Chapter 1

Restricted behind these walls

The young student wizard Durano lazily flicked through the thousands of pages of “History of Estar-Mari – Volume V” for the fifth time that night. He would plan on concentrating again in the morning, and he knew that he had put an honest day’s effort of study in, but after reading for five hours straight three times a day for the eighth day in a row, he was understandable drained. He flicked back to chapter 24, which he had remembered to take note of on his study parchment. It read “The Throne of Icares-Strom”, with a note beneath the title that said “*Icares = Translates to “City” in common language. Adopted by all the kingdoms from the Nation of Staikam.” It went on to make a mention to refer to the “History of Staikam; the man and the nation – Volume I chapter 8.” He skipped several paragraphs related to the history of the town, how the first king Staikam had named it after his son Strom. Durano knew the information would be important, but would save that for another day. It was two pages in he found the article he was looking for. It referred to “the Throne at Icares-Strom”.

The throne at Icares-Strom was the original seat of power of the Kingdom of Staikam. Before the dividing war when all of Estar-Mari, (the divided lands) was still united as one nation known as Estar-Kasari (the Peaceful Lands, see “History of Estar-Mari, Volume II), the Kings ruled from the capital of Icares-Strom (for more information see beginning of chapter).

“Tomorrow” chuckled Durano.

The throne however is not named after the son of King Tenorus Staikam, the first king. King Tenorus, whose humble origins kept him from dignifying himself with a city in his honour, decided instead that he would name the City Icares-Strom (City of Strength) and instead named his son Strom for good will. It has become common belief that it was the other way around and King Tenorus named the city after his son in a spoiling manner...

“This isn’t what I was looking for” Durano grumbled, nagging at his brain to remember what he had seen. Then it clicked and he skipped a paragraph.

The throne itself is as tall as a man, made from the purple rock “Arcanite”, found from Mount Arcania and the very same rock that the fabled Arcanium is made of. The throne has the golden dragon crest of Staikam at its head, and two ruby gems beset on each armrest. Legend says these are the tear drops of Arkữral, the dragon who rescued young Tenorus Staikam and showed him to Estar-Mari, south of the war-torn foreign lands. These dragon tear rubies hold the dragons promise to King Tenorus, “that the land will be ever safe and prosperous as long as his blood line was king”, promised to the young boy after he had done the dragon a mighty honour. Many have criticized the legitimacy of this “promise” claiming it is nothing more than an insurance that the Staikam blood line continued to rule the kingdom. However, the legend says, the promise of the dragon will last for all eternity so long as the blood-line of Staikam continues. The day that blood-line breaks, so too will the great throne and the magic it holds. Legends say that if the promise is lifted, the land will suffer as the foreign nations do, plague by war, famine and disease. Many also claim that since the throne has long sat empty and no heir to the throne found, that the promise must already have been broken and that Estar-Mari will soon be plagued by destruction, giving rise to countless doomsday cults. However others remain hopeful on the legend, saying that the throne has never split, and that somewhere there must still be remnants of the royal bloodline, hiding away and protecting Estar-Mari from the curse.

Durano closed the book and sat back in his comfortably padded arm chair. The fire beside him burned cosily and the light outside and faded to dusk. Soon the upper-mage of knowledge would come and dismiss him away from studies and to bed. A pint of warm lager sat on a cork drink-mat, next to a small platter of assorted fruits, mostly rotting cores and leftover pips from a day of snacking. Durano laid his legs up on the table in front of him and put his hands behind his head. For some unknown reason he had continually been drawn to passages concerning the king and the history of the royal blood line. He had a strange feeling that the history of the city was not what he had to learn, though that would be what his final exam would be about. He knew it was not going to help his final exam score, but Durano just knew that it was important to know about Tenorus Staikam and the royal blood line of the family Staikam.

The loud slam of a door somewhere in the Arcanium awoke Durano from his thoughts. He rubbed his eyes and shut the book, leaving his papers and books where they were. He got up and quietly went to leave the library, passing the old librarian, Senior Mage Catherine. Though she was bent-over and going deaf, Durano knew that she sensed he was there and sure enough just as he left he caught sight of her turn and nod a silent goodnight to him. He waved back and left with a smile at the old lady. She was the only woman to ever be honoured as an upper mage. In fact she was so wise and powerful that she was also one of the youngest Arcane-born to be promoted to an upper-mage. Grand Mage Althazaron earned that rank at the age of 42, where as Senior Mage Christine had been 47.

