Necromancer Falling: Book Two of The Mukhtaar Chronicles (9 page)

“It’s not that,” Nicolas said, placing a hand on Tithian’s soldier. “Trust me. You’re the bee’s knees of Prime Warlocks.”

“I’m…not sure how I feel about that.”

“It’s a good thing. Means you’re a decent dude and I have a great deal of respect for you.”

“Well…thank you, Archmage.”

“I’m worried about him, that’s all. He was a man with a single purpose for forty years, and now that’s just…gone.”

“Ahh, I see,” Tithian said. “I’ve known Lord Mujahid for many years, and believe me when I tell you he’s a man who finds purpose where most of us wouldn’t recognize it. He’ll never tell you this, but he has a heart the size of the Pinnacle. And it’s that heart that keeps him away from your installation ceremony.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Consider this. He’s a
Mukhtaar Lord
. As much as I
know
he wants to attend, if he enters those chambers, all eyes will be on him from beginning to end. He wants this to be
your
day. And, in some ways, mine as well.”

“See?” Nicolas said. “Like I said. The bee’s knees of Prime Warlocks. I feel better already. But can we get this show on the road?”

“There are times I feel as if I need a translator,” Tithian said.

Nicolas stared into the chamber, nerves threatening to get the better of him again.

“You’re going to do fine,” Tithian said. “I’ll precede you and make my way up the dais. When I announce you, you enter the chamber, climb the dais, and stand beside me. You’re not
officially
the archmage yet, so I’ll seal the chamber without your permission and begin the ceremony myself. And that will be the
last
time in our relationship that happens. Ready?”

Nicolas nodded. “But just so you know, I’m not wearing that funny hat outside of that room.”

Tithian smirked and entered the Council chamber.

A voice yelled “Tithian Bel-Enrog, once and future Prime Warlock.”

The hundred or more magi in attendance stood in unison and the room grew quiet.

Tithian faced them when he reached the top of the dais.

“Magi of the Council,” Tithian said. “I present to you Nicolas Murray, formerly Ardirian, heir apparent to the Obsidian Throne.”

This was it. Nicolas entered the chamber and kept his eyes on Tithian. The place smelled sweet from the incense, like a mixture of frankincense and sandalwood.

A loud thud told him the Pinnacle Guard had closed the heavy stone doors behind him.

For the love of god, don’t let me trip over these robes.

The climb up the dais set his nerves on edge with every step. The higher he climbed, the sharper the stares of the Council’s eyes on his back became.

“Magi of the Council,” Tithian said. “We have come here today to perform a ceremony according to Arin’s law. Let the chamber be sealed!”

“May it be as you command,” the Council responded in unison. Nicolas hadn’t been expecting that, and he jumped at the chorus of voices.

A wave of necropotency emanated from Tithian, giving Nicolas mental goose bumps, as if someone had tickled his mind. The giant stone doors sealing the chamber took on a yellow glow that grew in intensity then vanished, leaving a yellow echo in Nicolas’s vision.

With the amount of power Tithian had used, Nicolas was pretty sure it would take an army to bust down those doors.

“The chamber is sealed,” Tithian said. “Nicolas Murray, before you lie two symbols of the office you seek. The chain, by which you bind us to Arin’s holy words. And the
qiyaaht
, by which you protect and safeguard our knowledge of the faith.”

Key-yacht sure is a funny word for zucchetto.

“These are symbols that cannot be given,” Tithian said. “You must take them upon yourself, free of compulsion, free of doubt. And so we ask you, Nicolas Murray, heir apparent, to spend the next few moments in prayer with us before you take them up.”

Everyone kneeled and Nicolas followed along. It was odd, being asked to pray to Arin. And it was another offense that would make him worthy of a catechism uppercut from one of the nuns back home.

Nicolas
, a voice said in his mind.

Nicolas held his breath. He remembered that voice. It was Arin.

You embark on this journey during perilous times
, Arin said.
I warned you of this the last time we spoke.

But what should I do?
I don’t know how to be an archmage! I don’t know how to fight a war!

Be the person we chose
, Arin said.
Take your rightful place in the world, the place few think possible, and the fog will lift.

And with that, Arin’s presence vanished from Nicolas’s mind.

But something had remained behind.

A sharp burning sensation struck his mind, and he turned inward. Fiery text emblazoned itself inside his well of power, beneath the symbols of the skull and the arrow—the keys to unlocking his necromantic power. When the fire dimmed, and the letters turned black, he recognized the text. It was the last thing Arin had told him.
Take your rightful place in the world, the place few think possible, and the fog will lift
.

Nicolas didn’t understand what had happened, but as the black letters faded away, he knew one thing with certainty; he couldn’t forget those words if he tried. Just thinking about them made them reappear.

“Rise,” Tithian said. When he looked at Nicolas he raised an eyebrow.

Nicolas kept his eyes forward. He had no idea how to tell Tithian what had happened.

Tithian continued. “If you accept the responsibility placed on you by Arin, if you choose to be the one who binds us to his holy will, then take up your chain of office.”

Nicolas studied it for the first time. It wasn’t elaborate or jeweled like he had expected. It was a gold chain, with large links, terminating in a medallion that had a bas-relief of Arin’s Helm carved into it.

