... And the moment you allow that tiny evil enter your heart, the moment you act in a manner unbefitting your race, the moment you start complaining about life – they will see you. And a female beast with glowing eyes and sharp fangs will come to you. She will bewitch you with tales that all the evil in you is actually good, and she will drag you away into her den – an abode of vice on the cursed blue star, devoid of warmth and true light, with only hatred and bloodlust to keep you warm. With a cold flame they will burn your soul, stripping it of beauty and nobility, compassion and honor. So foul will your form become that even your friends will begin to hunt you like a beast, for a soulless beast you will be.
A Liddarean Tale
The green flame of thick white candles reflected off the gleaming black counter top, giving the dozens of bottles lining it an enigmatic twinkle. In one, cloudlets of whitish mist swirled in spirals; another was filled with ground stone the very sight of which caused inexplicable toothache; the third held a miscellany of rusty chains; the fourth was like a sea urchin, with hundreds of spikes constantly shifting in length. The fifth teemed with myriapods of refulgent vermillion, spitting poison in futile attempts to break through the thick wall of their prison, while its elegant neighbor, blown from cranberry-colored glass, enclosed peach halves, slumbering sweetly in a bath of syrup sprinkled with the ash grey petals of Darlaron cherry. Next to it perched a paunchy, squat vessel on eight spider legs, inside which rocked a dark something resembling either a giant slug or somebody's toxified liver. This "something" was transfixed with roughly a dozen bone tubes, passing through holes in the vessel's walls and plugged with varicolored corks. A device of seemingly sinister purpose glimmered darkly in the bottle's neck, looking like a syringe with three needles of varying length. The metallic rings on one end were lined with rime, the chill radiating from the jug of blue Nel-Ileyn clay standing nearby, itself girdled by hoops of phantasmal icicles that cast their pale, quivering likeness on the counter top.
As Irson Trimm gazed upon all this magnificence, he indulged himself in the recurring thought that not every Lindorgite alchemist by far could boast such an impressive collection of rare substances. And survive the boasting to boot, considering the spate of coveting it would elicit in others; many would risk it all to get their paws on his bottled treasures, if only to safeguard their own skin – after all, who could be sure it wasn't their soul being targeted at the alchemist's workbench?
Luckily for Irson, his former guildmates treated him with a profound disdain that prevented them from seeing him as a rival. Even robbing him was beneath their dignity, which, naturally, suited Irson just fine. In their eyes, Irson Trimm, graduate of the prestigious Lindorg Academy of Magic, was a traitor to his noble profession. Instead of concocting elixirs granting one immunity to magic, the ability to turn a dragon into a giant steak with but one look, or, at the very least, invisibility, he was a despicable brewer, selling his booze right there on location – in the Serpent's Den inn. And it mattered not a jot that his drinks enjoyed renown far beyond the borders of Enhiarg.
The secret to the Den's popularity was that its potable merchandise was just as effective for the Tanae, Elaaneans, Daoreans and other creatures with an innate immunity to intoxication as grape wine was for humans. Irson Trimm had managed to find an unoccupied commercial niche and was now making decent coin on the vices of others. He never wanted for customers, which naturally made the owner quite happy... on most days. Today, however, was a special day, and Irson was itching to rid himself of patrons as quickly as possible.
He looked on with growing agitation at a group of young sorcerers, celebrating their graduation from the Lindorg Academy. It had been only a day since the reception of their precious diplomas and staffs – useless yet beautiful symbols of their new status. If their manners were any indication, these four clearly weren't among the academy's top students, else they would have long been brought to heel by one of the preceptors, all of whom echoed Master Rector in strictly enforcing the policy of always guarding one's mage's dignity. At least while in the presence of outsiders. Irson's guests, on the other hand, behaved like bull calves released to pasture on the first day of spring after being starved all winter in a dark, stuffy cowshed. They were certainly drunk – not so much on the wine as on the realization that the nightmare they knew as "studies at the Lindgor Academy" was finally over. Bursting with elation and knowing not how to express it, they would knock over chairs, pound their mugs on the table in demand of more fare, belt out songs, and... left Irson no hope of wrapping up any time soon.
