Therelin, Kren, and Lord Dakhu spent many, long, eye-straining hours in the Archives of Noress-That-Was. Sometimes, it felt as though the world was speeding up—while Therelin’s days had only slowed down. Dakhu reported their endeavors to Matriarch Valakono, and recounted her approval to Therelin—and so the work continued, treading ever-closer to its elusive destination.
On the Matriarch’s authority, Therelin and Kren were given quarters and meals in the Castle of Matriach Haladia—an unimaginable leap up from their accommodations at the Lowtide Tavern. Therelin was quite certain he had never slept in a bed so comfortable, nor found a wardrobe so full of fine clothes. As the Noressi custom dictated, he was to wear a shirt to be considered fully dressed here, so he shrugged and enjoyed the luxury they offered him.
Both ceased their labours outside of the Archive—Kren, his baking; Therelin, his herblore—and committed all their time to finding Tarro’s name within the thousand-fold codices of the Old Empire of Noress. When a fleet set sail from Noress-That-Was at the order of the Matriarch—ready to join a similar fleet from Saanazar for a pre-emptive strike against the pirate armada—Therelin and Kren took it as only further evidence that their mission was of paramount importance.
One morning, as they arrived in the library, Dakhu told them that his spell chime had reactivated sometime during the evening prior. Therelin did some quick math—as the days of his work with Dakhu had blurred together—but he quickly concluded that the party Master Gheran had referenced—the one that would brave the Isle of Dusk to find out the attack’s aftermath—could not have possibly arrived there yet. This meant one of several options: either someone had survived the attack, someone had already managed to make a return Journey, or Tarro himself had activated the spell chime as a trap or as bait for likeminded magicians.
Therelin’s recollections of the last couple of weeks were interrupted abruptly when Kren exclaimed, “I’ve got it!”
The trio of researchers had been seated once again at the broad, round table, amid piles of reference material, historical chronicles, and census registries. Dakhu and Therelin looked up to find Kren rising from his chair with excitement—his finger poised midway through a dusty tome with yellowed pages.
Kren, who was rereading whatever it was he had found, looked up at them again and said, “It’s half folktale, I think, but listen: ‘Not long after the famine, Bal’nored the Mighty—called friend of the gods by the Asha of Tal’lashar, the Century Strider by the old accounts in Radregar, or the Spirit of the World by the ancient traditions of Numa’nakres—came to Bellasa and played the riddle game against the wise men of the city. During dinner, a young boy stole a trinket from his pack and was soon apprehended.’”
After a pause to quench his thirst, Kren continued his tale. “‘Bal’nored posed the thief another puzzler as a chance to redeem himself, but the wise man laughed when he asked it—it was the question with which Bal’nored had stumped all those he had asked, in all those lands he had travelled. The boy, however, came forward boldly and whispered his answer in the great sorcerer’s ear. Bal’nored laughed and clapped, and he took the youngster along with him to become he second apprentice, after Master Calath. Bal’nored gave the boy a new name—Tarro—and began to teach him all that he knew, for better or for worse.’ Tarro—I found it!” he exclaimed, setting the book down with a thump.
Therelin and Lord Dakhu stared in stunned silence.
“I know, I know,” Kren muttered, “It’s likely fiction. But in the very least, it places his name. Oh, the famine—the book says this happened not long after the Great Isle famine of 1379.”
“That’s like a hundred years ago,” Therelin pointed out. “So maybe that other account of the magician near New Mallam is true….” They had been looking far too recently. “Do we know these other names?”
“It’s not good,” Lord Dakhu said, his eyebrows still lifted high. “Gods—Bal’nored?”
“Was he even real?” Kren asked, caught off-guard by Dakhu’s reaction. Therelin didn’t know the name, but Kren had: “I’ve only heard children’s tales about him.”
Dakhu, however, nodded. “He was real, but discerning fact from fiction is a whole other story.” Dakhu stood up and marched over to one of the nearby “common-use” shelves. He retrieved an enormous tome and put it down on their table with a heavy thump, showing them both the title: “The Many Tales of Bal’nored.”
Kren and Therelin glanced at each other, then back at Lord Dakhu, waiting for the tall man to explain.
“Bal’nored was elusive enough and powerful enough that there are virtually no surviving first-hand accounts of his actual presence in history. But there are stories in nearly every land from Kedar to Numa’nakres, Tal’lashar to the southern seas…they all agree on the existence of a magician named Bal’nored—who lived some five or six hundred years! Not one surviving magician has any clue how, unless we are to believe in the Eternal Emperor of Numa’nakres—who’s an alleged two hundred and seventy years old.” Dakhu began to pace back and forth along his side of their laden table. “I’ve read theories that Bal’nored was the name of an alliance of magicians—that no single member lived more than a generation. But there is no evidence to support that either.”
Therelin leaned back in his chair. “What if the Eternal Emperor is the second apprentice?”
“Well, his name is not Calath,” Lord Dakhu pointed out. Then he smirked. “But with the entire field of ‘Bal’nored studies,’ who can say for certain?”
“What happened to Bal’nored? I think I would have heard more about him if he still lived,” Kren pointed out.
Dakhu sank into his chair again, finally, and pushed the hefty collection of tales farther away. “Some allege he died within the last century—others that he has teleported a world away. Yet others believe he still walks these lands, like a wandering, enigmatic god.”
“What if Tarro killed him? And Calath?” Therelin asked. “If he secretly was their rival—to protect himself?”
The two looked at him ponderously. After a moment’s thought, Dakhu voiced his consideration: “If Kren’s story is to be believed, Tarro was a boy one hundred years ago…. So, when he was twenty or thirty years into his study, he killed a magician with five centuries of experience? It seems unlikely…but so does this entire account.”
“Just how deadly is Tarro?” Kren asked quietly.
They contemplated the chilling question for a moment. Kren returned to his book to reread the tale of the puzzle game. Therelin realized just how selectively vague the account was, as was the majority of folktale. It recounted details like Master Calath’s name, but gave no mention of any of the riddles.
“What now?” Therelin asked, when Kren leaned back in his chair once more. “Maybe we can find more if we look into these names and events—and we know that accounts a hundred years old should be considered as well.”
Dakhu nodded. “We’ve returned from narrowing our results to considering a vast quantity of material—and much of it likely fictitious. Perhaps we each take a topic: Bal’nored, Calath, and one of us ought to continue focusing on mentions of Tarro himself—but ranging further back?”
“Sounds like a proper plan to me,” Therelin said.
“I’ll keep looking for Tarro’s name and accounts of him in the last hundred years. I’ve got a victory in that department under my belt now,” Kren added with a wink.
“And yourself?” Dakhu asked.
Therelin looked at Kren’s historical book once more. “I’ll try to find out more about Master Calath,” he said. “Who was he and what happened to him?”
The lord-magician gave him a nod of agreement and they all returned to the bookshelves to look for their next few hours of work. When they returned to the table—each with a hefty armload of books—Therelin glanced at the bearded lord once more. “Is this something we should get to the Matriarch urgently?”
Dakhu shrugged. “I’ll send a servant to ensure she has time for me this evening. We’ll discuss what to do with the information as we continue.” He rang the small bell that rested on the table near him, and a servant came in to carry his message.
A small smile played across Therelin’s lips. The magicians of Gethra live many lives, he thought, considering his comfortable life on Keth, his brief studies on a secret island, his near poverty after the attack, and the extravagance that surrounded him now. The smile faded as he wondered what it was building toward—what result would this quest for answers ultimately bring about?