Funny hat and a big ass medallion. Great. Now I’m gonna look like Flavor Flav in choir robes.

There was no turning back now. He picked up the chain and placed it around his neck. When he released the chain, the Helm of Arin glowed yellow for a moment, then faded.

And from the expression on Tithian’s face, that wasn’t expected.

Several Religarian magi dropped to their knees, and others prostrated themselves wherever they could find room.

“Brothers and sisters,” Tithian said. From the tone of his voice, and the way he stumbled over the words, it was clear he had gone off script. “Arin’s holy presence has blessed us this day. Please. Rise. The ceremony is not over.”

The magi hesitated, but one by one they stood. Their facial expressions were different. No longer were they struggling to get through a tedious ceremony. Now it was clear they were witnessing something mystical, and their demeanor had changed accordingly.

Tithian faced Nicolas. “If you accept the responsibility placed on you by Arin, if you choose to be the protector of our ancient faith, then take up the qiyaaht and place it on your head.”

The qiyaaht was black, broader than a zucchetto, and it didn’t have a stem on the top. It also extended farther down around the head.

Nicolas placed the qiyaaht on his head and let go, expecting it to glow, or hum, or do something else that no good hat should do. But nothing happened.

Tithian nodded toward the throne and Nicolas sat.

“Magi of the Council,” Tithian said. “Let it be known throughout the Three Kingdoms that Nicolas Murray, formerly Ardirian, first of the Murray dynasty, has taken upon himself the symbols of office and now sits on the Obsidian Throne as our archmage.”

The Council chamber erupted in applause, and the sudden outburst startled Nicolas enough to make him smile. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he waved at everyone.

As the applause settled down, Tithian continued.

“Magi of the Council, let it be known…what is…”

“Tithian?” Nicolas asked.

“My seal,” Tithian said. “It’s been…
banished
.”

“I don’t care who’s wearing what, push that door open!” Mujahid yelled.

Nicolas stood as the giant chamber doors swung open.

Mujahid entered, and all eyes turned to him. His face was different. Nicolas had never seen him this concerned.

“Archmage,” Mujahid said. “You must come quickly.”

“What is it?” Nicolas asked.

“It’s the Lady Kaitlyn. Something’s happened.”

Nicolas ran down from the dais and followed Mujahid through the doors.

CHAPTER FIVE

¹
The Power reached into his being and pulled the gods from within.
²
The first he named Arin, for Arin was his exalted firstborn.
³
The second he named Shealynd, for Shealynd emerged from his Love.
⁴
The last he named Zubuxo, for Zubuxo was last in all things.

- The Mukhtaar Chronicles, attributed to the prophet Habakku

Origines Multiversi, Emergentiae 4:1-4

It should remain ever at the forefront of the student’s mind that the Origines was not written by the gods.

- Coteon of the Steppes, “Coteonic Commentaries on the Origines Multiversi” (circa 520 RL)

Nicolas was frantic. He had no idea where to go, so he followed Mujahid and Tithian as they ran through twisting passages to one of the many infirmaries in the vast palace-city.

The layers of ceremonial clothes did nothing to ease his chill.

“What do we know?” Nicolas asked. “What happened?”

“She was found unconscious by a Pinnacle guardswoman and taken to safety,” Mujahid said. “I was on my way to find her at the time.”

“This is my fault,” Nicolas said. “I should have never left her alone!”

“We don’t know anything yet,” Mujahid said.

“She’s probably exhausted from the journey,” Tithian said.

“You weren’t exactly the model of stability when you first arrived,” Mujahid said. “I seem to recall you complaining about headaches…between rounds of vomiting all over yourself.”

“Can you help her?” Nicolas asked.

Mujahid glanced at him. His eyes held a seriousness Nicolas hadn’t seen since they were captured by the Shandarian Rangers.

“You know I’ll do what I can,” Mujahid said. “But we don’t know anything yet.”

“Turn left here,” Tithian said.

Nicolas had gotten ahead of them and had to backtrack to make the turn. Passersby acted as if they didn’t know whether to bow, kneel, or salute.

It was strange, moving around the Pinnacle like this. The last time he was here he had to disguise himself as an Arinian priest and sneak around.

“It’s fine, everyone,” Tithian said to the crowd.

“You have some teaching to do,” Mujahid said.

“Sure you don’t want that job?” Tithian asked. “You walked in these boots once.”

“Kagan required no instruction on how to be pompous and arrogant.”

“You can teach me anything you want after Kaitlyn’s okay,” Nicolas said. “Let’s worry about one thing at a time.”

Tithian pointed at a door across the wide hallway, and Nicolas went first.

The entrance to the infirmary was no wider than any other door in the hallway. That is to say, it was narrow. Whoever had built the room had something other than an infirmary in mind. Stacks of furniture leaned precariously along the walls, and a table turned on its side was the only thing keeping them from toppling.

“Odd place for a hospital,” Nicolas said.

“Forty years of quakes and disease made us improvise,” Tithian said.

The rectangular room was the size of three or four old classrooms smooshed together, and three rows of beds provided little walking space between them.

Kaitlyn was the only patient. She rested on a bed near one of the windows. Someone must have brought flowers, because she held an enormous rose in her hand.

An attendant stood next to her with the back of his hand on her forehead.