The Acolyte stared listlessly out the window again. Today he was reading a book called Widdershins around the Middle Sea, by a famous traveler of two centuries before. That man had written two books. Around the Middle Sea was one of the textbooks all the Apprentices had to study, about the cities of the Empire. All the public, official stuff: number of people, main industries, famous buildings and works of art, noted citizens, local heroes. Widdershins was written in the opposite order and told about the strangeness of each city: ghost stories, famous murders, notorious courtesans, the thieves’ cant of Carancatellum, the bawdy songs of Langelon. It was a lot more fun. He read this:

  

  In the Balinon Islands the wandering players often perform farces about the early Mages and their rise to power. These performances vary from troop to troop and even night to night, since much is improvisational, but they draw on a common fund of stories. One common type depicts a group of mage characters who overawe stupid townsmen and peasants with showy magical tricks, often reinforced with scatological “wonders.” There are typically four, who are called Stormlord, Windmaster, Firekeeper, and Arseface the Farty. Much of the humor derives from their squabbling over who gets to use each title on any given day, and who has to be Arseface. . . .

  One series of plays deals with the conquest of Arkad, which they call Darkad. In these plays the people of Darkad are difficult to frighten because they are all dead, or undead, or just swathed in silent black, and it usually falls to Arseface to overawe them with some display of buffoonery.

  It was an interesting lesson in how different from the real mages had been from the way people liked to imagine them. Stormlord, Windmaster, and Firekeeper were famous characters in folklore, but no mage ever bore such a title, any more than Arseface the Farty. The mages were not heroic figures who stood on mountaintops summoning lightning from the sky, and they did not strut about trying to overawe peasants.

  As to what they were like, that was a hard question. They spent most of their time isolated on their island, of out sight of ordinary folk, and when they did come to the cities of their empire they usually said little. What they did say was rarely grandiose, but it was very often strange. They sometimes spoke in riddles; once a mage called Singsong presided over a land dispute between two cities, and after hearing a whole day or orations and rebuttals from the two sides he simply said, “Let those who truly own the land go and take it.”

  Everything else about them was as strange as their speech.

  Like their titles. They called themselves things like Wren Keeper, Goblet Thrower, Mud Sculptor, or Master Inveigler. Nobody knew what these meant, or if they meant anything at all. There was a theory that they had other titles that described real duties, but which they would not share with the outside world, but the Acolyte doubted that. Why would they need such titles when they all knew each other, all lived together in the same small city?

  Mostly they wore plain white, black, or blue robes, but at times nobody could predict they would show up decked in jewels. Once a mage called the Spiritual Pigkeeper held court in Carancatellum, the first city of their empire, wearing only a loincloth and a gold crown. If they had some specific goal in mind they could give clear step-by-step directions, and they sometimes provided builders with precise, detailed plans. They usually rendered harsh judgments on those who rebelled against them, or those who used their official positions for corrupt gain. But then again sometimes they ignored everything, even attempts to destroy them.

  Driven to remember more, the Acolyte entered the palace of his memory, the mind-castle he had built to store the things he wished never to forget. The first and grandest hall stored his knowledge of the Mage Lords. He entered, seeing its array of golden statues set with gems, each gem holding a memory. He saw himself walking to the rear of the hall, to an alcove that held a statue of a mage known as the Mushroom Farmer, based on a mural in the Arandia town hall. Near its base he found the red stone that held a paragraph he had learned from the Histories of Vermond the Ugly:

  

  It took the strength of six mages to break the walls of Arkad, for they were built with ancient magic from the days of the Servants. In the end the city fell, and everyone in it was strangled with a rope made of their own folly. Only one survived, an old woman. Her they blinded and set on a raft to float down the Southern Channel to the sea, bidding her to tell the world what was the last thing she had seen.

  Interesting. He looked around the alcove for more. He spotted a green gem that he thought held another account, and it did, an old tale from a collection of stories told by wandering entertainers in Valkarn:

  

  They say that the ancient city of Arkad was carved from a hill of obsidian, so that it was girt with tall walls of black glass. Old magic from the days of the True Kings bound those walls, and no weapon could scratch them. So three mages were sent to demand the city’s surrender. They shouted up to the walls but got no answer. Then the Stormlord began to dance. He leaped, he capered, he mimed as if he were doing great magic, and then mimed being baffled that it had no effect. He did somersaults and fell down and pretended to be hurt and went on until the people on the wall began to laugh. Once they had begun, they could not stop. They were like madmen, laughing until they fell down, until they could hardly breathe. Their laughter rose above the city. The Flamekeeper caught it and the Windmaster wove it into an enormous net. The net slowly settled over the city. It captured the souls of all the people, so when the Stormlord drew it in only empty corpses were left behind. One person alone was spared, a girl who had fallen into a deep well while she was laughing. They lifted her out and showed her the death of the city, then laid a binding on her that caused her to roam from place to place for the rest of her life, repeating the story to everyone she met.