Durano ran up a flight of stairs that lead to the ground floor and out the large wooden doors that lead to the grounds. It was past midnight for sure and the large, pearl white full moon sat behind a thinning whiff of clouds. The stars could be seen brightly tonight and the dark blue sky shone majestically. Durano breathed the cold but refreshing night breeze and sighed in peace. Often the more energetic wizards would be up past midnight and the grounds were the place they roamed. Under careful watch of the Arcanium defenders, the younger Arcane-born would practise and preach, taunt and brag and generally have fun for a few hours. The sorceress’s would travel in packs getting laughs from making their male peers awkwardly excited, whilst the death mages would creep up and scare others with drafts of deathly cold air and spooky apparitions. A large tent was erected at night where the finest mead from Bregal, a country of Estar-Mari, was served along with interesting and tasty sweets from the far off coastal kingdom of Arial.

A little further past the grounds, closer to the eastern main wall, was the shroom gardens. It was a large square garden with a winding path that ran through the tree-sized mushrooms and toadstools that grew in various glowing colours. The Monks grew them annually during the season of spring, mostly for herbal use and cultivation practise. It was also an excellent place to relax and often it had been the place where Durano and his best friend Dathras had gone when they were angry, which had been increasingly more common during the last 12 months.

•

Dathras and Durano had started out at the Arcanium at the same age and had grown up as close friends. The two had a lot in common, both headed towards becoming priests of the light and deep passion for the history of the world. They were also two of the most powerful and gifted wizards the Arcanium had ever seen. At just 13 Dathras had defeated a senior Warlock and Durano outsmarted an Upper Mage of the Light at a game of chess. Both of the boys were also excellent fighters, a rare gift with many of the arcane-born, and trained for some time with the guards. There seemed to be nothing that would stand in their way and it seemed they were headed towards greatness. Finally the 16 years of their education was over and the time for the final exams had come. Yet 6 months passed and still the upper mages had not evoked the testing upon them. Each passing day the two got more impatient and angry, but the Upper Mages remained steadfast in their decision that the time was not yet right. Dathras got increasingly angry and would often just skip lessons or leave in the middle of a class to go to the Shroom gardens and vent.

“What is their problem, we have done all that is required and more. We are not children and furthermore we are more powerful than any student the Arcanium has seen in years. Why do they continue to hold us down?” He would yell, sending off a ball of flames at the ground before collapsing in anger beneath a large blue shroom.

“I know Dathras, but angering the Upper Mages any further is not helping us. I do not know what their problem is, or why the Grand Mage himself has not allowed us to do the testing. I know we are ready but we have no choice but to wait.” Durano would say casually.

“Wait for what Durano... 17? We could be priests by then, yet the way things are going I doubt if we will even have started the training!”

“You know what it is Durano... their scared. Scared that we are so powerful and advanced already that if they allow us to complete the training and begin to learn the ways of the arcanes for ourselves that we will out-do them. That we would be too strong for them to control”

“Control? My friend you speak as if we are chained to the wall and dictated upon...”

“Aren’t we Durano? We are trapped here, as apprentices, behind the walls of the Arcanium. Trapped from the outside world, trapped from learning all about the world, trapped from our full potential.”

“What potential are you on about? Your starting to sound power hungry Dathras. We live to serve; that IS our life. We are all equal, no matter how more powerful we are. They will allow us to do the training soon, they have no choice. Soon we will be allowed the leave of adolescence and come back as priests. Free to learn and teach as we please.”

“Yet still restricted behind these walls...”

•

Durano lay between two large shroom’s, with the light of the moon shining cutting through a gentle whiff of cloud and throwing an eerie glow across the now quiet gardens. It had been 6 months since Durano had seen Dathras alive...

The two had finally been granted to be put through the examinations. First of all was it was a test on the history of Estar-Mari, which was easy enough for them to handle. Then they duelled the trainer of the light, a powerful priest who battled the apprentices to display their strengths and weaknesses. Following that they were counselled by High Priest of the Light Carlermaye. After several meetings they had shown the High Priest that they were dedicated and would learn the ways of the arcanes and the light and would serve the Arcanium and the Ancients until death. After they had sworn this they began preparation for the leave of adolescence. This was what many of the apprentices looked forward to the most.

An arcane-born has a life of sacrifice to the Estar-Mari and lives to serve and protect it. Yet they are brought to the Arcanium as infants and do not leave its grounds, knowing little of normal life in the outside world. So the final task and lesson the apprentices must undertake is the most challenging of them all. They are cast out towards Estar-Mari for 2 years, and are not allowed to return until that time is up. They are allowed to do whatever they wish in this space of time, so long as they survive. ‘Wizards’ are not popular among most of Estar-Mari’s society, many of whom believe they are evil and kill mortal men for pleasure. It is for this reason that the Arcanium is so well hidden. So the apprentices are released with only one rule; Stay unknown. Do not tell people that you are a Wizard, because during the leave of adolescence you are on your own, there’s no Upper Mage to protect you if an angry mob wants to burn you at a stake or throw you off a cliff.

