Much of his youth was spent in the dwellings of his master. 

Of course, this was often against her will. It was all so long ago, you see. He is old – older than he appears. His great deeds, his feats of magic, precede him by centuries of bard-song and legend.

He’s sure she doesn’t mind. She would not berate an old man.

It is with a burst that Ambrose flies into Taralda’s tower, black hair soaring behind him like the tail of a comet.

“They’re hiring!”

The Head of Abjuration gives only a very brief, very small sigh.

Ninth Circle in two years. Two hundred years, and still he hasn't learned to knock. 

Elves do have a tendency to... endure. They do not tire of their lives' works easily, if at all. And the Academy has an effect, too - it's easy to lose track of the centuries here. Taralda looks much the same as she ever did, though in truth she is a little wiser, a little stronger, and much more in love than she was when Ambrose was her apprentice. 

Of course, there had been some unpleasantness when one strange night they had found the castle full of very puzzled, rather jumpy ancient wizards, but being wizards it had immediately devolved into a symposium on what in the name of Mordenkainen's left testicle just happened. 

There was, it had turned out, a Head of Abjuration in ancient days. And the wizards of lost Raikoth were more learned in their art by far than any of them. But College statutes were very clear: being raised from the dead did not reinstall one into an abandoned office. 

This point had required some... emphasis. 

There's a familiar rattle and clink. Access to the finest spirits of the highest towers of the Lost City had done much to cheer her up, throughout the occasionally uncomfortable adjustment process. 

"Ambrose, I really do desp- they're what?"

“They’re hiring.”

He’s grabbed her by the shoulders now, hovering over her desk. Torbjald would be proud of the fire in his eyes. 

“They’ve written Yara off. They’re out there, somewhere, but that means they’ve left their chair wide open for the taking. Taralda – the position is open.”

"...Thank you for the suggestion, Ambrose. Yes, I think I shall send a letter expressing interest in the position."

He stills, staring at her.

“…Taralda,” he says slowly. “I came to ask for your letter of recommendation. For myself.”

"I see."

"I shall of course provide one."

Something in her absolutely refuses to request letters of recommendation from Ambrose. 

She does her best to look normal while she works magic in her head. Truth be known, she was never very good at Telepathy, though she would sooner try to trim Tabitha's nails than admit it.

Headmistress? May I request your letter of recommendation for the position of Archmage of Abjuration? Most urgently, if that is possible?

You may certainly request it!

Now she had to fight tooth and nail to retain her position. But happily, one of the sitting Archmages happened to owe her a favour. 

It's almost disappointing. She was so close to working out the mystery.

Ambrose floats down, folding his arms. His eyes have narrowed.

“You’re sending a message to Tessa, aren’t you.”

Taralda is so predictable.

It’s a good job he thought to do the same earlier this morning, when he’d just received the news. If his pitch went as well as he hopes it did, he should receive a letter from the Headmistress first. He even sent her Imperial cookies, wrapped around Obsidian in a little ribbon, as a bribe.

Happily, however, Ambrose has no grasp of politics. 

Taralda doesn't either, outside of plotting her way onto the college wine committee, but her wife has an alarmingly good understanding. The actual mechanisms of power in Raikoth are hidden, obviously (well, it was obvious to her), and it must be seriously effective considering how very few civil wars there seem to be going on right now, but that doesn't mean there isn't tension. 

She contacts Mithrandil next, and then Atalia. Mithrandil's Queen is supposed to be strong, aggressive; Atalia is the definition of passive. And if Torbjald is right, well... the Archmages will simply choose whatever narrative they like best. 

Mithrandil? They had tea together last week. 

He smiles politely, a mere sheen over those calculating eyes his colleague has come to know so well. “Well, I’d best be off or Galora will actually kill me. It’s our one night away from the kids this week. The… many generations of them.”

With Taralda as his competition, Ambrose knows he has some campaigning to do. He… might not have the job in the bag after all.

…

Nonsense. That position is his.

It is on, Taralda.

He floats backwards, hands behind his back, still with that same overly-sweet smile. “I expect my letter by this evening!”

