The Last Philosopher

The rule of rules

Lyeasrakardsul's agile mind turned to their oppressive regulations. The rule of rules was his prime suspect, and it wasn't only because they'd been a pet peeve of his for centuries.

Sorcerers being as they were, they all despised the rules, but they could also see that rules should apply to others. So, the council and their regulations were accepted as a necessary evil. He himself was one of the five members in that group. The headmasters that created the rules, which assumed everyone guilty until proven innocent. Allegedly, the boringly evil council governed magick for the best of all sorcerers.

"But what the rules have done, is make it impossible to do any proper magick," he said as his big nose sniffed, savouring the scent of old books and pipe smoke.

"The way we mishandle the rules, in the name of security, spite, or anything popular, the council does whatever it pleases and calls it justice."

Even as the longest active member on the council, he accepted very little blame for himself. And to be fair, the three-to-two vote often went against him in favour of adding more nit-picky rules. The same ones he felt sure must be the root-cause of his nightmares.

Refocusing, he admired his awkward scowl in the reflection. He had the bushiest eyebrows he'd ever seen on someone almost entirely human. The swarthy hairiness was all he'd gotten from his Kor side. Not that he would've wanted their fangs, but the muscles would have been handy for leaping up the stairs.

He considered that some of the city's laws were just strange. One example was, you couldn't wear a fake beard if it might cause giggling. These kind of petty regulations made living on the Pentakl plain precarious, even for the most law-abiding sorcerer. Still, not everything could be regulated, and where the rules failed tradition stepped in to fill the gap. One even provided an escape from the city.

The 'if you don't like it then get out'-tradition, his cynicism thought bringing a wicked little smile to his wrinkled cheeks.

Sorcerers were free to leave the green plain, taking their chances in the frozen wilds and becoming free sorcerers. In a fake show of generosity, the council even provided servants and provisions for those leaving. A low price for getting rid of anyone showing signs of thinking for themselves.

They're probably better off anyway, his inner sorcerer justified.

"Do you really think so," he asked wanting to believe.

Against the odds, some of those who left the plain found a way to survive. And in a few valleys, small towers of grey stone rose above the pine trees. These towers were nothing like the city's separate, and unequal, magick schools. But they were the best option for those who chose to leave, not that being accepted by free sorcerers was easy.

In the shadows, smoke rose from his calabash pipe. It was the second of his three personal items, and the habit gave his grey beard a sickly, yellowish colour. For appearances sake, he always wore his ceremonial pyjamas. But warming his feet was the favourite of his three personal items. A small pair of rebellion, in the form of pink, fuzzy bunny slippers.
They were a nostalgic connection to his short life before Empris. He remembered being angry with his grandmother for not getting him a Kor tattoo like one of hers. Instead, she'd given young Lug identical slippers for his birthday. But as a sickly old man he was now sure of one absolute truth: Never underestimate the value of fuzzy slippers. Still, the bunnies weren't even his dirtiest little secret. There was one thing he could never let anyone find out. Something he had hidden deep in his subconscious. At the core of his being, he was basically nice. A terrible handicap for a sorcerer!

His ability to remember almost anything had taken decades of Dalmicir training. So, most of his childhood memories were lost. But getting dragged away by a Xefef sorcerer at age four wasn't something he could forget. It was the last time he saw his grandparents alive. Given that once he learnt to divine and could see the pirate archipelago, they were long dead.

Back then, he believed the story Xefef told all sorclings. That his family hadn't wanted him, that they were afraid of magick and begged them to take him away. Once he learnt to see not just the present, but also the past, the lie became obvious. But by then it was too late. He was as much a part of the system as anyone in Empris.
It wasn't until he reached the rank of professor apprentice that he found out the whole truth. They had the legal right to take sorclings from anywhere on the continent, by an agreement made when Empris became a nation.

Yes, yes, I'm sure that's all very fascinating! His priorities condescended. But have you forgotten about the Darkness?

Shamed into concentration, he sat there motionless, not even rocking his chair. After many nights probing his memories, he believed the fate of magick was connected to his nightmares. That they were a warning, a final notice signalling its end. Over seven centuries in the Dalmicir school, who were more or less librarians, he had filled his mind with knowledge.

"I would bet my life that I know as much about the past as anyone. That is if someone could bet something of equal or greater value, which sincerely I doubt," he blustered into his beard.

Then use that knowledge, his inner historian thought, you won't be able to pawn it off on the sorclings this time.

The council liked to see sorclings as expendable, but they weren't an endless resource. Since no one knew why so few children were born with the innate talent for magick. Still, from the council's perspective, any child brought here was expected to be nothing but a sorcerer.

So, we're not supposed to have any use for things like race or gender, his Kor side thought.

"No, they only get in the way!"

Nevertheless, sorcerers were still a little aware of what was under their robes. But the 'don't ask, don't tell'-tradition, combined with the rule that all sorcerers go by the pronoun him, stopped them enquiring about anyone else's gender. Just a few of the things sorclings had voice-beaten into them during their decades in the Xefef college.

Looking away, he let his black-eyed reflection win the staring contest. Before kicking his doubt up the arse. Putting away his pipe, he started rocking in a steady rhythmic manner. Looking into the time, almost two millennia ago, when Empris became a nation. That was where it had all gone wrong.

Using magick in his school's tower wasn't an option. It was only allowed in specific area, a rare rule that the higher ranks weren't excepted from. Instead, he used his memory as a workaround. It took little effort to queue up the relevant pages in the secret tomes. The ones that described the taboo subject of their relocation, something only headmasters were allowed to read.

Diving head-first into those events, he would try to paint a more nuanced picture. The relocation had been a cataclysmic time for magick. Since the old factions had come close to being wiped out. And only negotiations had saved them. It also led to many changes in their lifestyle. They went from having no rules, to having nothing but rules, and that was the problem. Still, proving that to the satisfaction of the other council members would be an uphill battle on a slippery slope. Because in Pentakl, stubbornness was a required survival skill.

But we're right, his stubbornness thought. The Darkness will be the death of magick!

But even if he could prove cause and effect, it wasn't like he intended to do anything about it himself. As a lifelong Dalmicir practitioner, he knew two things for certain.

"Those who study history are doomed to watch others repeat it, and everything you need to know about the present is hidden in the mistakes of the past."

And whatever happens, you won't survive long without some decent sleep anyway, his morbidity thought cheering him up a bit.

Updated: 29.04.2024