It is cold in this land, cold and damp. The sea breeze keeps the trees of the Green Vale shrouded in fog, and the chill of the air seems to fortify them against all manners of harm, and has caused the creatures of the forest to become fierce and hardy. Rising over the Green Vale is the White Torch, or the Spire. Sheer rock cliffs keep away the beasts of land; jagged crystal masses and thorns of iron impede the way up the higher slope and to the monastery beyond. This was the sanctuary of the greatest sorcerers of forgotten ages, and two such still keep the vigil of the Earth. 

The storm fills the valley beneath us, and it dares even to ascend the Spire. Far to the south-east, the edge of the sea would be just visible to me, and the keen eyes of Moriadnor would perceive even farther, from the sea’s far coast to the wastes of the Northern Realm. But beneath the storm, even the hunter-halls of the Green Vale below are obscured to him. A silence fills our chambers. 

Moriadnor, my mentor, steps away from his great windows, and down the stairs to the hearth. I am keeping it burning hot to stave off the chill, for the old sorcerer has been growing weaker for the last few moons. He takes the kettle from over the fire, pouring some of the steaming liquid into a mug. He settles into the armchair and sips pensively. My lip twists with concern; I had not been making tea, but heating up water for the washing, and Modiadnor seemed not to have noticed. I call upon some of the arts he has taught me, infusing the hot water with his favorite herbal brew. 

The gray-haired elder, who had faced armies that could not die, who had captured the soul of a dragon through the force of his mind, upon whose order the Wall of the Treinis Pass had been torn down, is startled by the tea, and laughs to himself, breaking the silence. 

“Thank you, my apprentice,” he says slowly, then sighs. A minute passes. “There is a power working against this land, and against me. No mere storm could shroud the world from my Sight, but no fiendish craft could pass through the wards I have set. One of them fails me: my eyes or my arts. Which do you think scares me more?”

I cannot answer. The name of the All-Seer is feared by tyrants and demons, and the man behind it fears nothing. 

The fire is now down to its embers. Morianor is silent again, idly forming shapes with the blueish smoke. He conjures a ghostly sword, then lets it drift away, as if he were suddenly distracted. 

“You know the lore and lays of Selián the Mighty, yes?”

“Of course,” I reply, “the first sorcerer, the founder of our order. He wrought the White Torch and cast its light over the world. His arts gave him a life ten thousand years long!”

“And he was your great-great-great-grandfather, of course. He was a strong and courageous man, and behind it a wise and compassionate one, too. His blessing at my birth gave me the Sight of Worlds, a power not even he possessed. But I have neglected your instruction in his lore: long before he was the mightiest of all men, he was a mere hunter in the Green Vale, the very woods below us.”

He summons the smoke again and conjures pictures of the story, like he always does when recounting a tale. While we are both usually quiet throughout the day, Moriadnor has a tendency to spare no words when he has a captive audience. And so he begins:

“Called Kyanar in those days, he was skilled in his work but little renowned. His alcove in the hunter-hall was furnished in deer-hides rather than furs, and it was placed far from the hearth.” Here I tossed a few logs into our fireplace. “One day he was ranging the woods with another man, who was called Trith. They were tracking a large deer, injured in the leg, and Kyanar felled it with his bow. Now, they had crossed into a valley where few hunters would tread. Beasts ancient and terrible were said to wander there, seeking prey in whatever form it would come in. They paid little heed to these rumors, though Trith kept watch as your forefather cleaned the carcass of his catch.

“Soon after the sun had set, the scent of blood and fire attracted a monster that the two had little cause to predict and less power to stop: a barrow-wight, long dead but ravenous enough to part from its tomb for a while. It moved with unearthly speed, and it had subdued Trith before he could shout. With all the haste and stealth of the dead, it moved off once more without a moment’s hesitation. Taking up his bow, Kyalar loosed an arrow at the fiend, and it struck its heart. But the monster ran on, and was gone a moment later. 

“Kyalar ran through night and day to reach the hunter-hall. He told the elders and captains of what had transpired, but to his dismay, they did not believe even his most desperate pleas for aid. Blood-soaked and panicked, telling stories of monsters, with his ally missing: they took these as signs of guilt. They stripped Kyalar of his name, and cast him out as a murder of kin and a traitor. 

“In this sorrow, a great wrath was kindled. Taking up the bow of his father and the swords of his ancestors, he returned to the valley and tracked the wight into its barrow. Such was his fury that a mantle of flame crowned him, casting a terrible light in the barrow. The wight grew weak and afraid, and Selián, the White Flame, smote the runic sigil that empowered it. The stone was destroyed, and the wight was no more. But as it crumbled away, it shrieked a dire curse in the tongue of fiends, which Selián and your line have suffered from ever since. 

“Selián stepped out of the barrow, and without fear slept on the forest floor. Rising with the sun, he recovered the deer and sacrificed it in fire as an offering to the dead. Taking the ash, he sanctified the barrow, and laid Trith to rest within, along with the marvelous grave-goods. 

“Selián went forth from that place, and using the arts that had been granted to him, he drove away the most fell of the monsters in that land. The work done, he journeyed far to the west, seeking the knowledge to grow his power. His anger was lessened and his wisdom grew, and he became truly a sorcerer. On this journey, he was joined by two others, Avira the Valiant and my father Moradis, and in them as well the spark of sorcery was kindled. But the curse of the wight began to weaken him, and after a time he returned to the Green Vale. 

“He did not go back to the hunter-hall where he had lived; rather, he began the mightiest work he had done that far, and indeed that he ever did. Reaching out his arms, a column of stone rose from the Earth, taller than the clouds and unshakable. He crowned this mount with great masses of crystal, which gave it the image of a torch alight with white flame. He marked a path up the steep slope, cleverly hidden from all but his companions. At the high peak, Selián conjured this monastery, with its gardens and guarding wall, to be the sanctuary of our kind and a watchtower over the world. Here he rested for a time, training many in his ways, before departing once more.” 

Moriadnor is silent now. I had hoped to learn more about the first sorcerer’s gift, but it seems that knowledge is lost to the ages. The enchanted smoke forms a tall mountain rising over a swirling cloud. A hand suddenly reaches out from inside the mountain, then just as quickly my mentor dispels the image. I turn to him, but his expression silences me. There is something troubling him deeply. 

It is several minutes before he continues. “The curse of a barrow-wight is rarely told of in the legends of old. A barrow-wight is lesser in might than others of that kind, but it alone wields this instrument of vengeance, and of renewal for itself. This malediction may lie dormant for years, waiting a hundred generations before striking. It is told that a new mage-wight shall arise from the barrow, wreaking its vengeance upon the one who slew it. I believe that this time is now upon us, and it is responsible for this tempest which obscures the world from me.”

“You mean to say, Master, that there is an undead mage out there, and it is…after me?”

“I believe so, and I was blind to not realize it before. If it was always within our warding enchantments, then they could not have barred its approach. And there is something about your aura as well, subtle but definite: a sign of change to come. Will you embrace this change and follow in the footsteps of your ancestors? Will you come with me to defeat this monster  for the last time?”

I rise to my feet, and nod solemnly. The aged sorcerer smiles back at me. 

“Thank you, Elyan. I have taught you enough of the Greater arts that you shall make an excellent companion, but like our forefathers, we need a third ally. And I believe I know just the place to look…”