One of Koreti and Mhera's favorite places to visit after their morning lessons was an old part of the palace called the Archmage's Tower. It was a mysterious place, partly because of its archaic name—no archmage lived there anymore. In fact, there had not been mages in the palace for many generations; those worthy scholars lived in a compound of their own now known as the Mage's Keep, which was far from the palace. But legend had it that the high tower had been the quarters of the most powerful mages in the realm of Penrua, and the weighty legacy ensured the odd name endured.
The room at the top of the Archmage's Tower was unlike anywhere else in the pristine, white-walled palace. Spirit globes illuminated the gloomy chamber, supplementing light from narrow windows. A shabby patterned rug covered the marble floors, softening the sound of footsteps. To one side of the room was a door, always closed, that led to sleeping quarters beyond. High shelves lined the walls, each one overburdened with books and scrolls that seemed to physically crowd the place with centuries of lore. Trinkets and treasures from the reaches of Penrua and beyond nestled tightly among the books, and well-worn furniture gave the room a comfortable atmosphere that was lacking in most of the palace chambers.
Eovin, the man who presided over this curious domain, was called the lorekeeper. He was a quiet, dignified man of middle age whose tolerance of the royal children made him one of Mhera's favorite adults. Compared to the other grown folk in the children's lives, Eovin possessed an otherworldly patience when they interrupted him at his work; far from being annoyed with their attention or their questions, he fascinated Koreti and Mhera with stories and snippets of history. To Mhera, such learning always seemed more interesting coming from Master Eovin than from their tutors.
"Good morning, Master Eovin," Mhera said from the doorway on one such occasion.
The lorekeeper smiled, looking up from the largest book Mhera had ever seen. He always seemed surprised to see them, even though she and Koreti were not very quiet in the halls. They loved to shout up the winding staircase of the stone tower, listening to their voices echo back to them. Still, the lorekeeper treated each visit like an unexpected pleasure. "Lady Mhera, good morning! And to you too, Prince Koreti."
He put aside his work at once. It never mattered what was at hand—a stack of letters to transcribe, a new scroll to study, or a half-written book. He always turned his attention to the children as if they were the most important part of his day. Frequently, as was the case on that pleasant day, a tea tray would already be sitting on the old wooden table, laden with a plate of Koreti's favorite ginger cookies.
Eovin rose from his writing desk and strode across the room toward the table standing near one of the windows. On his perch, the lorekeeper's pet raven, Turi, rustled his feathers with ill temper. "I was just about to have tea," said Eovin, stroking the bird's head with a forefinger. "Will you join me?"
Koreti wasted no time in helping himself to a cookie for each hand. "Thanks, Master Eovin!" He ate the first in three bites.
"You're welcome, Your Highness." Eovin took a cup and set it in front of Mhera. "Tea, my lady?"
"Please." Mhera was already reaching for the honey bowl. She helped herself to three dripping spoonfuls, making a mess of the table as she did. Eovin waited for her to finish, then poured tea for her. She dipped a spoon into the cup and stirred, glancing over at Koreti, who was now making faces at Turi.
"Careful now, my lady," Eovin said, watching her slop tea onto the saucer. As if to punctuate his sentence, Turi gave an irritated croak.
Mhera furtively wiped drops of tea from the table with her sleeve, then wiped her sleeve on her skirt, hoping to weaken the stain to avoid a tongue-lashing from Madam Gella. She glanced up at Eovin and judged his expression. She said, "Too much tea."
The lorekeeper laughed. "One day, I will learn the proper honey-to-tea ratio, my lady. Please, be patient with me. Prince Koreti, will you have tea?" He turned his head to see where Koreti had gone, a few stray strands of silver glinting in his brown hair and neatly trimmed beard.
Koreti, seeming to have grown bored with pestering the raven, had crossed the room and now stared at the one slice of wall that was not dominated by towering bookshelves. There, stretching nearly from floor to ceiling, was a monumental painting in a gilt frame. The prince gazed at it thoughtfully. "No, thank you," he said.
There was always so much to look at in the Archmage's Tower, so many stories to hear, and so much pestering to do of the lorekeeper's raven that Mhera had never paid the artwork much mind.
"What's this painting of, Master Eovin?" Koreti shoved the last piece of cookie into his mouth, wiped his hand on his pants, and pointed at the central figures. He chewed and swallowed. "Are they Empress Katyander and Emperor Broycan? What are they doing to all those Arcborn?"
Mhera turned her attention to Eovin and noticed him straighten slightly. This would be a minor adjustment of posture in any other man, but in Eovin it meant a story was coming. The lorekeeper placed his teacup on its saucer. Then, clasping his hands and raising his two index fingers to his mouth in a thoughtful gesture, he walked round the table toward Koreti.
Mhera followed him. As she approached, she saw the central figures Koreti had mentioned. They were easy for her to recognize. The white-clad woman of unearthly beauty could be none other than Katyander, one of the Blessed Sovereigns of legend. At her side stood her consort, Broycan. Both of them had stars on their brows, marks of their holiness. To those in the Holy City of Karelin, these figures were ancestors, saints, and saviors. Storybooks and holy writ alike told the story of how they had saved Arc once, a long, long time ago, by banishing the Dark God.
In the image, the Blessed Sovereigns stood on a raised platform in the center of the Sovereign Square before the palace. The golden dome of the Royal Temple rose in the background. On either side of the Sovereigns were crowds of people. To their right were some noble-looking folk in rich robes of garnet, gold, and sapphire. To their left was a slightly smaller crowd of cringing people in brown and gray.
