The Annals of Algard (Fantasy Short Stories)

The Right Tool for the Job (a story about elves)

Thirteen years.

Thirteen years of research, labor, and longing. Long, uncounted hours buried in a living tomb of scrolls and codices in frigid corners of deserted libraries at the darkest hours of the night. Hundreds of letters, endless inquiries, and half a lifetime of treasure. Months of sleepless nights and weary days of pondering and planning. Five thousand days, and each day but one step in journey whose end might never be reached.

Thirteen years.

It was a warm afternoon in the land of the Drixi, but the great fireplace in High Magister Inir's chamber was burning merrily nonetheless, fueled by a decade's worth of notes and correspondences, a tremendous wealth of accumulated knowledge which was at that very moment turning to smoke. Opposite the fireplace, a pallid, freckled old elfkin with platinum colored hair and a thin, stringy beard sat at his desk, swathed in the gold and scarlet robes of his office. High Magister Inir sat with his back to the fire, doing his best to ignore both the uncomfortable heat of the flames and the equally uncomfortable thought of all the knowledge that was being consumed by them. It was a horrible thing to see so many years of effort vanishing before his eyes. But it had to be done.

With a deep breath, Inir arose from his chair and stepped over to the window. Outside, the trees were starting to take on a warm, amber glow as the sun began its descent into darkness. As Inir looked down into the courtyard below him, he could see a column of red robed acolytes leaving the banqueting hall and making their way towards the dormitories for the night. As Inir watched he smiled to himself as he spotted a young elf who stood half a head or so taller than the others. It was Runeweaver Selix. The young elf had broken off from the others and was making his way alone towards academy gardens, most likely going for a walk in the woods before retiring, as was his habit. As he walked the elf spoke to no one, hanging his head and dragging his feet as he ducked away from his fellows. His mood had been depressed of late, which was hardly surprising under the circumstances. It was only a week ago that young Selix had been examined for the post of Master Runeweaver, and had been summarily passed over. The outcome had come as a surprise, for Selix was a talented and promising candidate. It was rumored that Arch Magister Tarxiar had taken a disliking for the young elf and had suppressed his candidacy, but no one knew for certain whether it was true. Either way, Selix had taken it hard, and Inir couldn't help but feel sorry for the young man. After all, Inir himself had had his own share of disappointments.

Indeed, it seemed like only yesterday that Inir himself had taken a similar walk. The old Arch Magister had been dead for the requisite one year and one month, and the election of his replacement was at hand. In the end, only two had emerged from the Trials of Discernment with sufficient mastery to warrant a serious candidacy. Tarxiar had been one, and Inir himself had been the other.

The ensuing contest had become something of a legend in the order. Of the twenty seven contests, Inir had bested Tarxiar no more than fourteen times, the narrowest margin in the order's history. Yet in the end, when it came down to the election it was Tarxiar who was ultimately chosen. The election was for life, and Tarxiar had now been holding the office for thirteen years.

Thirteen years.

Outside, the last of the acolytes were filing out of the courtyard. A couple of them had seen Inir standing prominently in the window, and he had greeted them cordially as they passed by. But now, the courtyard was all but deserted.

Taking another deep breath, Inir made his way back to the desk. The fire was dying down now, and Inir shivered a little as he felt his heart began to beat a little faster.

The desk was out of sight of the window, but Inir glanced instinctively back over his shoulder nonetheless as he reached under the desk and pulled out a small chest. Opening the chest, Inir dug through several sheafs of personal papers until he could see the bottom. Then, with an assortment of indelicate curses he began to fuss about inside, trying to get his fingernails into the narrow join at the bottom of the chest. Inir was just beginning to sweat when his fingers at last found purchase, and he pulled the bottom panel out of the chest to reveal a hidden compartment beneath. With another furtive glance over his shoulder, Inir took out two objects and then swiftly replaced the chest's remaining contents.