This time he ate more slowly, washed more thoroughly, dared to rewind himself with a clean linen loin cloth, and put on the fresh tunic. As if he’d always done it he carefully combed and re-braided his newly smoothed hair. Then he put his feet into his fabulous shoes, impressed with their soft feel even more. Just when he’d put on his new coat, he heard the red Priest talking to what sounded like a group of attendants arriving outside in the hallway.
One of the men barked out a command and the door banged open. The Red Priest come regally into the room. The Priest stood central and did a short bow of his head to the boy. In his hands he had a small golden box. The entourage of elders, wearing robes with even more of the strange designs on them and with silver emblems on their foreheads, apparently of rank, kept filing into the room until they filled it to the walls.
When the silence grew, and seeing Hamar suitably awed, the Red Priest began the formal introduction of the eldership of the academy to him one by one. “Ras Fatah – Custodian of the Scrolls, Dicones – Chief of Conjurors, Mir Dascar – Master of the Sacred Anointing Oils”, none of the names or titles registering to the boy as each man bowed in turn. Last of all the Priest did a short dip of his head and announced himself as, “The Grand Priest, Aktiarh,” all the men bowing their heads at the title.
Then there was silence. The Priest looked to the ceiling and lifted the gold box high, exalting it, then, bringing it down he fixed his stare onto Hamar. Ceremonially he opened its lid, and a red glow shone out of it like a small dawn!
In the box was a sparkling ruby as big as an Egyptian-goose egg! Only, it was more than a ruby. It pulsed with its own glow like a beating heart! Its pumping red light tinted the whole room.
Its flashing light held them all, and then with some strange significance it grew darker until it was almost black. Without knowing what he was doing Hamar shot his hand out to touch it, and all the deep red light seemed to go into him! – leaving the stone clear white! The Priest seemed pleased, the others smiled, and the box was shut.
The preliminary ritual having been done, for the boy’s benefit the Priest began reciting their long sacred poem, a litany of the subterranean colony’s history. The rhythmic verses droned out about its ancient founder, its powerful rituals carrying on during the lifetimes of many long-gone civilizations, the infamous day of The Massacre, and finally ending with the surviving human-killers being reassembled to preserve their knowledges out of sight for centuries in this labyrinth of caves, where they still got on with its powers and practices, unseen.
As Hamar shrank within himself at the imagery of it, the Priest warned, “The existence of this academy is known only to dealers in hidden majics. Secret, do you understand?” Aktiarh’s eyes were cold as he solemnly traced a pattern in the air right next to Hamar’s ears and then touched the boy’s lips with his finger.
“Anyone telling of it to others will instantly suffocate from a curse.”
Hamar’s lips and ears burned, and the steady eyes of the others confirmed the curse was now in place. “The Mystia come from every nation,” Aktiarh went on, “summoned for apprenticeship, travelling across deserts, through many mountains and rivers, even through other spiritual dimensions, here to master others, or themselves,” he paused to pin Hamar with his glare before saying the last,
“and to master Death.” The gold box was shut and passed to an elder.
When Hamar made no move the Priest readied himself to speak of a greatness, all of them locked on Hamar’s face:
“You are no skinny beggar! Hear me well!
The Priest reared tall, “You, Hamar Mi-sha Baltshazar” he said grandly, “are here by a calling beyond the most high callings amongst us! You are of an ancient line of blood! Secret down all the lines of your family births! You do not know yourself, boy of Musar!
Son of Majics! You are the royal heir to a line of spiritual kings! Beyond any of Earth! Sent here to be…
our next Master.”
Hamar withered, but couldn’t unlock his eyes from Aktiarh’s. Two of the elders solemnly forced Hamar down onto one knee at Aktiarh’s feet as the Red Priest ordered, “You will repeat. ‘I, Mystes, son to none and heir to all in air,” – they jolted him to whisper it, “do pledge myself to keep the sacred cover. May the pain of a day’s strangling be mine should I break the seal of secrecy,” the Priest’s stare bore down like a lance being aimed at the boy’s face, “and may the Sacred Dark enclose me forever!”
With his eyes shut tight Hamar finished repeating the words and then his head dropped down. One of them lifted his head back up and squeezed Hamar’s mouth open to jam a special leather rod all the way to his back teeth.
The Priest was handed another case, a smaller one, and took out a thin gold stick, its point like a needle, and then two of the men held Hamar’s head steady as the Priest carefully pricked a small star pattern into the center of his forehead, inking it in with with green juice from a frog-shaped inkwell. The pin-pricks stung and bled a little, but Hamar bit down hard on the leather and didn’t cry out as they blotted his head with special ashes. They assured him that over the years other lines and symbols would be added to the tattoo as Hamar mastered one level after another.
Then they chanted as they rocked the rod free from his jaws, and poured anointing oil on his head. When another strange power came down all over him Hamar went dizzy and this time he was actually sick.
They quickly collected the liquid in a special silver vessel engraved with signs, and covered it with a lid, whisking it reverently away for some unthinkable use. After raising him gently to stand straight again they stripped off his ordinary tunic and coat and made him put on a special long tunic and a cloak with a hood. Then they surrounded him.
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