Mhera thought these drab figures looked rather scary. All of them had a similar swirling design painted on their left cheeks.
"This, Your Highness, is a painting of the Separation. It is allegorical, of course; when the Arcborn were quelled and marked, our Blessed Sovereigns had been dead for many generations."
"What's . . . ?" Mhera began, preparing herself to pronounce the word.
But Eovin smiled at her and supplied the answer readily. "Something is allegorical when it's . . . symbolic. Take, for example, His Grace's device, my lady. The rose symbolizes refinement, beauty, nobility. The stars, of course, signify his Starborn blood. You see? In this painting, Katyander and Broycan are allegories for holiness and righteousness. The artist put them here for that purpose. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Koreti said. "They weren't there, but they were, all the same. Watching from Heaven."
Eovin smiled. He seemed to like when the children took part in telling his stories, as best as they could. "Yes. That's right. What else do you see, Your Highness?"
"Well, Arcborn," Koreti said. He pointed to the marked men and women on the right side of the painting. "What's all that stuff?"
Mhera saw what he meant, although she had not noticed it at first glance. There were pale ribbons winding up some of the people's forearms, white and green and palest blue. "What is it? It looks like some kind of snake."
"It's magic," Eovin said.
Mhera stood up straight. A chill swept down her spine, raising goosebumps along the way. She and Koreti exchanged glances.
The prince said, "The Arcborn aren't supposed to do magic. Only our mages can."
"So it is now. But before the Separation, the Arcborn were free with their magic." The lorekeeper's voice softened and slowed, and he stared straight through the painting as he explained. "They were powerful, children. So powerful they were considered dangerous. And so, to— Well. Those who ruled at the time outlawed the use of their magic. They also conceived a way to brand the Arcborn so that they could be known at a glance. This is when the Arcborn began to wear the marke." Eovin stretched out a finger to indicate the dark whorl painted on the cheek of one of the figures.
The thought of a crowd of magic-wielding folk was frightening to Mhera. Magic like that, used by average men and women and not skilled Starborn mages, seemed dangerous indeed. It was nothing like the simple, day-to-day magic she and her family enjoyed, like spirit globes for light. Those, created by Starborn mages, seemed safe and mundane.
Eovin continued. "This—the Separation—marks the beginning of what my great-great-great grandson will likely call the Third Era, children: our chapter of history."
Koreti frowned. "Unless the rebels have their way," he said. "Right?"
Eovin glanced at the prince in apparent surprise. "I suppose that is so," he said. "But the rebellion is small and far away, my prince. You need not worry."
"I'm not worried. When I'm a great general, or the emperor, even, I'll fight all the rebels. They won't stand against my army! No Starborn will ever have to worry again. We'll crush the rebellion."
Mhera looked at her cousin, smiling. He was so brave. He was smart, gallant, and a good fighter, too. Even though he was the youngest of the emperor's sons, she knew he would be the one chosen to take the crown after her uncle.
The lorekeeper gazed at Koreti for a moment, solemn. "I am sure you will, my prince," he said at last.
The soft sound of a woman clearing her throat came from across the room. All three turned at once to see the empress, resplendent in gold. She stood in the doorway with her handmaiden waiting a few paces behind.
Eovin dropped into a deep bow of respect. Mhera curtsied. Prince Koreti, who was devoted to his mother, started toward her with a smile. "Good morning, Mother!" He remembered his manners a moment too late and made a hasty, informal bow.
"Hello, my dear," Empress Esaria said. She met him halfway across the chamber and leaned down to brush a kiss over his brow. She raised a hand to dust his cheek. "Hmm. Cookies again, Koreti? Mhera, good morning. I hope you haven't left crumbs on your face, too."
Mhera reached up with her tea-dampened sleeve to wipe her cheek, although she had not eaten yet and Esaria had spoken kindly.
"Master Eovin," said the empress, "I have come to return the book you lent to me. I did not realize I would be interrupting a history lesson."
"Your Grace could never interrupt. How did you enjoy The Breath of Spring?" Eovin accepted the leather-bound volume offered to him by Esaria's servant.
"Most enchanting," Esaria said. A soft smile touched her features before fading away. "I find that even the greatest work of our poets seems weak compared to the verses of the Second Era bards."
Eovin seemed pleased by her response. "I am in complete agreement, Your Grace. If I may . . ."
He strode over to one of his crowded shelves and leaned down, running a finger along the spines of the books. Finding the volume he wanted, he pulled it out and put The Breath of Spring back in its place. He turned the new selection over in his hands with a smile, walking back to the empress.
"Here it is. These poems were written by Lorekeeper Eolasin himself, Your Grace. He was my great grandfather. Although his verses lack the patina of time, I find them very inspired. If Your Grace has any interest?"
Esaria nodded. Her expression was warm, although her manner was reserved. She made a subtle gesture, and her maidservant stepped forward to take the book from Eovin.
The lorekeeper looked down at Koreti, who stood now at his mother's side. "Do you share your mother's interest in verse, my prince? Perhaps a poetry lesson next?"
Koreti's expression said all one could wish to know about his opinion on poetry; he hastily changed the subject. "Mother, shall we walk in the garden before lunch? It is a very fine day."
"Very well. Master Eovin, do you care to join us?" the empress asked.
The lorekeeper bowed again. "My regrets, Your Grace, but my duties beckon me. Perhaps another time."
"Come, children; leave our lorekeeper to his work. It is a wonder he gets anything done with you two loitering about his chambers." Esaria led the way out of the room, her long skirts of cloth-of-gold rustling over the threadbare rug.