  There was much about these stories that rang false, beginning with the names. But what struck the Acolyte as true was the inventive weirdness. To be a mage was to be different. To act differently than other men, to speak differently, to present yourself in a way that caused people to see you differently. If it did not seem strange to you, an ordinary person, then likely the mages had not done it.

  He thought on the magic the mages did in these stories. Their power was described in many ways, as fire, as storms, as ropes and nets, as capering that reduced men to uncontrollable laughter. But the stories never said how any of this was done, because no one knew. The magic of the mages was the greatest of all secrets, the most powerful, the most terrible. All could see what they did, but not how. There’s was not the only magic in the world. Even toothless, hut-dwelling old women in half-empty villages could sometimes cure people or identify thieves. The mages had found a way to multiply these little powers a thousand times, ten thousand times, until they were the unopposable lords of the world.

  His order had been founded by one of these lords. The man they called The Teacher had been one of the first mages, the ones who made this discovery. But when the others moved to Quaestor to build their city and begin building their empire, he had left them. He thought they were making an awful mistake in using their powers to conquer and rule, and he prophesied that they would come to a terrible end.

  So he had come here and set up the College. Students had come to him to learn the great secret, but he would not share it. He taught them many things about magic, useful skills like healing and alchemy and mastery of the body. He taught the art of memory and the uses of logic and syllogism to reach the truth. He taught them how to observe closely, so they noticed things that most people did not. He taught them how to master their own minds, so they were never disabled by anger or fear. He directed them in building this strange set of weirdly decorated buildings, hiding who knew what messages in the stones. He made them wise and respected. But he did not make them mages.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The Acolyte was musing on all of this when the old man began to speak. He said, “My mission,” then trailed off. The Acolyte closed the doors of his memory palace and returned to the daylit world of the infirmary.

  “What was your mission? Who gave it to you?”

  “The Textro, My master. He sent me away, to deliver the package to Inladir.”

  “What was in the package?”

  “It was not so big. I could carry it.”

  “What was in it?”

  “It was yellow, wrapped in green ribbon.”

  “What was in it?”

  “His books. His most valued possessions. He trusted me with them. He trusted me.”

  The Acolyte was stunned. The prized books of one of the great mages? Nothing could be more valuable.

  “But I failed. I never found Inladir. I failed. The Wave came, and I knew they were all dead, and I lost my mind. I told myself, these books are all that is left, you must get them to Inladir. But I failed. And all will die with me. I will be the last who knew.”

  The old man was trailing off, saying over and over, “I failed. I will be the last.”

  The Acolyte found a pen and ink in the room but he had nothing to write on but the book he was reading. So he scratched in the margin: Textro’s books. Inladir. I will be the last who knew. Then he went back into his memory palace to file those words in the hall devoted to his personal missions.

  When he had finished the Acolyte thought that the room had somehow changed. After a moment of confusion, he realized what had happened. The old man had stopped breathing. He was dead.

  And you were the last, the Acolyte thought. The last of what? Not of mages, for you were no mage. The last resident of Quaestor? The last of their servants? Or did you just mean, the last who knew some particular thing? If so, what was it?

  The Acolyte rose and went to find the Provost. He was not in his office. Asking around he was eventually told that the Provost had spent a lot of time lately in the west tower. So the Acolyte climbed the steps to the upper chamber.

  The Provost was there, sitting on a chair, staring out a window toward the mountains. Just like I was a few minutes ago, the Acolyte thought. He said, “Sir.”

  The Provost did not answer.

  He tried again. “Sir, I may have learned something very important.”

  “Important to whom?”

  “To the College. To our mission.”

  “Then speak.”

  “The old man is dead.”

  “I thought his end was close.”

  “Before he died he began to talk of his mission. He said the Textro had entrusted him with a package to deliver to someone named Inladir. Or to a place with that name, I don’t know. He said that in the package were the Textro’s prized books.”

  The Provost turned to look at the Acolyte. “You are not lying to me? No, of course not, you are not a liar, are you? And yet, what is the value of what you have said?”

  “Sir, the books of a great Mage, taken off the island. They may survive, somewhere.”

  “Most likely they do survive. If this man was not killed by the Wave, he must not have been by the sea, so we can suppose the books were also not within range of the Wave. And if they survived the Wave, very little else could have hurt them. They would be protected by powerful magic.”

