while they were distracted. He could not help notice how similar their conversation was to his own thoughts earlier in the day. He did not have time to think about that now; he had to focus on his spell. His eyelids were getting heavy; he was already starting to feel the effects of casting exhaustion, but he had to push onwards. He walked quickly to the Suppremage's castle and he glanced up at the tower that seemed to scrape at the stars. The tower was black in the day, but now it was a void made of pure darkness. There were no guards; the Suppremage and the council were so self-assured and rarely slept, so they did not feel the need for increased security. Two mages were dragging two new Catharts into the castle, so he trailed after them and slipped into the gates with them.

A few Councilmages were wandering around in the main entry hall, some stopping to briefly chat. One of them glanced over at the door as Tibelor and his unsuspecting entourage entered, but quickly returned to his conversation. No one would suspect him, since invisibility was difficult for most Ondus mages to accomplish, but it was one of his talents he kept well hidden. He had to stop praising himself, or his spell would be ruined. Remember: insignificant, weak, pathetic. It started to strain his concentration and he struggled to keep his eyes fully open. He slunk as quickly and quietly as he could to the dungeons.

The dungeon was sparse, dank, and smelled of mold. There were no guards here either. There was little hope of a Cathart escaping this place, but the lack of guards helped to keep their hopes alive. He went to the end of the cells until he saw what he was looking for. Anjor! He was lying on a pile of straw, his face bloody, his left eye purple and swollen shut. They must have been interrogating him, or trying to elicit any emotions he had left so they could drain him and refresh themselves. A month seemed like a long time for a Cathart to survive here. How had he held on to hope for so long? Tibelor went to the cell door, knelt down, and tossed a small pebble over at Anjor. He barely stirred, but he was still breathing.

Tibelor was not awake enough to control two spells at once, so he dropped the invisibility and was left empty, exhausted, and panting. He focused on his desire to see Anjor and talk to him, he shaped that desire into an image and used it to twist the lock on the door. The spell only took a few seconds, but it felt like hours. The metal screeched in protest, and the door popped open. Emptiness again, panting, struggling to stand, Tibelor crept over to Anjor.

“Psst, Anjor, wake up but stay quiet.”

“Unnngghh,” Anjor turned to his side and pried open his good eye. When he spotted Tibelor, his eye sprung open in surprise, then seemed to soften to content familiarity. Tibelor gently pushed his hand against the injured man's mouth.

“Stay quiet, I am here to take you away from here.”

“Mmmmpffh” Anjor tried to speak through Tibelor's hand.

“Do not talk, not yet. I am going to take my hand away. Can you walk?”

“My leg is broken, I think. My vision's blurry. Is that really you, or is this another illusion?” Anjor's voice croaked as he tried to whisper.

“I am not an illusion, I am really here. If you can muster up some sympathy I can heal you.”

“I'll try. Tell me what you've been through while I've been here.”

Tibelor frantically thought of a lie. He had to evoke some sympathy from Anjor or they would not get very far. “They have kept me locked in my room since my trials. They barely feed me, they will not let me talk to my family and friends. They interrogate me constantly and barely let me sleep. They would not let me see you, even though I asked over and over.” That seemed to do it, Anjor was able to briefly forget his own situation, his eyes glowed light purple with sympathy for Tibelor. It was brief, but it was enough. Tibelor greedily sucked the sympathy from Anjor's eyes into his own. As Tibelor's eyes flashed purple Anjor's went grey. Tibelor held the sympathy for a moment, used a little of it to refresh his weary mind, and focused the rest of it into a healing spell.

Tibelor watched in fascination as the purple light washed over Anjor's broken body. Anjor's leg straightened out while cuts and scabs fell away to reveal new flesh. The swollen eye receded and the man's ashen skin filled with a healthy tan glow. There were still a few unhealed cuts and scrapes on his face and arms, because Tibelor knew what to expect this time and held back a bit so he would not fall unconscious, but it would be enough. Anjor examined his arms and legs, felt his healed eye, and breathed a sigh of relief. A Cathart in a nearby cell stirred, and might be waking up. They had to hurry and get out.

“Anjor, we have to get out of here, now. I have many things to talk with you about. I can not abide this place any longer.”

