Too Soon

Vegon disliked mysteries that already knew more about him than he knew about them.

Eticus had managed that within a minute.

The old wizard stood at the head of the cluttered table with both palms resting among books, maps, loose sheets of notes, and one chipped stone tablet that appeared to have been pressed into service as a paperweight. He had told them to explain everything, then listened without interruption while Deacon began with the road north and Jandar filled in the pieces Deacon considered unnecessary.

There were many of those.

The bandits became relevant because they had seen gnolls moving north. Arrowdale mattered because people had vanished, then stopped vanishing when the first Silver Crown patrol arrived. The cave mattered because the patrol had died there, surrounded by things made from bones that should not have moved. The blue crystal mattered because magic behaved differently near it.

That was the point where Eticus stopped merely listening.

Vegon noticed because he had been watching him from the beginning.

The others saw an old scholar surrounded by the debris of too much study. Vegon saw someone who arranged chaos according to a system only he understood. There were books lying open beneath other books, but their placement was deliberate. Three maps had been pinned over one another on the far wall; small portions of each remained visible, aligned around different rivers and mountain ranges. A shelf contained fragments of carved stone sorted not by size, but by script. Even the broken metal object suspended in glass had been positioned beneath a lamp so that its shadow fell across a page covered in sketches.

Nothing in the room was truly disordered.

It simply had more order than a visitor could immediately see.

Vegon respected that.

He was considerably less certain that he respected the man.

“You said the crystal was behind stone,” Eticus said.

Vegon nodded. “Embedded behind it, or enclosed by it. We could see only part of the surface.”

“Color?”

“Blue.”

“Bright?”

“Not especially. It pulsed.”

Eticus’s eyes narrowed. “At regular intervals?”

Vegon hesitated. “I didn’t measure them.”

Jandar leaned back in his chair. “He was busy dying.”

“I was not dying.”

“You stopped breathing.”

“Temporarily.”

“That is generally how dying begins.”

Eticus raised one finger without looking away from Vegon.

Jandar stopped.

That alone was impressive.

“Describe the pulse,” Eticus said.

Vegon folded his hands together on the table. The fingers of his right hand still felt subtly wrong when he thought too hard about the cave, although Xil had found nothing physically damaged. “It seemed steady. The spell I was maintaining began to respond to it.”

“What spell?”

“Light.”

“Simple structure.”

“Yes.”

“Which means?”

Vegon understood the question. “It should have been difficult to disrupt.”

Something shifted behind Eticus’s expression—not surprise, exactly, but approval.

“Yet it was disrupted.”

“Repeatedly.”

“Before you reached the crystal?”

“Yes, although the effect became stronger as we went deeper.”

Eticus turned toward Xil. “And your magic?”

Xil sat with his hands folded loosely in front of him. “Also affected.”

“The same way?”

“No.”

Eticus waited.

Xil seemed perfectly comfortable allowing the silence to become uncomfortable for everyone else.

Eventually he said, “There was resistance. Pressure. It interfered when I healed Vegon and Jandar, but divine power did not distort exactly as his did.”

“Exactly?”

“No.”

Eticus glanced toward Vegon again. “Good.”

Vegon frowned. “You keep saying that.”

“Because precision matters.”

“Then perhaps you could precisely explain how you knew any of this before we told you.”

Eticus smiled for the first time.

It was not a reassuring smile.

“Could I?”

“Yes.”

“Would I?”

Vegon stared at him.

Jandar murmured, “I think I’m beginning to understand why you like wizards.”

“I do not like him.”

Eticus’s smile widened slightly. “Also good.”

Vegon felt his patience thinning.

The old wizard stepped away from the table and crossed toward a cabinet against the wall. He opened one narrow drawer, removed a small piece of pale chalk and returned.

“Show me your mark.”

Vegon looked down at his left arm.

“Why?”

“Because I asked.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“No. It is considerably shorter.”

Deacon made a quiet sound that might have been amusement.

Vegon looked at him.

Deacon suddenly became interested in the map.

Traitor.

Vegon rolled his sleeve above the Silver Crown mark.

Eticus did not touch it. Instead, he drew a small circle on the table, then marked five points around its edge. The chalk squeaked against the wood.

“All of you.”

