Archwizard Stefan Sternenlicht hefted the small sack of coins in his right hand, the rough fabric immediately scratching and itchy. He dropped the sack in a desk drawer and turned to the young man sitting upright in an overstuffed chair in front of Stefan’s desk. The bowtie was a nice accent to the full suit, showing early casual familiarity with his proposed subject matter. “Okay, Mister Hale. Your scribing apprenticeship will begin tonight.” Stefan turned his chair to face the expansive window to his left. A white mist covered the valley far below on this early afternoon.
Young Hale hesitated and then realized it was time to go. He stood up, bowed to the desk, and said, “Thank you, Ser. This will be an important cultural artefact, and, I pray, profitable for the school.” He left. The door silently shut behind him.
Alone, Stefan snorted. “Ser.” Well, when the 100th royal heir wished to celebrate his coronation by honoring Stefan with a knighthood, for years of service to the Empire? You went along in that case, nevermind that this present dynasty was one Stefan himself started long ago.
He forked a sign with his left hand and slid a few clouds out of the way. Distant snow-covered peaks came into view through the window. This Hale child was correct. It had been more than 500 years since the last edition of his Principia had been released. Another translation to Elvish also was long overdue, reminding him of the times in antiquity when that tongue was still known as French. Stefan wondered again why the Machine Elves had not yet risen up and reestablished the old ways. They certainly had the material means. Perhaps, the profit motive remained strong elsewhere, too. Their toys are useful, Stefan thought. He pressed a button on the electric intercom on his desk. “Ophelia, what is the rest of today’s schedule?”
A small speaker crackled twice as Ophelia tested the button on her end, one of his assistant’s more amusing foibles, as she sat at the base of the stairs to this tower, seven flights below, for the past 28 years. “Next, you have a block of four hours for this month’s open council with the public, Ser.”
Stefan was sure he did not have the patience for this today. He punched a button with an index finger. “Can’t you just say that I have turned into a raven and am on holiday?”
A steady speaker crackle was followed by another. “You used that excuse to cancel last month. Ser.” More crackling. “And, a line requesting an audience has already formed. I am fairly confident that they can hear your voice through this box on my desk, Ser. Yes, some in line are nodding. There is a bit of an echo in this hallway, to be honest.”
“Alright. Send the nodders to the back of the line and let’s get this over with, please.” Stefan opened a seed pod over a stone mug. The mug filled with a steaming black liquid that slowly turned an opaque light shade of tan. A heart drew itself as white foam appeared. Stefan sipped lightly and brushed foam from his white moustache. A young woman opened the door and stepped into the office. Her dress was very foreign to this valley, both in pattern and style. Prussian? Interesting that you are so far from home.
“Good morning, Ser. I have an urgent update on the…” she began. Two steps into the office, she tripped over herself. Limbs had simultaneously tried to move the body to sit in the left and right chairs in front of her. A folder of papers scattered across the floor. She grabbed her head in both hands. “Oh, no! Now I’ve wasted your time already!”
Stefan put down his mug and waved his left hand. “Are these pages numbered?” She nodded, still holding onto her head. He snapped his fingers twice. The folder neatly reshuffled itself and scooted across the floor to her feet. She reached down for her papers, bowed a second time, and sat down to the left.
The woman took a deep breath and exhaled. “A thousand pardons, thank you, Ser. I am Claudia Winowicz, Warsaw Provincial University, junior researcher in the Department of History.” Through long practiced meditation, Stefan’s blank expression did not change to match his darkening mood. He had lived long enough that he expected he would soon be lecturing her on whatever trifling topic had prompted such a long journey. Claudia continued, “We recently found a new translation of the Prophecy of the Egg, and faculty consensus was that it was best to bring this to your attention.”
Stefan leaned back into his pillows and pressed his fingers together over his chest. “Ah, yes, the Egg. The lost offspring of the thing that nearly consumed our world over 20,000 years ago, a bird of hellfire that laid waste to all in its path. Silver ash heralding the return of magic and the functional mystical arts, as the beast altered the very planet beyond recognition, in the process?” He sipped from his mug. “That legend again? What of it? The phoenix was a real phenomenon, yes, well documented already. But, she was a symptom of the Scrambling, not the cause, and no accounts of either nesting or giant flaming eggs were ever made. It is hero worship, tacked onto the end of the true tragedy that has placed us both here, today.”
Claudia cleared her throat. “We have ten paragraphs now. Ser.”
Stefan coughed and wiped his moustache again. “Continue, Claudia of Warsaw.”
She flipped a few pages into her folder. “I recorded interviews with a man who claimed to find this translation stuffed between walls. He had recently renovated his home. He was adamant that this new ending meant that the group described in the known prophecy, and their motivations, were misunderstood. They are destined to find the Egg. That much is unchanged. But, they would do so not to prevent our second and final destruction, but somehow deliberately to cause it. The new language is very plain.”
Stefan shook his head. “That is a radical interpretation that I have not heard in a very long time. For it to now have some shred of proof, literally out of the woodwork? Did this man explain himself further?”
Claudia fidgeted in her seat. “The very last thing he said to us was: ‘My brother built this house, but we all live in it.’ And, then, forgive me, Ser. He vanished, right in front of me! There was no record of his visit to campus, only the dusty scroll. Does that phrase have any meaning to you, Ser?” She turned to the next page, not expecting an answer yet, preparing to launch into a set of competing theories from her department.
The wizard’s composure broke as a whirlwind of thoughts went through his head. The family motto! That bastard Callum escaped his gibbet again, didn’t he? This sounds like his kind of drivel. What is he planning? Stefan raised his left palm and punched the intercom button with his right. “Ophelia, something has come up. I need to travel after all. Immediately.” He stood up from his desk. Claudia looked completely crestfallen that her presentation had been cut so short.
Stefan extended a hand and asked, “My child, what would you say if I were to offer you a chance to record the autobiography of Mother Earth?”
In answer to Reddit WritingPrompt [WP] The ancient wizard has lived in the mountains for millenia. The apprentices seeking power are fine. The adventurers seeking treasure can be dealt with. But what is really starting to get annoying are the historians. This is amusingly quasi-related to Mother’s Light, in that one of the first versions of that story had a whole council of elder magical dudes from the first apocalypse. Revisions have been made, but I kept the gibbet.