Anyway, the pace in being swept up in it all didn’t allow for much pondering. He was different, special, – that was enough for him at his age.

At thirteen all seemed well. His days were ordered, and civilized pleasures kept replacing his povertied past. Ordinary life was a big enough blessing for any orphan. Happily he was being talked to every day, and the family specialness he’d lost in his childhood, a thing he’d thought was gone forever, was increasingly back as he built up a fame in the place, along with his powers and the tattoos that were soon spreading to reach his temples, a wall of trophies that in one year outclassed most novices, – each of whom, unlike him, would have to stay learning within their own fields for years. In six months he clearly had the confident look of a young majus-in-the-making. “Hamar Baltshazar, MAJUS!”

By then he’d gained a reputation for quickly controlling the more lofty spirit-forms and dictating which abilities they could use. At his first real grin of prowess, but before he could wield power with any danger to the rest of them Hamar was summoned to the Red Priest’s chambers.

….

He was given no warning about the meeting. The summons came via elders arriving at his room one night carrying torches, chanting their entry and saying no more than, “Hail to you, Majus Minor,” as they gravely tossed him his cloak, and then, “Come!” for him to follow them through the halls.

The leader led the way with a torch as they filed deep down an unknown black tunnel whose incense-smell blew in Hamar’s face. Big hoops of light crossed over each other all down the passage to guard the path, making a menacing hum of energy as the hoops snapped and sparked as they crossed. Now, once more he didn’t know what to think!

The men cleared the rings away with special words as they descended, leaving darkness behind them as they went, and at the end a tiled doorway loomed up with the curved outline of a fruit of paradise. The leader bowed his head saying another unknown word, and they waited.

“Enter,” Aktiarh’s deep voice said from the other side. The heavy door rolled open effortlessly by itself.

Aktiarh’s chamber was much larger than Hamar’s and was lit by blue-glass oil lamps hanging like melons from the ceiling and colouring the room a greyish purple. A solid ebony-wood chair inlaid with ivory stood on a purple and red carpet, its white inlaid words glowing brilliant in the odd light and the carpet’s purple colours vividly standing out. Around the sides of the room were tall chests, a few more chairs, and an artfully curved display of ritual knives like a great snaggle-toothed smile, each knife with a majic emblem.

The elders bowed deeply to Aktiarh, “Most Noble,” they said. And then they arrayed themselves alongside Aktiarh, turning in a line to face Hamar as he stood alone. Their white faces eerily glowed pale violet in the lamplight, their lips and tattoos made black, and Hamar’s purple cloak looked radiant on him. In the silence Aktiarh solemnly told Hamar to kneel before him on a special hassock.

Hamar did as he was told and from behind him he heard the soft grating of a sword coming out of a casing! He didn’t dare look to left or right as he felt Aktiarh lay the cold steel onto one of his small shoulders and then onto the other. Then, with the blade resting heavy on Hamar’s head, Aktiarh announced to him the truth of Hamar’s highest destiny:

as if the weight of the academy itself was being placed on him, he was informed of his royal role in The Grand Death.

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