To whom it may concern, 

It has been brought to my attention that the wizard Ambrose, Dean of Silvermoon, Wizard-Lord of House Deneith, Master of Abjuration, wishes to be considered for the position of Andondi [this in flowing Elvish script], Archmage of Abjuration.

His impressive capabilities and histories of service in the administration and defence of the Academy, including our defence against the armies of the Black City (see attached), quite aside, he is a most able wizard. 

The letter continues in this vein for some time. 

It's as good a recommendation as she can possibly make. She isn't going to cheat.

Even in Raikoth as it was in legend, there are not actually all that many Ninth-Circle wizards in the world. The ones who seem like they might be on the verge of grasping the True Dweomers, far fewer still. 

Both Ambrose and Taralda are asked to present themselves before the Council!

And he is dressed in his finest, of course. With centuries of being married to Galora (and of Taralda threatening to not go outside with him if he wore that), Ambrose has certainly refined his wizardly style.

Although he continues to fear the day he runs into the original owner of his Robes of Abjuration.

The first thing that he does when he sees Taralda (and when he’s made sure that no one else is listening) is, of course, drive her insane.

“Dean Deneith has shown remarkable determination in every facet of his work. The Department of Abjuration at the Silvermoon Academy of Wizardry is, in many ways, indebted to him.” 

He recites passages from her letter of recommendation with the kind of grin that just invites being exiled to a Maze.

"Indeed. I am afraid that 'remarkable determination' was the best I could do for 'terrifying recklessness in the face of danger'." 

“And that ‘terrifying recklessness’ is the reason you’re standing here today. You’re welcome.”

Just a little Maze. Just a little one, as a treat.

He straightens instantly when they are at last approached, pulling on his serious face.

"Do you recall the time you brought a chunk of flesh from the accursed corpse of an aberrant thing that should never have been sealed by long-dead gods into my office?"

"We could hear you."

Other than the slightest pink blush, Ambrose takes this in stride. He bows his head in respect. “My apologies, Archmage. I hope we did not disturb you.”

The soundproofing here could do with some work.

Why would they soundproof it? Then they wouldn't be able to overhear people. 

"We have decided to have you both speak before us at once. Is this acceptable to you?"

His brow furrows. “May I enquire as to the reasons behind this decision?”

She raises her eyebrows, but her lips don't move. "You may. We decided that a direct comparison would be most efficient."

Efficient? The world isn’t going to end if the archmages take a few extra minutes to make their decision.

Fine.

“Taralda, with your consent, of course?”

You'd be surprised. They tend to get... tetchy. Especially if they miss lunch.

"Of course. Yes."

This is a slight change of plan, but she is very well prepared. 

Tabitha is a good listener, it turns out.

The Council Chamber is at the top of the Tower of Art, the highest point in the city. Sunlight blazes in through vast decorated windows, sending gemstone patterns dancing across the polished floor. 

Six of the most powerful wizards in the world stare at them. 

There is Gravalyn, robed in scarlet, her gaze intense and her expression always serious. There is someone who currently looks like an old man in golden robes, but this means little for the Alchymist, the master of Transmutation. There is a thing like a huge wizened turtle, expression unreadable (to those who know her well, she is actually looking rather amiable). There is a blue-robed dwarf with a beard as big as he is. There is a startlingly pale elf with black-and-purple hair and glowing purple eyes, whom it's best not to stare at too long. There's a kobold, perched on his throne like a child, with a keen look in his orange eyes and a staff of black-and-white wood. 

They aren't saying anything just yet.

Posture straight yet relaxed, he bows his head again, smiling softly. He’s stood before powerful wizards before; he is one.

Ambrose does not speak first.

One of them will.

"Hypothetical situation: you are a member of this Council, and it turns out that another Council member has secretly fed yet another Council member a love potion brewed with incredibly dark magic. It had no effect, since the other member is not a complete moron and never goes anywhere without Mind Blank, but still. How would you argue the situation should be resolved?"

She is not smiling. She hates these things. Shouldn't they have people for this? They're the best in the world at magic, not at recruitment. She doesn't ask, because then someone would give her an answer and it would probably involve words like "majesty of the state" and "dignity of the Tower" and somewhere a fairy would die. 