Jandar looked at Xil. “This is how rituals begin.”

Xil rolled up his sleeve.

Zook did the same. Deacon followed, and Jandar surrendered last with the expression of a man participating in something he intended to complain about later.

Five pale silver marks showed beneath the lamplight.

Eticus moved around the table and studied each one in turn.

Vegon’s mark warmed as he approached.

Not much.

Just enough.

Jandar noticed his own first. “There.”

Eticus paused.

“That happened when you entered the room,” Jandar said. “And in the cave.”

“Not exactly,” Xil replied.

Jandar looked at him. “You have an objection to my arm?”

“In the cave it was stronger.”

“When you healed me.”

“Yes.”

Eticus returned to the head of the table. “What did you feel?”

Jandar’s expression became more serious. “Them.”

Vegon looked across at him.

Jandar gestured vaguely around the table. “Not thoughts. Nothing useful. I just knew where they were.”

Xil nodded. “So did I.”

Vegon’s attention sharpened. They had mentioned the flare before, but not with Eticus present, and certainly not in detail.

“During the healing?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You never told me that.”

“You were unconscious.”

“Afterward.”

“You were trying to cast spells.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the reason.”

Eticus watched them with unsettling concentration.

“What about you?” Vegon asked him.

Eticus’s gaze shifted.

“You knew our marks were responding before we did.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

Vegon’s jaw tightened. “You are being deliberately irritating.”

“No. Deliberate irritation requires effort.”

Zook laughed.

Vegon looked at him too.

Apparently there was no loyalty in the room.

Eticus erased the chalk circle with the side of his hand, smearing the five points into pale streaks. Then his expression changed.

The humor disappeared first.

What remained made Vegon forget his annoyance.

“Tell me exactly what you saw when the crystal affected you.”

Vegon did not answer immediately.

He had tried not to think about that part.

The pain had been straightforward enough: magic failing, breath stopping, his body refusing instructions. Those things could be examined. Pain had causes. Physical failure had mechanisms.

The vision—or whatever it had been—was different.

“I saw points,” he said.

Eticus went completely still.

Vegon continued more slowly. “Blue points. At least I thought they were blue. They were connected by lines or pathways. I could not determine scale.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.”

“Three?”

“No.”

“Five?”

“No. More.”

“Dozens?”

“Possibly. The impression was larger than that.”

Eticus’s attention had become almost severe.

Vegon leaned forward. “You know what they were.”

“No.”

It came too quickly.

Jandar glanced at Vegon.

Vegon ignored him. “You know something.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“What?”

“Knowing that an answer exists is not the same as possessing it.”

“Then tell me what you possess.”

Eticus studied him.

For several seconds neither spoke.

Vegon had spent much of his life around educated men who used silence to establish authority. Tutors did it. Court scholars did it. His father—

He stopped that thought before it went anywhere useful.

Eticus’s silence was different. He was not waiting for Vegon to become uncomfortable. He was deciding something.

That was worse.

Finally he said, “You are accustomed to magic behaving badly.”

Every person in Istram was.

Vegon nodded.

“You have learned to build around corruption,” Eticus continued. “To compensate for resistance, distortion, imperfect release.”

“Yes.”

“You think that makes the corruption understandable.”

Vegon hesitated.

“I think it makes it measurable.”

“Better answer.”

Eticus leaned both hands against the table.

“Be careful with that distinction.”

Vegon’s irritation returned. “You are warning me not to study it?”

“No. That would be absurd.”

“Good.”

“I’m warning you not to mistake familiarity for understanding.”

The sentence landed harder than Vegon expected.

Eticus glanced toward the lamps. “People have lived with damaged magic for generations. Long enough that its failures have become traditions. Procedures. Superstitions. Accepted risks. You know that a spell may twist, so you compensate. Xil knows divine power may resist him, so he pushes harder. Every teacher tells every student some version of the same lesson: this is how magic is now.”

He looked back at Vegon.

“That does not mean this is how magic is supposed to be.”

Vegon felt the memory of the cave return.

Xil’s hands against his chest.

Two forces meeting.

One trying to restore him and something else—not alive, not malicious, simply wrong—pressing against it.

A flaw in the world mistaken for a rule.

He had thought exactly that.

