You say your goodbyes to the Circle. You have borrowed a dun mare from the Moat House. You make your way, guided by Lathrop, whose name you have learned is actually some unpronounceable series of guttural noises and clicks. Lathrop, as you have come to better know him, is both surprisingly gentle and funny. You and he struggle to communicate, but have found yourselves laughing until the tears come at your inability to do so at times. He produces a sachet of dried flower as you arrive, as promised at a trail leading west to the Tradeway which, ultimately, will lead you home. The flower is, he says, known as a medicament even amongst “your people.” “You exchange, you get good back!” He smiles in that wide-mouthed way.
You make your way to Anthracite, down by the coast here, then along the inland Tradeway almost to the Girdle, that great stretch of mountainous terrain that spans Darkmoor, east to west. You take the road eastward again, and there, perched at the foot of the mountains and the gateway to the Sea, is the looming ruin of Anthracite. Dark and imposing and frightening in the waning light.
You produce the appropriate magical sign that allows you through the gates. You feel the eyes of the people of Anthracite on you as the horse carries you toward your modest home. Your room-mate, Bramble, is surprised to see you and quickly moves his possessions back into his half of this ramshackle dwelling. He peppers you with questions. You answer mostly in monosyllables. Your head hits your pillow and you sleep for a long time.
You are roused after noon by Thaira Dewen, your former mistress of Rhetoric and Illusion. “Dixit,” she says, “your attendance is required with the Faculty.” You take the mug of warm tea from her, gratefully. “When?”
“An hour ago,” she replies with a firm look, but a twinkle in her eye. She promises to hold back the tide of growing ire at your tardiness as best she can, but entreaties you to hurry. “And perhaps bathe,” she suggests with a wrinkle of her nose.
The Faculty has gathered, not at the New Schoolhouse, as you expected, but in the lobby/great room of Anthracite itself. Magical light does not function in this space. It’s dimness is held back, barely, by guttering torches. The Learned are gathered around a table that has been assembled, bit by bit, from its recovered remnants. It gleams with an oily perfection, though the patchwork nature of its reconstruction is obvious. It is rather like the face of a beautiful woman, criss-crossed with the scars of brutal punishments.
Imber Corrin speaks first, attempting a conciliatory tone. He explains that a complete accounting of your recent activities in Elder Pool and at the Moat House is required. He bemoans the fact that all that they know of your whereabouts are the farcical musings of that fool Buck Headstrong and some supernatural squirrel named Fluffy.
You sketch out what you have been involved with, withholding details you feel they are better not knowing, which exercise means that you say very little.
Tamsin Wyrmhollow behind those concealing lenses grows angry and declares that you are keeping for yourself information vital to the School. “You are there to represent us, Dixit. Never forget where your loyalties lie.” You see an exchange of expressions between the Faculty at this. You realize that your loyalties have been, in your absence, brought into question.
“Well, just look at yourself,” Thaira says, attempting a kindness but there is an unmistakeable rebuke in her posture, “you do not dress like a sorcerer. You should have advanced more than you have, in the Art. You waste your time and your promise with this skulking and stealing-about business.”
Brother Elandros speaks up for the first time, raising his ancient head, a hint of white hair clinging to his skull like passing clouds.
“You turn your back on Anthracite,” he wheezes.
You sputter, but do not find the words to respond.
You find, to your amazement, that a vote is conducted, in your presence, whether word should be sent to Lord Grey, revoking your special status as representative of Anthracite to his Highness. The vote is unanimous. You may, if you choose to remain, return to your previous work as a junior scribe. Otherwise, you are free to make your way, as a burglar or whatever path you have now chosen for yourself.
Returning to your rooms, Bramble is waiting. “I know you were tired last night, Dixit,” he says. “But tell me all about it!” He is smiling, clearly oblivious as to what has, in a whirlwind of perhaps thirty minutes, just occurred.
You turn your back on Anthracite,” he wheezes.
You sense that you have arrived at a critical junction, if you are to continue to enjoy the support of Anthracite and to advance in your magical career. And perhaps, even, to have the support of Arthur Grey, though you suspect he cares less about the specifics of your professional advancement.
You speak up for yourself. You remind the Learned of the lost books of the ancient Sorcerer which you have reclaimed and provided to Anthracite. “These are not mere philologies or taxonomies, these are important artifacts hand-made, I’m certain, by the great Sorcerer.” You see how your words strike Gregor Hast and you realize that in belittling his pursuits you may have created an enemy. When Hast attempts to angrily cut you off, to your surprise, it is the feeble voice of Elandros who stops him and gestures for you to continue.
What do you say?