“Ok, I think I'm good to go, but how will we get out of here without getting caught? I've seen up there, mages are crawling around this place all the time.”

“I have a solution, but I am going to need another emotion. Can you muster something for me? I am getting too tired to cast any more spells.”

“All I have to do is think of that cursed Daustine. He beat me all the time. I tried to give him what he wanted, but it was never enough!” Anjor's voice began to raise with anger, his eyes glowed with an ember red, and Tibelor recognized the rage. Rage? That was impossible. Tibelor had drained all of Anjor's rage during the trials. He should never feel rage again. It was unmistakable, that was definitely rage in his eyes. Tibelor didn't have enough time to think about it much, so he locked eyes with Anjor and drew it in. Wisps of red light darted from Anjor's eyes to Tibelor's. He didn't bother to feel it, he just forced it into his mind to relieve his weariness, the red light in his eyes faded back to green gradually. He felt as relaxed and awake as if he had just slept an entire night. The Cathart in the next cell woke up after hearing Anjor's angry ranting, so Tibelor quickly focused on his mantra of insignificance, grabbed Anjor, and they both vanished from sight.

He watched the green-skinned Cathart search the empty cell with her blue eyes, her blonde hair falling in dirty ringlets around her face. “Hello? Is someone there? Anjor, where are you?” she searched the darkness for an answer, but Tibelor kept his hand firmly over Anjor's mouth. He pulled Anjor's arm to indicate they should stand up and they slowly went for the cell door. They slipped down the row of cells while the green-skinned Cathart kept her confused stare on Anjor's former prison. Tibelor took hold of Anjor's hand and briefly felt a strange emotion, but he quickly dismissed it as he focused on being invisible and insignificant. He pulled them up the stairs to the front entryway and they held their position by the door while they waited.

A short while later another group of mages, dragging more Catharts, came through the doors. Tibelor seized the opportunity and led Anjor by the hand through the open door right before it slammed shut again. They continued on to the outskirts of the city until Tibelor was fairly certain they weren't being followed or observed, so he dropped the invisibility. Anjor was staring at him with an unrecognizable emotion; his eyes were glowing faintly white. Tibelor did not recognize what emotion white would symbolize. He was smiling and Tibelor briefly smiled back before shaking his head to clear it. Tibelor resumed his calm, impassive facial expression and Anjor's eyes faded back to blue as his smile drooped.

“We are leaving, tonight. We are not coming back. We will be fine as long as you trust me and do exactly as I say.” Anjor just nodded.

The pair walked through the empty, clean, paved streets. Their footsteps echoed off the sheer smooth walls of nearby buildings and towers. Seven main roads led directly from the center, the Supremage's Castle, to the outer gates, so it was not difficult to get to the edge of the city. They arrived at the gates as a mage dressed in black robes with silver trim and a matching black cloak came riding through on a black stallion. It was another Ondai mage, the same rank as Tibelor himself. He did not recognize the man, he must have been from a different school. The man would not have much reason to question an equal, so Tibelor was not worried as they passed him by.

“It may not be my place to question you, brother, but why are you holding the hand of that Cathart scum?” Tibelor stopped in his tracks and looked down at his hand, surprised to see that he was still holding Anjor's. He needed a convincing lie, quickly.

“This one is having trouble following instructions, so I had to drag him for the first ten minutes. I am taking him out to teach him a lesson in obedience and I did not want his screams to awaken anyone. He just barely stopped struggling before you arrived, brother.” Tibelor searched the mage's face, trying to discern whether the lie was convincing enough and whether the last retort had thrown him off balance enough. The mage raised an eyebrow.

“You do not have to lie, your 'preferences' are of no import to me. However, you know that being with a Cathart is strictly forbidden. I will have to report this to the authorities. Go and have your fun. If its your first offense it will probably just be a warning. What did you say your name was?”

“Tibelor din...just Tibelor. Do you want come with us? There is no need to report this. I will let you do whatever you want to this Cathart, he deserves whatever he gets.” Anjor frantically searched Tibelor's face, he was starting to doubt Tibelor's true intentions. This was getting messy and Tibelor knew he would have to do something to quell the situation, and fast. In his haste and panic he was revealing too much and his impassive mask was cracking and letting his emotion show through.