One of them was standing by a black column, spitting at it methodically. Irson chuckled. One week before the academy's final exams he had asked an acquaintance mage to put a spell on the column – now whenever anyone gazed at its mirror-like surface, one saw the face of the creature they loathed most. The face almost begged to be spat at so as to recede deep into the stone. If the spit was accurate and timely, the illusion scowled comically and made belated attempts at evasion. It went without saying that it was the Rector's pompous form that the Lindorgites invariably saw float out to them from the column – in him they saw a monster like no other, an abomination that seemed to detest both his students and colleagues in equal measure. No wonder then that their immediate reaction was to unleash a hearty salvo of spit right at his stupid face. Sure, any sorcerer could easily arrange a similar gag in their private quarters, but the fact that one could express one's contempt for Master Rector openly, almost publicly, drove young mages, exhausted by all the nagging and lecturing, to indescribable joy.
Unable to bear the outrage any longer, Irson spun on his heels and fixed his gaze upon the opalescent magical screen filling up the doorway behind the counter. Its purpose was to prevent smells of dishes being prepared in the kitchen from seeping into the common hall. The measure was a necessary one given some of the patrons' affinity for food whose aroma other creatures might find... unpleasant, to put it mildly. Irson himself suffered from pungent odors far more than any one of his guests. Being half Tanae, he, like all of Tialianna's serpents, possessed an exceptionally acute sense of smell. For him the nose was a far more important sensory organ than eyes or ears. Indeed, it was his nose that was largely responsible for Irson's success in potion-brewing, for he could instantly ascertain the composition of any concoction, verify the quality and freshness of ingredients delivered from all corners of the Infinite, and much, much more. On the flipside, his overdeveloped sense of smell was also a curse: any sharp scent felt like a handful of sand flung in the eyes or a deafening shout right in the ear.
So it was now – as his delicate nostrils breathed in the air, Irson couldn't help but wince at the stench of targs ordered by the esteemed mages (the same targs that, due to improper freezing, just one hour prior had nearly feasted on the same chef that was now cooking them). The innkeeper made use of the free minute to renew the weakening spell of absorption. After rummaging in his pocket, Irson fished out a tiny glass globe, inside which was sealed a piece of porous, dirty-yellow sponge. The Tanae juggled the object in one hand, then tossed it square at the center of the doorway, with the pearly veil catching the projectile as a cobweb would a fly. Eyes fixed on the sphere, Irson began to softly cast the spell. The curtain thickened around the center, filling out the frame with a rich whiteness, as if an knavish milkmaid, having diluted her pail with water, peeked inside and realized she had gone overboard, and was now pouring in yesterday's cream, bit by begrudging bit.
When he was done, Irson walked up to the magical curtain and sniffed the air. Satisfied that it was perfectly pure once again, he pulled out the barely vibrating globe. Returning to his post, he surveyed the hall and was pleased to discover that one of the mages – the one who had been diligently deluging the Rector of Lindorg[1] with spit – had evidently grown weary of his holy work and had dozed off in a chair by the column, head overhanging his chest.
Alas, the remaining three seemed fresh as ever. What's more, one of them was even approaching Irson, and his demeanor boded nothing pleasant for the Tanae.
"You think you some kinda sorcerer, eh?" the mage gurgled drunkenly, his voice and manner badly at odds with his fine aristocratic features, clearly the handiwork of body manufacturers. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Irson Trimm, the innkeeper of the Serpent's Den," Irson bowed, hiding a chuckle. "Might I ask what's gotten my distinguished guest so riled up?"
"That!" the "distinguished guest" stuck his finger at Irson's sponge-in-a-globe. "Magic must be p-pure! A Lindorgite mage needs no c-c-crutches!"