"Oh, and the first person to speak gets bonus marks, but if you both start talking at once we'll mark you both down compared to all the other applicants."

This, of course, is a test. It's a very simple test, but an important one. A lot of people who know the theory panic under pressure.

They also don't actually have other applicants, but Taralda and Ambrose may not know that.

“Taralda,” he offers graciously, gesturing with a hand for her to state her answer first.

The Archmage had offered bonus points to whoever spoke first, not answered first. Not that he’s taking their offer of ‘bonus points’ seriously – or the claim that there is anyone else in the known world who could rival him or Taralda.

...OK, well, that's not actually an answer she was expecting, but it's not wrong. If a little... heuristic.

"Ahem. Under the circumstances, it would seem prudent to investigate how this poisoner was ever appointed to the Council at all, as the most urgent matter, after removing them forthwith to face justice as anyone else."

“That is certainly a proficient answer to an interesting question,” Ambrose says smoothly after allowing Taralda’s answer a moment.

Head still tilted down, he looks up at Nythera. “I would argue that such a public denunciation may lead to unpleasant… rumours. To holes in the tightly-knitted web that is the Council, which as I recall, holds rebuilding to be in its best interests. I furthermore believe, as was evident in the Siege of Silvermoon, that we work best to protect our own when we work together. What, in this… hypothetical scenario, does the victim have to suggest?”

Please get the hint, Taralda. Let’s work together here, as we aways have done. We are only ever better for it.

"Indeed. Hopefully, in this scenario, our justice system is capable of... discretion. We do not, after all, wish to effectively punish people for working with us."

"The 'victim' in this case suggested execution." Her voice is quite carefully neutral.

Suggested. Past tense? This doesn’t feel like much of a hypothetical. The Council really should be more careful about the information they choose to hand out. Unless silence is part of the test somehow – trust.

“And did the perpetrator resist questioning, or attempt to run or fight?”

"No. She confessed, and appeared before the Council of her own volition."

“Admirable, aside from the circumstances. What did you do with her then?”

She cuts into the sudden tense silence. "Assuming that execution is the gravest penalty the Council imposes, it would seem prudent to be at least a little less extreme, so as to leave the accused better off for having confessed and cooperated."

"If not by execution, how would you address the problem of a rogue Archmage?" She's looking at Ambrose.

Leave them alone in a room with Galora for a night.

”Seeing as they appear to have been complacent in your judgement, I would have suggested an attempt at reform before anyone resorts to magefire. A trusted cleric. An investigation into the circumstances of their involvement with dark magic. And a permanent revocation of their position as Archmage.”

He’s been married to the Most High for two centuries. He’s aware that this was a predictable answer if they had done any research on him, but it doesn’t make it any less right.

He turns to his former master.

“What do you think, Taralda?”

Challenge accepted.

"I concur, but it does occur to me that all this would be a substantial drain on the Council's resources, and that therefore the perpetrator should be expected to provide compensation, either monetarily or by service."

“An excellent point – why not both? Reparations, and tireless pursuit of a cause that the recipient of the illegal potion holds near.”

He falls silent, meeting the gaze of the Archmagi.

“How close did we get?”

"Surprisingly so."

He nods, but strangely, he doesn’t seem smug. “I am sorry to hear it.”

He stirs. "And are you similarly prepared to defend against threats from unlikely quarters?"

The Dean of Defence raises an eyebrow.

“I hope that the courier did not lose my application as it journeyed to the esteemed Tower of Art. It contained much evidence that I believe more than satisfies your question – unless you seek alternative criteria, Archmage?”

"That's the sort of thinking that gets the world ended, when you're on the Council. The sort of thinking that did get the world ended. A few days ago, from the perspective of most of us here. The threats we face are not necessarily going to be the sort we're accustomed to, or the sort you are accustomed to just from defending your school."

His lips curl into something that is almost a smile. “Ha. Of course.”

The Archmage would be surprised.

“There is only one way to find out.”

She cuts in hastily. "While Ambrose is correct that no defence can truly be sure to work until it is tested, he has shown the ability to respond to unexpected problems rapidly. I believe an example of the sort of... frankly, paranoid... sort of preparation you are looking for obtains in the procedures we used in investigating and combatting the Black City, for example."

