Even so, he knew the Arch-Academic would be sneering at his apparent indolence. Varnell felt his face flush with anger at the thought of the old toad's smug superiority. The man hadn't left the Academy in a decade for 'health reasons' – which Varnell suspected were related to the fact that the width of his doorframe could no longer accommodate him for egress – yet he saw fit to criticize Varnell’s leadership at every monthly council meeting. Which invariably left Varnell cursing the day the old king had decreed that the Adventurers' Guild and the Academy be merged, with their respective leaders sharing the responsibilities of co-rule.
He took a deep breath and let it out heavily through his nose, attempting to quell his inner turmoil. His patron cared little for his frustrations, and even less for mistakes. And things would go very badly for Varnell if that fell entity caught even the slightest hint that he’d failed him on that count already.
Suddenly paranoid, the Guildmaster twisted in his seat to ensure the mirror on the western wall remained safely covered. His elbow knocked the rickety stool beside him; it teetered sideways onto two legs and then righted itself, but not before the ink bottle toppled off the edge and smashed against the stone floor.
“Limpit, you dolt!” he cursed, swatting at the air near his misshapen familiar. It ducked its head in silent apology, though he sensed the emotional equivalent of an eyeroll from the creature as it scuttled over to the mess Varnell had made, deftly plucking shards of crystal from the spreading pool of ink.
In spite of his irritation, Varnell couldn’t help but admire the dexterity of its chitinous fingers, the appendages – along with the rest of its current form – granted by his own magic just a few years ago after he’d realized he could no longer rely on his human subordinates. His patron had shown on many occasions that he was willing and able to use them to spy on Varnell, after all.
But not Limpit. Their Bond prevented that. Formed of desperation and then cultivated and nurtured over the following decades, the mage-familiar Bond between Varnell and Limpit defied interference. It was unbreakable. Limpit’s thoughts, its emotions – its very life and death – were inextricably intertwined with Varnell’s. The creature was completely faithful. Always had been, and always would be.
A whiff of burning flesh drew his attention back to the present, as did the sudden searing pain in the center of his chest that accompanied it. Familiarity did nothing to lessen the sensation – if anything, it grew more intense with every year that passed – and he gasped and clutched at the pendant embedded in the scarred skin above his breastbone. The heat of it contrasted jarringly with the icy dread now trickling down his spine.
Once again came the paranoid suspicion that his patron could be summoned by his thoughts. He shook off the urge to look over his shoulder and tried to think positively.
Finally, here were the instructions he’d been waiting for.
But first…
Shooing Limpit away from the mess on the floor, Varnell drew on the dark font of his power – which was, reassuringly, as physically distant as ever – and channeled a sliver of magic. It was barely even a trickle; his patron wouldn’t notice. Which was more than could be said for the spilled ink and smashed glass were he to leave it there in plain sight.
His patron definitely wouldn’t detect such a minor use of his magic. Would he?
Varnell hesitated, then sighed and let go of the magic. It slithered back to its source like a silverfish retreating from sunlight. Heart beating frantically against the burning amulet, he hurriedly dragged a nearby antique rug over and dropped it down over the spillage, broken glass and all. There was a chance the ink would soak through and ruin the red-and-gold design on the rug’s surface, but he wouldn’t grieve for it. He hated that rug.
Finally, he made sure to roll his sleeve down over the half-finished tattoo. Satisfied that the evidence was now hidden, he hurried into the next room – his private study – and over to the far wall behind the desk, where a heavy velvet curtain was draped over something large and rectangular. Varnell tugged the corner of the curtain free from the mirror’s face and stepped back.
It was an ugly thing. Its gothic frame was hideously ornate and tarnished, and the whole fixture was far too large for the wall of his small study. Like the rug, though, it had belonged to his predecessor, and Varnell had ever clung to the notion that he was more likely to be accepted in his current role were he to adopt the same aesthetic choices of the previous (though regretfully tasteless) Guildmaster.
Varnell glared at himself in the glass, one hand still clutching the velvet cloth, the other fingering the now-fading source of heat on his chest. His reflection glared back at him, dark brows drawn together in a scowl. Slightly pointed eartips peeked rebelliously out from underneath his hair – not quite angular enough to mark him as a full elf, but enough to distinguish him as other than human. Enough for him to be looked down upon by the members of both races.
He pulled at his hair in a futile attempt to cover the offending sight, then winced when it revealed a hint of silver at his temples. Ninety-two years old and already my body is failing me. Pathetic.
His eyes slid away from his hated reflection to stare at the wall instead. But he didn’t see red brickwork. Instead he saw the broken shards of the crimson Core, now colorless and empty and scattered across the floor of some deep, godsforsaken cavern. He saw the three whelps who’d returned to him under suspicious circumstances, their party leaders mysteriously vanished underground; saw the warrior’s confusion and the
