[PI] You have always been mocked as the “Mute Mage” and the “Wordless Wizard”. Today was the straw that broke the camels back, and you decide to show that not only do you know words of power, but why you never bother to use them.

Original post here.

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The request had come down from the Archmage, and so I had set out to pursue.

The infiltrator had come at night, slain six of the academy’s guards and stolen several restricted volumes of lore. Archmage Keron had declined to inform me of the specifics of the theft, nor did he provide me with details of the tomes stolen. I was specifically instructed to recover the material unread, and that told me everything I needed to know.

Above my pay-grade.

I had seen the Academy stewards scraping the mostly liquescent remains of the mage-guardians from the cobblestones, and knew that my quarry was not someone to underestimate. They had efficiently and easily dispatched the guardians, competent combat mages all, and they must have defeated the more than comprehensive defenses and barriers of the academy’s vault. 

As I rode out of the stable block of the academy I saw many of my fellow students turn and whisper to each other at my passing. I didn’t need to hear them to know what they were saying.

Him, really?

Expendable.

He probably didn’t want to risk a promising mage.

I paid them no heed.

Mages were often held up as the virtuous pinnacle of learning and wisdom, but in my experience, most were arrogant fools. Egotistical, selfish, indoctrinated and inflexible.

None regarded me with much favour. I had not been born to a noble house, nor received formal training from a young age. They had received their training in stuffy classrooms from older generations of white-robed starch-arses, who in turn read from books written by even older, even more starch-arsed egotists.

I’d never taken much stock in their approach, though we had one similarity, one shared by all mages.

Secrecy.

No mage shared their knowledge freely, and seldom did a mage want to be seen at their limits. Spells could be copied, capabilities assessed, and weaknesses observed. Each pupil of the arcane observed a practiced apathy to their comrades, and held each other at arms length. 

This was never more obvious than with words. Classical arcane theory relied on the use of words. Each word had associated mental techniques. Mages learned to use words like keys to turn the tumblers in their minds, allowing energies to flow and be controlled. Each syllable was a step in the process, each intonation a method of refinement and direction. These words were held close, and those mages who developed new words were the most revered of all. 

Most students at the academy claimed to possess vast repositories of words, purchased from tutors with the wealth of their families.

And so they mocked me. 

A peasant boy from some nowhere village in the hills, I claimed to know no words. I carried no grimoire on my hip for reference like the others, nor did I spend my off hours reading dusty tomes in search of some abstract piece of a long lost lexicon.

Some thought me a liar, and thought that my insistence was a bluff to hide the bounds of my power. 

They were partly right, but only partly.

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I reached the inn on my third day of pursuit.

The fleeing infiltrator had left a bloody trail in his wake, and as I approached the roadside tavern I beheld the many bodies piled outside under the cover of the woodshed. Mostly we’re terribly mangled, and some were still smoldering.

Inside the lanterns were still lit.

I tied my horse to the post in the stables and walked in.

The man was behind the bar when I entered. He had pulled a stool behind the well worn oak benchtop, and was clearly helping himself to food and drink. 

He smiled bemusedly as I entered and took off my coat, hanging it on a peg by the door. 

I approached the bar and took a seat opposite him. 

“Want a drink?” He asked smoothly, “There’s more than enough for the two of us.”

I nodded, and he produced a stein of ale from behind the bar. His eyes never left me, and the smile on his face never wavered. I sipped the ale slowly. From my spot at the bar I could see a book, old and well worn, spread out across his lap.

“Good book?” I asked calmly.

“Oh this old thing?” he said, holding the book up from its corner, like a fisherman with his catch, “The plot leaves something to be desired, but the contents are quite intriguing.”

“I’m not surprised,” I smiled back at him, “I’ve never read a magical tome that didn’t make me want to bang my head against a wall.”