"Should I find this reassuring?"

His teeth flash. “No. We are not here to reassure you.”

“There is no doubting the greatness of the former Archmage Yara, and yet even they were unable to contain the Doom. I am not so bold as to make empty promises, but we do appear to be the best candidates available.”

Ambrose reaches into his pocket and draws out a letter, wax-sealed with the Deneith family crest. “On that note, I believe that Taralda’s own application is not, in fact, complete. I present to you my letter of recommendation.”

He holds it out to Gravalyn with a bow.

She takes it, opens it, reads it at a glance (you can just do that, when you are the de facto head of the Archmages' Council, with access to certain magics not considered wise to disseminate) and places it neatly to one side. "I see."

"Ambrose. Take for example the defence of the city itself. Describe to me as best you can the security of the city."

“Incredibly annoying,” he responds. “But beautifully crafted, that Cloister spell – I keep trying to learn how to do it, but I’m still getting the material components right.” He then adds hastily: “Don’t worry, I’m practising on a terrarium.”

It has… not been very long since Raikoth returned. Ambrose has not done very much else since. Galora is considerably annoyed.

”I will also say that the security of the city currently needs some re-jigging. Most crucially, you don’t actually have an Archmage of Abjuration at the moment, but I hope that problem will resolve itself soon. But… have any of you heard the story of the People of the Cave? Those men who took a nap with their dog and woke up in the future and had no idea how to get around? That might, unfortunately, be the majority of you. Much has happened to the world since you left. Your magic is… quite frankly immaculate, far superior to anything the world has managed to craft in your absence – but your strategies for employing it cannot remain the same.”

He lets that sit for a moment.

”Taralda, any thoughts?”

"To craft an Abjuration, imagine that you are writing a chronicle of why your ward survived a thousand years, despite every cunning attempt to breach it.  In the case of the city - its security partially deflected the very end of days, so a mere increase in strength would be a waste. Future emergencies are likely to come from unforeseen directions."

He still looks dissatisfied.

Ambrose nods in agreement as Taralda speaks. 

He would roll his eyes at Diego if that weren’t an Archmage of Raikoth.

“Have any of you followed up on Yara, by the way? That’s a huge security breach right there. They know all about the protections on the city.”

"That's a little paranoia, at least! That's one specific possible vulnerability you've noticed, and you're imagining one specific way to block it, by 'following up' on them - but can you do what Taralda said? If you were in charge of designing city security, how would you write that chronicle, so it ended with Raikoth safe for a thousand years, bearing in mind that breach you just mentioned?"

Gods, this kobold is irritating. 

“Taralda has graced me with worse assignments.”

He takes a second to think. Only a second.

“A thousand years is a little under-ambitious, don’t you think, Archmage? A system of defence should ideally be adaptable, malleable, regenerative. There is no one great protection against all the little cracks, seen and unseen. A… Ship of Theseus approach, shall we say. A million constituent parts within one greater whole. When one plank begins to rot, we simply fix it or replace it with another. A system.”

He smiles, then. “Now, if you wish for me to actually write that book, I fear it will take more time than you currently have on your hands.”

Well, he's voting for Taralda.

"A different question."

He takes a deep breath.

"This is not widely spoken of, but it is a complex issue before the Council. Outside of our borders, in the wider world, there are... uncounted horrors. Some places merely poor and violent, where plague and famine run rampant, and wars slay whole peoples, and a tyrant lord may rape or torture or slaughter a dozen innocent peasants in a day and not think of it again. Those are the relatively better places. Who knows what evils lurk in other countries? Or beyond our world? And so the question arises sometimes of... expansion. Of growing our borders, bringing tyrants to heel and setting free their slaves by force. What think you?"

Only Taralda or the particularly keen-sighted would notice the way Ambrose’s right eye twitches.

He knows. Two-hundred years, and he has not forgotten.

“I say that that is a dangerous question, and only if we can be sure that our own city does not require the resources, we must cautiously proceed on a case-by-case basis. The role of saviour is all too easily assumed mistakenly.”