"But of course. Only, to my shame and sorrow, I'm no Lindorgite mage. It never did work out for me," Irson gave a despondent shake of the head.
Exchanges like this always amused him. Knowing full well the hardships second-rate sorcerers like this one experienced in Lindorg, he gladly provided them with an outlet to vent. If anything, Irson felt keen delight from the realization that such insults didn't bother him one bit, nor instilled doubt in his chosen profession or way of life. Neither was the Tanae worried for his safety. Firstly, he saw all too clearly the chinks in the defensive spells the aggressor had hastily put up on himself before going out boozing. And secondly... Suffice it to say he had other reasons to be unruffled.
"All I managed to learn was a couple of simple spells, you know, to keep veggies from rotting or wine from going sour," he continued his charitable charade. "And the lectures on mage's dignity – without which, everybody knows, no student can ever become a real mage – I cut. See, I even keep candles lit in my establishment!"
Candles were a point of particular interest for Master Rector of the Lindorg Academy. He forbade all his subjects to use any fire of non-magical means (unless, of course, such means were required for a certain spell). While giving regular lectures on the subject titled "Mage's Dignity," he would drum into the students' heads the notion that anybody who wasn't using their magical talents at every opportunity – preferring, for instance, to button oneself with one's fingers rather than cast a modified spell of levitation – didn't deserve to be called a mage. Certainly he would never amount to anything. One needed to live magic, breathe it, love it, bind oneself to it every which way, eat and drink it for breakfast... It is little wonder that students who followed this advice of his diligently ended up feeling utterly helpless in the face of the simplest chore that, for one reason or another, they couldn't use magic to complete.
All that propaganda would literally make Irson Trimm sick to his stomach. While within the Academy walls, he derived a kind of twisted pleasure in lacing up his shoes, combing his hair, cutting his nails or making his bed by hand. As for candles, with them he had developed an almost intimate relationship. He couldn't pass by a stand selling candles without buying a few – honeycomb or smooth, with carved windows or herbs mixed into the wax. Every morning Irson would arrange new candles on the counter with reverence, coating the surface around them with fragrant oils. Come evening he would put out the lights and collect the warm, congealed wax tears off the counter. He couldn't bring himself to toss the candle-ends, storing the candles' mortal remains in a massive wooden case, buried under a layer of soft shavings.
Irson's customer hiccupped, squinted his muddy eyes and surveyed the inn with a long gaze – evidently, he hadn't even noticed the aforementioned candles.
"Disgrace! Disgrace to all of us who've toiled dec... decades to earn the right to be called Lindorg mages!" he finally uttered, wrinkling his eagle's nose in disgust. "There's no room for frauds like you inside the Academy's walls!"
"And I haven't stepped foot inside the Academy for quite some time. I've got my own little nest here."
"You dare call the Lindorg Academy a nest?!" the wizard erupted with indignation. "Why, I will rip out your two-forked tongue for that!"
"Now, now, don't get excited. I wouldn't dream of calling the celebrated Academy of Magic a nest of any kind," Irson said placatingly, cursing his own lack of restraint.
But the soused sorcerer clearly wasn't in the mood for peaceful resolutions.
"Then I want you to destroy your diploma. Right here and now! What are we celebrating here otherwise – receiving the same staves as this serpentine scum?" With those words he turned back to his friends, though they obviously didn't hear him.
Irson sighed and, with hardly a movement, brushed his cuff link in the shape of a cat's nose.
"Not the same staves, to be sure. After all, each staff comes engraved with its master's place in the graduating class. And here, alas, I am likewise shamed, unlike you and your illustrious friends who were obviously cream of the crop. How can you even bear discussing the high art of magic with a total ignoramus such as myself? I beg you to allow me to do what I do best – pour my distinguished guests another round."
On that note, Irson produced from under the counter a bottle braided with metal, containing "sun fish" – jellyfish that bore uncanny resemblance to egg yolks.
