Professor Jameson Willamus Elhorn, chief archivist of the Kosydar Antiquities Library and venerated research fellow of the Kandarian College of History, was annoyed. Not deeply. Not loudly. But in that scholarly, slightly exasperated way that small things like flickering lanterns and squeaky chairs take on a whole new level of agitation. The middle-aged man adjusted his spectacles on his nose and leaned in closer to the tome he was attempting to translate. With his right hand, he fidgeted with the lantern, trying to coax additional brightness from it, while squinting and turning his head from side to side.

In all fairness, languages were not his specialty. Oh, he was proficient at most of the known alphabets and dialects, but it was the meanings and stories that intrigued him and that he had spent his life and career studying. Cultural subtexts, societal implications, and subversive intent were all his guilty pleasures. This particular book, a bulky, inelegant hide-bound brick of rough-cut pages, was not even of particular interest to him. But he had promised the dean of the Natural Studies College that he would see what he could decipher, as a favor. Professor Bristlecone was a dear friend and mentor, even if his field of study bored Jameson to tears.

The book had been found in a midden site, of all places, wrapped in oilskins and peat, and so had been incredibly well preserved. Likely proto-Arcadian. Weather, hunting, farming. All dreadfully dull. At least, that’s what his cursory read suggested. But there was something he was missing, he could tell.

Jameson leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes and temples. It was getting late. The water-clock on his shelf indicated it was approaching midnight. How had the time passed so fast? He stood, pushing his chair back and stretching out his back and arms. His posture always took the brunt of his intense studying. He let his eyes wander over his office, his collection of artifacts and knick-knacks interspersed with volumes upon volumes of history texts, artwork, and specimens. He walked around the room, patting the bread-loaf-sized clay knight he kept on his desk, a gift from a dear friend. The tiny warrior was painted in faint, chalky hues, and a small lance tucked beneath one arm. Its empty eye sockets always amused the professor, even while unnerving his students and assistants. On the walls hung paintings, etchings, banners. A tattered flag gifted to him by the centaurs of the Shadow Mountain clan. Thousands of years of history. He paused in front of the one mundane item: a plain, ordinary mirror.

His reflection confirmed what he already knew. He was exhausted. Eyes drooping and with significant baggage. His usually well-groomed beard was a bit of a ratatoskr nest, and he noticed - with some resigned annoyance - several new grey whiskers. His hair was unkempt as well, and he untied his topknot to let the shoulder-length salt and pepper strands fall around his face.

He laughed ruefully at the image before him. “You are a real mess, professor. Get some rest.” Wandering over to his small bar setup, he poured himself some water from a pitcher before helping himself to a slice of hard cheese and a handful of pine nuts, and then opened a crystal bottle of amber liquid. “A night cap, then off to bed,” he told himself. “Bristlecone’s book will be here in the morning.”

Jameson let himself fall into the overstuffed chair in the corner and sipped his drink. The heat and sharp bite of the alcohol were balanced by a sweet smokiness that always made him smile. He pondered the text he had been reading and gazed up at the vaulted ceiling, unseeing. Words swam through his mind, swirling and shifting, pairing up and breaking apart like dance partners at a ball. Matching and unmatching, forming new ideas, and then moving on. In the space within his contemplation, he shuffled concepts and history around like a puzzle, looking for unlikely fits between seemingly unrelated pieces. Several seemed to take shape, but disintegrated as he pressed them. He nodded. It was all part of the process.

A knock at the door sent the images sputtering into the darkness of his thoughts. Who in the fifteen layers of the Hallowed World would be knocking at this time of night? With a grunt, he stood and walked to the heavy wooden door and unbolted it. He stared at his visitor.

“I had a feeling you might still be here,” said the woman in front of him. “You always did lose track of time when you were studying.” She was beautiful, and she was well aware of the fact. Long, auburn hair that reached her waist, and an always cut-too-low neckline dress. She barely reached his shoulder, but her presence filled most of the ballrooms she visited.

“Hello, Claudia,” he said, tamping his growing annoyance down. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet an old friend and colleague?” She flashed that smile, the one that had fooled him early in life and now raised every crimson standard in his defenses. He didn’t answer.

“Well? Aren't you going to invite me in? Or has the legendary hospitality of the Kandarian scholars fallen so far?” She was goading him.

“I was just on my way out. But please, come in. Tell me what you want, and then we can go on our separate ways.” Jameson stepped aside and let the woman in. The familiar hint of jasmine and vanilla wafted by him as she entered, lingering for a moment to look up at him with a smile.

“You look exhausted, Jamie,” she said, sitting down in one of the chairs. “You really should take better care of yourself.” Claudia crossed one leg over the other and clasped her fingers over her exposed knee.

Jameson sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “What do you want, Claudia?”

“Offer me a drink?” Her grin was mischief and malice, filigreed with secrets.

“Dammit, Claudia, I don’t have the time or patience for this.”

“Oh fine, you old curmudgeon. You know, you used to be fun!”

“I used to be foolish enough to listen to you,” he retorted. “And look where that got us.”

“As I recall, it got you in all kinds of places,” she purred, shooting him a truly indecent leer. Jameson was unfazed.

“Enough. What brings you here after midnight, acting like you're a twenty-year-old shavari dancer in training?”

“Well, that was rude, but I’ll let it go for now. I have business to discuss.”

“Business? What kind of business could we possibly have, Claudia? I don’t deal in stolen artifacts, and I doubt you’re here for a lecture on ancient Kosydar philosophy.”

“True, but I am looking for an expert.” She paused, eyeing him expectantly. She was having way too much fun with this.

Jameson rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’ll bite. Expert in what, exactly?”

Claudia could barely contain her giggle. “The Indigo Veil.” She was practically bouncing in her seat.

He gave her a cold stare. “That’s not funny, Claudia. Not even a little bit.”

“Oh, I think it is hilarious,” she laughed. Then her face went still. “But just listen to me, Jamie. They are abusing their power.”

“They always have.”

“It is worse now. You don’t see it here up in your tower, but they are disappearing people!”

“Again, that’s not new. You are probably just now noticing it because it affects someone you knew, right?”

“They are out of control!” Jameson suddenly realized that Claudia was terrified. All pretense of coyness and flirtation was gone. Her jaw was clenched, cheeks strained. “I think they are coming for me.”

He looked at her, studying her face. With a sigh, he poured a second glass and handed it to her, refilled his own, and sat in his chair.

“Start from the beginning,” he said. “And don’t leave anything out.”

Buy Me A Clay Knight