“I appreciate the offer, but I am not 'interested' in males, usually. I am too road-weary to offer much in the way of 'disciplinary' action, even for a deserving Cathart. I am going to report in, then I will be going to bed. That should give you about 20 minutes to have your fun. That is fairly generous friend, do you not agree?” Though the mage's voice held no emotion, the emphasis in his words belied his intentions.

Twenty minutes was not enough. It was not nearly enough. The Council would be able to catch up to them in no time. If Daustine caught word, his punishment would be much much worse than a slap on the wrist. Tibelor could not allow anything to interfere until he had proven his point. Once he had proven mastery over this new method of casting, he would have the respect he deserved. Until then, he needed time, and privacy. This mage would have to be considered collateral damage in the greater pursuit of knowledge.

Tibelor hated this mage for getting in his way and he let the hate flow through him. He had hoped it would not come to this, but it had to be done. He kept his face as friendly as possible as he allowed the hatred to overcome him; the hatred for this man who had forced his hand, slowed his progress, and imperiled his mission. He let the hate well up and swell to deadly levels.

“Thank you, friend, have a good night.” Tibelor went towards the mage's horse as if to give it a slap on the behind, but suddenly grabbed the mage by the ankle and unleashed all of his hatred in a surge of death. Black tendrils of magic surged from Tibelor's hand through the mage's ankle and through his entire body. The mage went rigid, and immediately felt cold as stone. He fell out of the saddle, eyes transfixed on a distant point, and slumped lifelessly to the ground. As silently as a dagger slid from beneath a cloak into an unsuspecting spine, the mage hadn't heard the danger until it was far too late. He had no chance to struggle, no chance to counter or fight back. A momentary lapse in defense and judgment left this poor mage dead on the black and white flagstone. Tibelor felt a pang of regret for what he had done, then felt tired and empty, but he steeled himself for the long road ahead. He had no time for regrets and if his future plans played out this would not be the last mage he would have to kill on his soon-to-be meteoric rise to power. Tibelor looked around, but the night was on his side and no one else seemed to have noticed the incident. Tibelor tried to throw the dead mage over the back of the horse, but he collapsed when he realized just how weak and drained he was. He looked at Anjor and saw the dark brown glow of fear in his eyes. Tibelor did not have time to ask permission, so he drew in the fear and used it to wash away his exhaustion. Tibelor stood and finished slumping the dead mage over the horse.

He motioned for Anjor to follow, who moments before had been terrified, but who was now emotionless. Anjor looked like the living dead. His skin was ashen and his eyes were a dull grey that stared off without focus. Tibelor knew he had almost drained too much, and Anjor would need time to recover. They were out of time and out of resources. Tibelor got into the saddle and motioned for Anjor to follow. Anjor looked over his shoulder and coldly calculated whether staying behind with the monsters in the walls might be better than following this murderous monster outside into the night. He remembered the dungeon and Daustine's torture. Then he thought anything, including death, was better than that, so he scurried over to Tibelor.

The pair traveled until sunrise and no one noticed Tibelor's absence until mid-morning. Anjor barely picked his feet off the ground as he shuffled along behind Tibelor and the horse. Tibelor had used almost the last of his strength to ward himself and Anjor so they could not be seen or followed through magical scrying. Even though they were many hours of travel away from Beshir, if they were detected, the mages would be able to teleport directly to them. The strain of so much casting was mounting, and Anjor looked exhausted, so they found a shady copse of trees to camp in for a few hours.

“Bury that mage and give him the respect he deserves. He was, after all, an Ondai mage. His noble sacrifice will not be for naught.” Tibelor glanced at Anjor. He obeyed silently, too worn out and unfeeling to protest or care. Tibelor found a sturdy branch and used it to draw a ring of warding symbols around the campsite to keep out scrying eyes, and to keep Anjor in. After they both had time to rest they would be at full strength, and Tibelor could continue with his important research. He had risked everything to get this far and it would only be a matter of time until the Ondus tracked his magic and broke through the wards. He had to be ready to defend his decisions and only discoveries of the magnitude he believed he would find could possibly justify his actions.