The mage turned toward the Tanae, slowly for maximum effect. The corners of his mouth twisted in contempt, the fingers of his raised hand flitting through the air, weaving a spell... But when the illustrious graduate's eyes met Irson's, he nearly choked on his words, feeling blood rush from his face. He couldn't quite tell what it was about Irson that scared him so. The innkeeper looked very much the same: young, somewhat tall for a Tanae, scrawny with a head of disheveled, chestnut-red hair. Perfectly ordinary, indistinguishable from any other humanoid... And yet, whether it was the features of his elongated face – slightly slanted eyes, protruding cheekbones and a straight nose, somewhat flattened at the bridge – or the way he carried himself, there was something distinctly serpent-like about him. And then he saw them: scales glittering like pearls on his face...
Suddenly the mage felt weak in the knees. Belatedly he had realized that he was standing face to face with the Baker himself – the elusive Lindorgite madman who had been hunting young wizards, murdering them in cold blood and leaving fatty éclairs and little baskets with cream on their mutilated bodies. He killed his victims in densely populated places, so that when the corpses were found the pastries were still warm...
The mage scoured the room for pastries to no avail, but that brought him little peace of mind. Once he had nearly fallen victim to the serial killer, when, as a sophomore, he was going down to the cellars for squealing mold and barely managed to get out of the way of a man in a torn pink cloak rushing up the stairs. He didn't think much of it at the time until he turned the corner... and stumbled upon a corpse. On the bridge of the victim's nose, set squarely between his glassy eyes, was a moist rum cake. Beside himself with horror, the mage darted into the depths of the dark cellars and hid there until the wee hours.
He hadn't made out the stranger's face under his hood, but had noted that it was covered with strange glittering spots. It was precisely their arrangement that had etched itself into his memory. An arrangement that seemed to match perfectly with the scale patterns of Irson Trimm's face. Evidently, the scales radiated a cold white glow whenever the Tanae killer became possessed with bloodlust. The despicable innkeeper was in fact a terrible monster, who didn't just kill innocent students – a less-than-pleasant experience, to be sure, but a reversible one – but did so in some particularly foul way that made resurrection impossible. Some said that the Baker confined the souls of his victims in some magical vessel...
A vessel that the rapidly sobering sorcerer was now seeing clearly in front of himself. It wasn't a bottle filled with swimming sun fish at all, but a prison in which the innocent souls of innocent mages languished in torment... And to which his own soul surely would soon be added! The Lindorgite could hardly take a breath, let alone call his friends for help...
***
Seeing his customer suddenly dripping with sweat, Irson found himself at a bit of a loss. The spell, which was activated by brushing the cuff link, was supposed to instill very different feelings into the pugnacious wizard, bringing about either good humor – the kind when all you want to do is sing songs and buy rounds for others – or, just the opposite, a profound melancholy that, once again, called for many refills of the hardest available adult beverage. What it wasn't supposed to do was scare him half to death. It was a scary thought – the kind of carnage four panicked mages could unleash in the Den.
Failing to think of a better solution, Irson gave the nose peeking out from the loop under his sleeve another brush.
Though still clutching at his chest, the vis-à-vis' bulging eyes began to return to their orbits. The otherworldly terror inside them turned to bewilderment... Which then gave way to exasperation.
"How did you know – " the Lindorgite began, wheezing angrily.
"Say no more, master mage, say no more!" Irson broke in, waving his hands frantically. "I have no idea what illusion you just saw."
"Go on! Tell me it wasn't you who made me believe that – "
"It wasn't me," Irson cut him short yet again. "It was them."
The Tanae pointed at the wall behind him, on which two charming caryatides were smiling, holding up a decorative arch. One was carved from the rarest sort of honey tree, the other from the pitch-dark trunk of stone oak. Both maidens sported cat's ears and tails. Each held a goblet-shaped lantern in a free hand, illuminating the bottle-filled cabinets behind them.