“How much do you know?” Vegon asked.

“Not enough.”

“How long have you been studying it?”

“Too long.”

“That is not a measure.”

“Neither was your vision.”

Vegon leaned back.

Jandar smiled faintly. “I think he got you.”

“No one asked you.”

“No one ever does. I contribute anyway.”

Eticus ignored them both and turned toward Deacon. “The gnolls.”

Deacon’s humor disappeared.

“What about them?”

“The dead ones obeyed?”

“Some did. They attacked with the living. When a horn called the living ones back, the dead ones stayed.”

“As though expendable,” Xil said.

Deacon nodded.

Eticus’s fingers tapped once against the table.

“And you believe someone watched Arrowdale.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Zook answered this time. “Tracks. Movement around the village. The first patrol followed a trail north. Some of it looked too easy to follow.”

Eticus looked at him. “Placed?”

“Maybe.”

“Could you do it?”

Zook shrugged. “Yes.”

That answer seemed to interest Eticus more than certainty would have.

“So could someone else,” Zook added.

“And after the first patrol disappeared?”

“Nothing,” Deacon said. “Until we returned.”

“Then an organized attack.”

“Yes.”

Eticus walked toward the wall of maps.

Vegon watched him stop in front of one that showed the lands around Windmarch, then lift the corner of another map covering its western edge.

Underneath lay an older sheet.

Much older.

The coastlines were wrong.

Not dramatically, but enough.

Some rivers followed courses Vegon did not recognize. A range of hills west of Windmarch was marked with a symbol rather than a name, and several settlements on the modern map did not exist at all.

Eticus placed one finger on that older map.

“Here.”

Vegon rose before anyone else.

The others followed more slowly.

The name beside Eticus’s finger was nearly faded.

Tavalon.

Vegon knew it.

Not well. Few people did. The ruins appeared in historical indexes mostly as a casualty of the Sundering, one of hundreds of places destroyed or buried when the ancient war ended. Surviving references disagreed over whether it had been a city, fortress, ceremonial center, or something larger.

“It was excavated?” Vegon asked.

“Is being excavated.”

“By whom?”

“A sanctioned archaeological expedition working with the Order.”

Jandar came to stand behind them. “Let me guess.”

Eticus looked at him.

“They’ve stopped reporting.”

Eticus nodded.

Jandar sighed. “I preferred being wrong.”

Deacon studied the map. “How long?”

“Long enough.”

“How many people?”

“Enough that silence is unusual.”

Deacon looked at him. “You answer questions like a man trying to get punched.”

“I’ve been told.”

“Recently?”

“This morning.”

Zook peered at the old map. “Road?”

“Most of the way.”

“Most?”

“The modern road passes south of the ruins. The expedition established a route from there.”

“Terrain?”

“Broken hills, exposed stone, scrub. Easier than Arrowdale until it isn’t.”

Zook nodded as though that were perfectly clear.

Jandar pointed at the old map. “Why were they there?”

Eticus looked toward Vegon.

Vegon answered before he could.

“Because Tavalon predates the Sundering.”

“Many places do.”

“Not intact enough to excavate.”

Eticus nodded slightly.

Vegon stepped closer to the map. “What did they find?”

“We don’t know.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing they considered important enough to send through ordinary reports.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No.”

Vegon looked at him.

Eticus’s eyes gave nothing away.

“You think it is connected.”

“I think an archaeological expedition working in ruins from before the Sundering has stopped reporting at the same time gnolls are moving with purpose, dead things are being assembled in caves, and a blue device is affecting corrupted magic.”

“You called it a device.”

Eticus did not move.

Vegon felt every other conversation in the room end.

Jandar looked between them.

Xil’s attention sharpened.

Deacon turned from the map.

Eticus had said too much.

Only a word.

But words mattered.

“You called the crystal a device,” Vegon repeated.

“I did.”

“You know what it is.”

“No.”

“You know what it might be.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Eticus looked at the others, then back at Vegon. “Old.”

Vegon stared at him.

Jandar muttered, “You two deserve each other.”

Eticus ignored him.

“How old?” Vegon pressed.

“Possibly older than the history you were taught.”

That answer was worse.

“Before the Sundering?”

“Possibly.”

“Before Fyros?”