Mostly apprentices will settle in somewhere and learn to blend in, learn the ways of basic society and self-survival. Sometimes they become the town’s scribe or alchemist, providing remedies from plants and herbs scattered around the world. Sometimes apprentices have made themselves known to leaders of nations, who understand and know about the Arcanium and the Arcane-born, and have become royal heralds or Lore keepers, even librarians. Sometimes they disappear into the wilderness to excavate and explore the ancient ruins high up in the Locara Ranges, the main span of mountains that cuts down the centre of Estar-Mari. Here there were ruined societies of ancient tribes, people rumoured to have lived on the land before Staikam had even set foot on it. No matter what they did they enjoyed these 2 years where they were safely out of the eye of the Upper Mages, often acting out and trying things they had been curious about for years, like heavy drinking and companionship with the opposite sex. However when there 2 years were up, they were to return to the Arcanium and a large celebration would be held as that class of apprentices graduated and became wizards in their chosen field.

Durano returned from the far off eastern lands of Arial after two years of working as a town guard. However when he arrived he found that Dathras had not. For a further 2 weeks the celebrations were delayed to wait for him, but he did not come and so Durano was made a priest of the light. After another month of waiting the Upper Mages apologised to Durano and explained that by now he would have returned and that he had most likely been a victim of foul play. A small memorial was held in his name and he was added to a large stone plaque on a tall memorial stone in the grave yard. Durano did very little for the next two weeks, often breezing into the library to find a large book and sit away in a corner, never reading a single word. For the first few days his gut had churned and he had felt sick, as if he too was beginning to accept he would not come home and that he was gone.

Finally after 17 days he cracked and stayed in his room, between a state of depression and sorrow, for three days on end. The nurses were worried for him but he insisted he was fine, eating and drinking whenever they claimed to be worried about his health. After three days he came out and visited the memorial again with a smile on his face. He wasn’t sure why but he did not believe that the resourceful and powerful ‘Dathras’; the same Dathras that had stolen food from under the noses of mages, had defeated a senior Warlock and had on three occasions outsmarted the guards of the Arcanium and made outside and back inside the Arcanium grounds, was dead. No-one would have taken him down without making the Arcanium knowing about it. So Durano went back to work, confident his friend was alive, but more anxious to know for sure each passing day.

•

Durano lay there with his back against the shroom, staring up at the moon. He had never known anyone like Dathras. He had been a brother and a friend, a rival and a mentor. He often knew what Dathras was thinking or feeling and sometimes when Dathras was in trouble. The person Dathras had become before he left, it had confused and hurt Durano. He continually felt like he was being held back, conformed to a life he had not asked for. But this thought had begun to form deep within Durano’s mind increasingly since Dathras disappeared. Perhaps he was right; perhaps we were dedicating our lives away to a legend of ancient beings and deep evils. Perhaps we were meant to be more, meant to lead, or explore, or conquer. Maybe we weren’t meant to be anything at all, but rather were simply just meant to survive. The question nagged deep at the back of Durano’s mind. ‘There had to be something more to my life, but what is it?’ History fascinated him yet he desired to live it. He studied the royal blood line yet he felt a pull to it stronger then knowledge. There had to be some reason, greater then archiving history, as to why he was here.

He got up and walked briskly though the cold air and out of the shroom gardens towards the grave yard. He passed the wrought iron gate and entered into the murky graveyard, where tall and well decorated graves lay, often the title “Mage” or “Upper Mage” etched before each name.

‘Is this it; am I to die in this fortress like all these Wizards before me, all for some history books?’ The thoughts returned to him as he made his way further into the graveyard.

Finally he reached the tall memorial he had sought out. It, unlike many of the grave and tombstones littering the yard, was unadorned and simple; Cold rock, not purple like the mountain but black as the night with waves of white stone cutting through it here and there. The plaques themselves were simple iron squares with a modest border surrounding the names of Wizards whose lives had ended to early. Many of their bodies, like Dathras, had never been found. Sometimes Durano wondered if these Wizards had simple chosen not to come back at all. Maybe they too began to think like Dathras had, like Durano had begun too, and had chosen to simply not return, to settle down and live normal lives or maybe go onto do something great. Durano found the name he had been looking for and ran a hand over the etching ‘Dathras O’miel; Never found’. Durano smiled feebly and hope was assured within him again. He knew his friend was alive, somehow he just knew it. He was alive, and Durano was going to find him.