"They are Alae, you see? They need not rummage in your head or dredge up your thoughts. They implanted in you fear toward me, whereupon your own mind produced the reason. I have no idea how it interpreted your feelings or what it was that you saw," Irson spread his arms, glancing warily over the mage's shoulder at his buddies, wobbling as they made their way to the bar. One of them was dragging a staff behind him.
"Gentlemen, I must warn you that, try as you might, you will not be able to start a brawl here. The magic of these lovely ladies won't let you," declared the Tanae.
"The hell with your... ladies. And their fangy mugs," wiping his forehead, the mage scrunched up his face in disgust. "Can you believe this loser, trying to hide behind Alaean tail? Fat chance, sucker! Now that we know what to expect, your trick – "
"Will work just as before," Irson completed the sentence, calm as a statue. The scene was beginning to seriously wear on him. "This was actually your second warning, considering the sign right out front that reads 'Under Alaean Security.' It's hard to miss, what with the glaring red letters. And quit waving that matchstick of a staff in my face! Especially since I've got one of those myself, as you've shrewdly noted. Only mine comes with a few key distinctions," added the Tanae, having decided that he ought not rely entirely on the capricious wooden kittens.
Reaching under the bar, he removed his own Lindorgite staff off its hooks and plunked it down on the countertop.
"Would you look at that – a staff! I bet he uses it to mix herbs into his pots!" one of the newly approached sorcerers hollered in drunken stupor. Truly, thought Irson, magic education is hardly an instrument of ennoblement. An ape is an ape is an ape.
"Sometimes, sure," Irson agreed peaceably, then turned the staff sideways, giving the patrons full view of the engraving.
As he did so, the trio of troublemakers froze in their tracks, their faces expressing pure, unadulterated dismay. Irson was fifth in his graduating class. The Tanae let the moment linger, allowing his esteemed colleagues to ruminate on some pressing questions. Why would a mage of his caliber entertain their oafish antics? What was he even doing in the dump that was the Serpent's Den? Eventually he spoke:
"Shall we consider the incident settled?"
"Certainly," the Baker's would-be victim nodded frantically; his plastered reinforcements were suddenly quiet as field mice.
The mages wavered for a moment, exchanged glances and retreated hastily, leaving their overly excitable companion all alone. As for the culprit, he was itching to get even for the recent scare yet live to tell about it, so he turned his attention to the docile caryatides.
"Vile, loathsome creatures! Always poking their noses everywhere... But their tails got tweaked real good at Cahnerali! And that's just the beginning!"
"The beginning of what, pray tell?" Irson inquired, putting the staff away behind the bar.
"Belated justice, that's what. Master Rector himself has taken a keen interest in their shady dealings. He has dispatched his best people to Cahnerali to collect evidence."
"Ah! That's the Rector we all know and love. Veindor the Merciful himself is still in doubt whether the Alae are to blame for what happened, but the Rector's mind is already made up. But what makes him so certain it was the feline telepaths that had instigated the clash between the local nobility?" Irson covered the neck of the bottle with the sun fish with cheesecloth and deftly splashed some of the clear liquid into a small square shot glass.
"Who else could it have been?" the Lindorg curled his lips, looking sideways at the jellyfish.
"Just about any other mind-digger in Enhiarg, of which there are plenty," Irson shrugged, adding several drops of liquor, murky white like dandelion milk, to the shot glass.
"Then why did Veindor detain the cats and no one else? Are you saying he could be mistaken?" the mage screwed up his eyes cynically.
"Veindor hasn't made a decision yet. He took several telepaths for precisely that reason – to determine whether or not they're guilty," said the Tanae, pushing the shot glass toward his customer. "But generally speaking, yes, I think that the Merciful is more than capable of erring. He's the Nae of Death, and as such..." Irson felt his jaw clench momentarily, "... he's not likely to err when it comes to deciding whether the subject must live or die, or into which body to be reborn. But his expertise is limited to death and all things death related. As concerns relations between sentient beings, let alone telepathy, he is simply a dilettante, may the distinguished mage pardon my toxic tongue."