“Possibly.”

“Then why—”

Eticus raised a hand.

“Enough.”

Vegon stopped.

Not because of the gesture.

Because Eticus looked afraid.

The realization came slowly, because Vegon had spent the entire conversation trying to decide whether Eticus was evasive, arrogant, secretive, or simply accustomed to knowing more than everyone around him.

Fear had not occurred to him.

Now he saw it.

Not panic. Nothing so crude.

The fear of a scholar who had spent decades reading about an event and had just discovered that the event might be reading back.

Eticus glanced at the five Silver Crown marks.

“Too soon,” he said again.

This time Vegon heard the words differently.

Not surprise.

Not confusion.

A timetable.

“What is too soon?” he asked.

Eticus’s expression closed.

“Nothing you can use.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the answer you’re getting.”

Vegon stepped away from the map, anger warming beneath his composure. “You know something about the crystal, something about our marks, and something about Tavalon. You knew I had used magic near the crystal before I told you. You knew Jandar had nearly died. You looked at five people you had never met together and said we were late before saying we were early. Now you intend to send us to another ruin while refusing to explain what you think we are walking into.”

Eticus let him finish.

That was almost insulting by itself.

Then the old wizard said, “Yes.”

Vegon blinked.

Behind him, Jandar coughed into his hand.

Deacon looked suspiciously toward the ceiling.

Even Xil’s mouth moved.

Vegon folded his arms. “You find this amusing.”

“No. I find you promising.”

That stopped him.

Eticus stepped closer.

“You noticed the distinction between damage and design. You kept enough control near an unknown influence to observe it while it was trying to tear your spell apart. You nearly killed yourself doing it, which was stupid.”

“I was investigating.”

“Those are not opposites.”

Vegon said nothing.

Eticus gestured toward the books surrounding them.

“Curiosity is easy. Discipline is harder. Every fool wants to know what is behind the locked door. A scholar learns when to open it, how far, and what to place between himself and whatever is waiting on the other side.”

Vegon thought of Deacon physically stepping between him and the blue crystal.

He chose not to mention it.

Eticus continued. “Who taught you?”

Vegon’s answer came after a slight pause. “Several people.”

“Anyone good?”

“Some.”

“Anyone honest?”

Vegon almost smiled. “Occasionally.”

Eticus nodded as though that confirmed something.

“When you return from Tavalon, come here.”

Vegon frowned. “Why?”

“Because you need instruction.”

The insult landed first.

Then the meaning.

Vegon stared at him.

Eticus had already turned away and begun searching through a stack of papers.

“You have not seen me cast anything.”

“I’ve seen the aftermath.”

“That hardly qualifies you to—”

Eticus pulled a book free from the middle of the stack without disturbing the volumes above it.

Vegon stopped.

That was either skill or sorcery.

He was not sure which annoyed him more.

Eticus opened the book, flipped through several pages and continued speaking as though the matter had been decided.

“You build spells too rigidly.”

Vegon forgot the insult.

“What?”

“You compensate for corruption by reinforcing structure. More control, more precision, more correction.”

Vegon stared.

Eticus looked up. “Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“That will work until it doesn’t.”

“It has worked.”

“So had your breathing.”

Jandar turned away quickly.

Vegon pointed at him without looking. “Do not.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

“I was thinking supportively.”

Eticus closed the book.

“Magic in Istram encourages bad habits because survival rewards them. If every structure shifts, you learn to brace harder. Sometimes the better answer is to understand where it wants to move.”

“The corruption is not something to cooperate with.”

“I did not say cooperate.”

“You implied—”

“I said understand.”

Vegon stopped again.

Eticus was smiling now.

Not kindly.

A teacher’s smile.

Vegon recognized it and hated how much he wanted to hear what came next.

Instead Eticus handed him the book.

Vegon looked down at it.

No title.

Old leather binding. Pages repaired in several places. The first visible sheet contained diagrams of magical structures drawn in a notation he recognized only partially.

He looked up.

“Take it.”

“For Tavalon?”

“For you.”

Vegon did not accept it immediately.

“What is it?”

“A reason to return.”

Jandar made a sound behind him.

Vegon ignored it.

Eticus extended the book another inch.

Vegon took it.

The leather was warm from the old man’s hand.

