Everything Has a Price
Total Read time: 28-42 minutes
They rose up a spiral staircase made of finely cut limestone, each of their steps returning an echo from the darkness. Sconces holding black iron torches sparked with blue flame as the two figures approached, casting their shadows on the walls—one large and round, the other short and slim—then dimmed and died as the figures grew distant.
Theryn was captivated by the fire, keeping his gaze forward in anticipation of the next set of torches to light up and push away the darkness. And so they did, every time, without fail. He wondered what it was that made them work; how did the torches know when to light up, and when to dim?
He ruled off the mundane explanation first, not necessarily because it was impossible, but because it was dull. Sure, there could have been pressure plates under the stone, connected through a mechanism inside the walls to a system of tubes, feeding the torches with oil, and igniting them with a spark. That wouldn’t explain the color of the flame, but Theryn was sure there was a way to account for that through non-magical means. Now that he thought about it, he had to admit that a mechanism like that would be rather impressive. But no, this was magic, he was sure of it, and magic had rules.
Was it based on distance? He wondered and hesitated for a moment, hovering his foot over the next step. What would happen if he made his way back down, or stood in place while his father continued upward? If it were based on distance, the next set of torches would—
“Come along, son, we haven’t got all day!” Brevon scolded, his deep voice echoing through the spiral stairwell. He shivered as he heard it return to him and looked ahead into the darkness. He wasn’t nearly as impressed with the torches as his son was; there was an eeriness to it he couldn’t explain, a feeling that they were being stalked by something, or someone.
He shook his head and clicked his tongue, shoving the thought out of his mind, then continued on his way up the stairs. Theryn followed obediently, his book hugged tightly to his chest, and his head lowered with the shame of being scolded.
***
The stairs ended in an enormous double door, and torches sparked to life, one at each side, as the two of them came before it. The door’s cast-iron surface was etched with a large arcane symbol, the Pentacle of Pentacles, an encircled five-pointed star, with five smaller duplicates at each end of its star-points. Being at the center of the door, the symbol was cut in half by the vertical slit where the two doors met.
Theryn stared at it with wide-eyed recognition; the thick book he held in his hands had an identical arcane mark embossed on its old, wounded cover.
“Alright,” Brevon sighed, short of breath after the long climb. He drew a handkerchief from his jacket and wiped off his brow, then continued to sort out the rest of his clothes in an attempt to appear more presentable. “I hope you are ready, boy,” he said, while tightening a leather belt, hidden under the folds of his belly, then reached beneath his thick beard to straighten the collar of his shirt. “You don’t get a chance like this often… most people don’t get a chance like this at all, so for once in your life, do me a favor and do not screw this up!”
Theryn lowered his head again, wide-eyed wonder replaced with another pang of shame. He knew he was a ‘screw up’, in his father’s eyes, in the world’s eyes, but it wasn’t like he was doing it on purpose. He had tried to be good, do things the right way, but somehow, that never seemed to work.
It was all very confusing; sometimes the right way was the right way, but other times it wasn’t, and there seemed to be no way to tell which way was which until the situation was resolved. Like that one time, when Theryn stole his brother’s toy horse and lied about it. That was the wrong thing to do; the right thing would have been to tell the truth and give it back. But then, on another occasion, when Brevon told a client that a vase which was sculpted three weeks before, was in fact centuries old, well then, then! Telling the truth and correcting his father was the wrong thing to do. It didn’t make any sense.
People were always like that, they would say one thing and mean the other, and it was impossible to tell what they actually meant, or wanted, or thought—at least, Theryn had no way to tell. That was why he preferred books, especially teaching books, about history, theology, and philosophy, about different cultures and faraway places, about magic and the Five Immortal Realms. They were complicated, and there were many times he couldn’t understand them, but they never lied, or tried to mislead, or obfuscate. Books wanted to be understood, and so, they said what they meant, and meant what they said, and you either understood or you didn’t. And if you didn’t… Well, you could always come back later and try again.
People weren’t like that, life in general wasn’t like that, and when he thought about it, Theryn decided that books were really so much better than life, or people, for that matter.
“Are you listening to me, boy?” Brevon squeezed Theryn’s shoulder.
“Yes, father… I-I’ll do my best.”
“Good,” Brevon smiled. “Maybe that book of yours will do some good for a change.”
Theryn didn’t know what his father meant to imply, but whatever it was, he didn’t like it, and his grip tightened around the tome.
It was a tattered old thing, but Brevon thought it could still fetch a good price if sold to the right collector. Unfortunately, whenever he tried to trade it, the boy would throw a tantrum, and whatever price was offered, it was simply not worth the headache.
Setting his jacket straight, Brevon decided they were ready and reached for the door knocker, but before he even touched it, the doors began to move on their own, creaking and thrumming as they opened inward, revealing a long hall ending in a study. A red carpet covered the floor, paving the way forward, and natural light shone in through several long windows, at the sides of the hall, and at the back end of the study.
“Enter,” said a tall old man with a long white beard, seated behind a shiny wooden desk at the end of the study, his eyes cast down on the many manuscripts before him.