"He is a Nae," objected the Lindorgite.
"So is Nelleyn," said Irson with a sniff. "But he's no capable ruler by anyone's standards. Our very own Lord of Waters can't seem to get his nobles to stop butchering each other!"
The mage didn't object to that.
"May I ask," the innkeeper continued, "what evidence you hope to collect? It is common knowledge that the feline telepaths never leave a trace of their... activities?"
"Evidently, Master Rector found a way to expose them," the Lindorgite replied guardedly.
"Oh? What kind of way?" Irson arched a dubious brow.
"Nobody knows," the mage confessed grudgingly, chewing his lip. "Except for the mages that have gone off to Cahnerali."
"And who was tasked with leading this honorable mission?"
"Nikh'naz Mabrag."
"Catkiller?" Irson chortled. "Truly, Master Rector couldn't find a more impartial messenger if he tried!"
"That's right," said the mage defiantly, then snapped the shot glass off the bar, as if he were afraid it might burn but resolved to not let the fear show, and headed back to his table.
***
Irson could only guess what the restless Lindorgite might have seen in the bottled jellyfish, or why his gaze shifted in sheer horror from one scale on his face to another.
He couldn't stand the scales either. The pearly plates inherited from his Tanae mother were constantly surfacing in the most prominent areas of his face, and, in combination with freckles – his father's legacy – made an almost comical sight... if only it wasn't so unseemly. It was little wonder that the innkeeper was bothered by it. Irson had tried everything – from ointments to "hex" specialists to body manufacturers – but the insidious scales always managed to carve a path to the sun. Which meant resorting to the most primitive, barbaric methods so as to achieve even small, fleeting victories.
The Tanae removed a slender dagger off his waist, reached under the bar and produced a mirror, a bottle of disinfectant and a piece of clean white cloth, then wiped the blade and his fingers with the bluish mixture. He probed the scale under his eye carefully, and was glad to discover that it wasn't stuck firmly to the skin, hanging on by only a corner. The innkeeper tried to pick it off with a nail. And, oddly enough, he succeeded. The pearly plate separated from Irson's face, leaving nary a mark. He moved on to the second, third, fourth... This time his battle with the scales was won with hardly any blood.
Pleased with the outcome, the Tanae looked up from the mirror and rejoiced further still: the last of the mages had finally traversed into the realm of drunken reveries. And without even tumbling off his chair, which was a miracle in its own right. Irson set the dagger aside and bellowed:
"Etir!"
But there was no answer, not even after the fourth time Irson yelled the name of his wizard on duty, not even after amplifying his voice with magic. The bum had enough ability to extract from a customer's booze-addled consciousness the location of his home, and deliver him there. No sorcery or any other power was capable of sobering those luminous noggins, dozing oh so peacefully on the tabletops, making Etir's position at the Serpent's Den a necessity. Only the person Irson had settled on to fill said honorable position probably wasn't fit for the job, given how often the mage disappeared from his post...
It wasn't until ten more minutes passed that Etir deigned to turn up, yawning and muttering something under his nose. Without so much as a glance in the direction of his boss, he smacked his palm flat on the forehead of the mage closest to him, screwed up his face, raised the snoring carcass off the floor with a wave of the hand and headed for the exit, beckoning it with a finger.
Etir was gone a long time, and when he did return he wasn't alone. The man accompanying him seemed always in danger of tripping over the flaps of his broad grey cloak, chewing his thin lips incessantly in what appeared to be great distress. His face was long and so were his hands, one of which clutched a large paper bundle, and covered in yellow-green blisters.
"G-g-greetings," said the stranger in a high, choppy voice, stopping inches from Irson's face.
"And to you, good sir," mumbled Irson, struggling to keep steady and not recoil from the repulsive guest, especially after the blisters on his face seemed to stir ever so slightly.