“Read the first section,” Eticus said. “Do not attempt the exercises.”

“Why?”

“Because you will do them incorrectly.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know you.”

“You met me ten minutes ago.”

“Long enough.”

Vegon opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Zook laughed quietly.

Vegon tucked the book beneath one arm.

“I will read it.”

“Good.”

“And if I believe an exercise is safe—”

“It isn’t.”

“You cannot possibly know which one I mean.”

“I know which one you’ll choose.”

Vegon stared at him.

Eticus turned toward Deacon.

“The Order will give you supplies and written authority to inspect the Tavalon expedition. You leave as soon as you’re able.”

Deacon glanced at Jandar.

Jandar noticed. “Why are you looking at me?”

“Checking whether you’re about to complain.”

“I am.”

“Do it while walking.”

Jandar considered this. “Efficient.”

Xil stood. “What are we looking for?”

Eticus’s expression became serious again.

“The expedition first.”

“Survivors?”

“If there are any.”

“And after that?”

“Anything that explains why they stopped reporting.”

Vegon looked toward the old map.

“The crystal?”

“If you find another, do not touch it.”

Jandar raised one hand. “For the record, I did not touch the first one.”

“No one thought you did,” Zook said.

“I appreciate that.”

Eticus looked at Vegon.

Vegon looked back.

“No touching,” Eticus said.

“I heard you.”

“I was not speaking to them.”

“I gathered that.”

“And no experimentation.”

“Define experimentation.”

Eticus closed his eyes briefly.

Jandar brightened. “I think that’s the first time I’ve seen him regret something.”

“You are all leaving now.”

Deacon walked toward the door.

Zook followed.

Xil paused beside Eticus. “You know something about the marks.”

Eticus met his gaze.

“Yes.”

Vegon turned back.

Xil asked, “Something dangerous?”

Eticus took longer to answer this time.

“Everything useful becomes dangerous eventually.”

Xil did not seem satisfied.

Neither was Vegon.

But Xil merely nodded and left.

Jandar stopped in the doorway. “That sounded very wise.”

Eticus stared at him.

“I don’t trust it.”

“Out.”

Jandar grinned and disappeared into the corridor.

Vegon remained.

He was not entirely certain why.

Eticus began rearranging the papers they had disturbed.

“You intend to ask again.”

“Yes.”

“I intend not to answer.”

“I assumed.”

“Good. We’re making progress.”

Vegon looked down at the untitled book.

“You truly intend to teach me?”

Eticus stopped moving.

For once, there was no evasion in his face.

“If you truly intend to learn.”

Vegon had been taught by excellent instructors. He had studied established magical principles, old theories, known limitations, surviving fragments of things the Sundering had broken. He had spent years learning the difference between power and control.

None of those teachers had ever looked at damaged magic and suggested that everyone might have misunderstood the damage itself.

The idea was dangerous.

That was part of its appeal.

“I do,” Vegon said.

Eticus nodded once. “Then come back alive.”

Vegon tucked the book more securely beneath his arm and went to join the others.

The corridor outside seemed strangely plain after Eticus’s chamber. Jandar and Zook were already halfway toward the stairs. Deacon waited for Vegon and Xil near the next turn, although he would undoubtedly deny that he was waiting if asked.

Jandar spotted the book.

“What did you steal?”

Vegon looked at him. “Nothing.”

“That is exactly what someone says after stealing a book.”

“He gave it to me.”

Jandar stopped walking.

“What?”

Vegon continued past him.

Behind him, Jandar said, “Deacon.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“He gave Vegon a book.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Zook laughed.

Vegon allowed himself a small smile.

They climbed toward the brighter levels of the citadel, where the Order’s banners returned and clerks hurried through halls carrying messages from people who still believed problems could be contained by writing them down.

Tavalon waited somewhere west.

A lost city. A silent expedition. Ruins from before the world had broken.

Vegon should have been thinking about the danger.

Instead, he thought about blue points connected through darkness.

About spells bending toward something they should not recognize.

About five Silver Crown marks warming at once.

And about an old wizard who had looked at them as though history had arrived ahead of schedule.

Behind them, Eticus’s door closed.

Vegon did not hear it.

He was already wondering what the first page of the book said.