  “I can track them down. All I have to do is follow that old man’s path backward toward wherever he hid them.”

  “The path of a man who lost most of his mind long ago.”

  “That might make him memorable. People will remember a crazy old man who mumbled about the Mages and his mission. He impressed the villagers who brought him here. Perhaps others will remember him.”

  “And you will track him back twenty years and more?”

  “I can try.”

  “And what if you find them? Surely as I said they are protected. Perhaps they would be right beside you, and you would not see them. Or you may find this package and not be able to open it. Or you may open it and die.”

  “Sir, are we students of their lore or not?”

  “Acolyte, I can no longer answer that question. Once I could have. Once I sent you and others on missions all around the Middle Sea and beyond. But now fear grips us. Now the committee wants to draw in all our searchers and all our ambassadors, to seal our gates against the fall of civilization.”

  “It is not that bad. Some cities are booming. I have seen them. Ships are sailing the sea, more every year.”

  “But barbarians are coming. The Recluse has seen them in his dreams.”

  “All the more reason to seek out these books. To protect them. Or use them.”

  “I very much doubt we could use them even if we found them. But I am certain you will not get permission to do so.”

  “Can we not ask? If you do not want to, I will do it myself.”

  “No, you will not. You will go to the Healer and tell him that the old man is dead. And then you will report to the Refugum to be assigned new duties.”

  Frustration and anger boiled up in the Acolyte’s mind. He fought to control them, and to steady his voice. “Sir, you once told me that what makes a good researcher is courage and determination. Has your view changed?"

  The Provost sighed. He looked uncomfortable. He looked tired. He searched for words, and eventually found some, although his face suggested they did not fully satisfy him. “No, Acolyte. That is still what makes for a good researcher. You have been an excellent one. But we have now reached a time when learning new things is less important than holding on to what we have. The Steering Committee feels that our very existence is threatened. In such times we must be unified. If we are divided against ourselves we will surely fail at whatever we undertake. Unity is the principle that has allowed us to survive for five centuries.”

  “It is true that the world is troubled. But are we simply to surrender to it? All around us people are struggling to recover. Should we not do what we can to join them? To rebuild lost knowledge as they rebuild shattered cities and crumbling roads?”

  “Go to the Refugum,” said the Provost. “Leave dreaming for another day.”

  The Acolyte bowed and left the chamber. He sought the Refugum, as he had been told. But the Refugum was not in the scriptorium or anywhere in the administration building. An Acolyte said he had gone to meet the Alchemist, but the Under Cataloger said that he had gone to inspect the stores. The Acolyte left word that the old man had died, then walked out into the courtyard.

  The College was built to face inward. It stood on a platform of stone erected atop a ridge and all its outside windows were twenty feet and more above the ground. There were only two entrances, the main gate and the small, secret portal that opened onto a trail leading into the mountains. Somewhere in that direction the Recluse was dreaming of barbarian hordes. The front gates were massive constructions of bronze, closed and barred every night. Its walls and columns were stone, its roof slate. It was a fortress. Perhaps not strong enough to stop a real army, but it was safe from brigands and rioters.

  Until today the Acolyte had never given much thought to this. The College was his home, the only one he could remember. He had been sent here as a child by parents whose names were kept from him and whose faces he could not recall. Here he had grown up with the other Apprentices, with the Masters for his teachers. He had learned so much: languages, scripts, history, religion, yes, but also gardening, brewing, baking, mending, how to fight and how to survive alone in the mountains. They had trained him to do one thing: journey forth into the world in search of knowledge. In the terrible years after the Wave, more had been lost every day: lost to the sun and rain in the ruins of shattered halls, lost to ignorant people who burned books for fuel, lost to rioting cultists who thought the Mages were ungodly and sought to rid the world of their taint. Lost to death, decay, and disorder, the hallmarks of the Fall.

  But now the world seemed to be recovering. Why would the council pull back now? Something told him that he was being lied to, that dreams of barbarians were not the reason. They were pulling inward, relying on the strength of this place. They may bar our doors, he thought, and fill our stores with grain and our cistern with water. But if the world falls, we will fall as well.

  It was Tuesday. And that meant, thought the Acolyte, that there would be a regular meeting of the Steering Committee tomorrow. He did not care what the Provost had said. He would go, and make his case. They might punish him for coming to their meeting uninvited, but they could impose no penalty worse for him than having to give up his searching and remain in the college for however long it took them to feel safe again. It would likely be years. They had halted these missions once before, when he was an Apprentice, and that had lasted five years. From what the Provost had said it sounded like this time might be much longer.