"Don't be afraid," the stranger waved his hands, realizing his mistake and taking a step back, "I am not diseased. These symbionts are an experiment. Elmianatrius adil, intelligent bitaxtum simbeltata... You will be receiving a lady visitor today. These are for her."
"What lady visitor?" Irson feigned surprise. "We're closing, esteemed mage."
"The same Alae visitor you're closing unusually early for," the man whispered conspiratorially and, in the best traditions of his profession, vanished into thin air.
Paying the strange guest no mind, Etir dispensed with a couple of more mages. Now he was fussing with the last one, trying to liberate a silver goblet from the death grip of his fingers.
His patience at its end, Irson slammed his fist on the bar.
"Let him have the damned goblet! We'll survive the loss. Kick him out and consider your shift over."
Etir gave a shrug of utter indifference and proceeded to "drag" his fellow follower of the staff's inebriated self toward the exit.
Irson wasted no time in clearing the mages' table of the remaining dishes and cups. He then shut off the lights deep in the hall, mulling over the words of his strange guest. How did he know about the visitors the innkeeper occasionally received at the Serpent's Den? Visitors that never showed themselves until only those eyes that were meant to see them remained.
Just as now, the only eyes that remained were his own... Or so he thought, until Etir presented himself before the Tanae for reasons unknown. Irson's rage wasn't far from the surface now, but the mage clearly thought nothing of it.
"Here's what I'm thinking, my Tanae friend," said Etir, making himself comfortable on a nearby bar chair. "Why don't we knock back a few to the health of our chef for just barely escaping being eaten himself? Something strong."
"Drink too much and your brains will rot," Irson hissed. "Why don't you go home for some well-earned rest?"
"You snake!" the mage growled reproachfully. The last thing he wanted was to go home, where his father, one of Lindorg's prominent educators, was visiting, apparently resolved to give another shot at setting straight his good-for-nothing son.
"Fine, I'll take my business to your competition," Etir muttered in resignation, finally hopping off the chair. "Keep it up and you'll lose all your regular customers!"
"Uh huh," agreed the Tanae with a sardonic grin. "What I'll lose is one of my top expenditure items."
"How's that?" the mage stopped and turned back to Irson.
"When was the last time you actually paid for a drink?" inquired the Den's owner.
It was a reasonable question, to which Etir had no satisfactory answer. And so the mage grumbled with an air of injured dignity, murmuring something about scaly cheapskates and their food's nasty habit of snapping at the fingers of innocent cooks.
***
Irson was indeed expecting a lady visitor, and one who belonged to the Alae race – the children of a Nae named Alasais, the mistress of feelings and emotions. It was after her eyes that the moons of Enhiarg were named. Today Alasais closed her luminous eyes, and the world submerged into starry darkness. It was on these moonless lights, as if out of fear of being seen by her mistress, that Aniallu an Briaellar would drop by the Serpent's Den to pay a visit to her friend Irson. There was something ritualistic about the tradition, something almost mystical... And they both found it rather amusing.
Having met under circumstances that Irson preferred to keep discreet, the Alae and the Tanae found one another to be brilliant conversationalists. They would spend hours on end engaged in the most fascinating discourse, jumping from philosophical debates to gossip about common acquaintances to politics, though the concluding topic was invariably one and the same: gripes about life. Initially it was Irson who dominated that segment of the conversation, feeling malcontent over the fact that he preferred brewing potions over refining his magical talents along more noble lines, but it didn't take long for Lady an Briaellar to dispel her friend's concerns with his normalcy, and handily overtake the leading position. A position she had kept a firm hold on for several years now.
Nevertheless, Irson would be hard-pressed to find happier minutes in his life than those spent with Aniallu – talking, arguing, and outright whining. It was little wonder that he looked forward to her monthly visits with great anticipation.
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[1] Rector of Lindorg – not only the head of the main Lindorg Academy of Magic, but also the ruler of the city where it is located. Presumably human. His true name is not known to anyone.
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Illustration by Natasha Dichpan (http://www.natashadee.net/)