He leaves the floor open for Taralda to speak. He has been doing too much of the talking.

"I note that this sounds an awful lot like a conversation on which one looks back, in ten or twenty or a hundred years, and says wistfully 'And that is where it all started to go wrong.'"

He nods in agreement. The rage remains, hidden, deep in the depths of the part of him that remains a young man – but age has taught him not to act rashly.

Ambrose waits patiently for the next question.

It isn't easy even for a god to peer into the Tower of Art, even though She has permission and blessing, even though Her champion* has been welcomed here, even when a mortal is very closely aligned with Her interests. 

Fortunately, there is one very important advantage that Good has over Evil.

Aphrodite. Tell me about this mortal. 

*A position that another god might call "Most High Priest" or some such thing, but Iomedae doesn't see Herself as having worshippers so much as allies.

...Now, where do I begin...

"A case, then. To the far north lie distant mountain lands, thousands of miles of dark haunted forest. Much of our work involves defending that border. Dangerous things lie there. It happens that a valley there has been... showing strange properties. The barrier between worlds is thin there. There are some who believe we should seize it, pressing our borders outwards, to examine it more closely - it would also leave us in a position to accept refugees from nearby countries. Alternatively, we could devote those resources to further efforts at diplomacy with the extremely secretive nation of Kerallas, across the Auranach Desert, which the Church claims has secret involvement with the Powers Below. What should we prioritise?"

“Kerallas may continue to have our face. In the meantime, the strange disturbance to the north may have the hand we hold behind our backs. We are not a monolith; diplomacy with the Quiet Kingdom need not take a hit. Adventurers are a liability, yes, but there are those who can be trusted to deal effectively with potential issues. I should know, I was one myself. We do not know enough about the thinning barrier to decide just yet whether to face it head-on; we would maintain contact with said adventurers and evaluate the situation as it develops. Besides, it would provide otherwise restless and powerful adventurers with an… enrichment activity. Something to swing their oversized swords at, so that the itch doesn’t develop into a problem for us.”

She is long practised and has a reputation for keeping a straight face, so she doesn't burst into hysterical laughter at that. 

He notices. He smiles. “Too much self-reliance won’t get us anywhere.”

Taralda knows that ‘self-reliant’ is Ambrose’s censored way of saying ‘arrogant.’

“The strength of Raikoth as a country does not solely lie in the Council of Archmages. We are each a link of the chainmail. Perhaps, last time, you fell into the trap of being spread too thin.”

No, but it mostly lies in her. 

That's a problem. She is not hasty, she is not prideful, she can learn from her own mistakes - and she has learned that Raikoth fell last time because she was the only competent person left alive after Hakim, and she will inevitably have some blind spot. 

Ambrose isn't wrong. For her country to endure, its citizens need to grow up. It's why she went along with the Church of Iomedae, for all her misgivings. 

She doesn't actually have a vote on the Council. 

But she does have a lot of influence. 

Taralda. I have a proposition for you...

"I withdraw my application. I recommend that you take on Ambrose as Archmage."

Ambrose’s attention shoots to her, his hair whipping around. “What?”

His jaw all but hangs open. What is this? What is her game here?

She can keep quite a good poker face, actually. 

NO NO NO-

"That's an... interesting choice."

"Some would even say concerning."

"I have learned more of the details of the position, and at this time I no longer wish to be considered." Because she's just had a better offer. 

Oh, she has missed being able to give Ambrose orders. 

He stares at her with piercing eyes.

…

No, this isn’t a ploy.

Whatever this is, he will find out.

Great. Now it doesn’t feel like he’s earned the position. He’ll have to make up for that, he supposes.

He turns back to the Archmagi slowly, a smile on his lips. “May I take my seat now, then?”

"You must create a Staff of your own, first."

AHSHAHDHSGSHXHSHDJSNXXNSNXHSJAHSAJHAHSJSHGSAAAAAAAAAAAADFJDKSLAKKAKDKKDKSKLKKLHJAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAJAJAJJFKDKKKKKDDJJDJAAAAAAAADDBXNXNDJIEJDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111!1!!!!1!!!1!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!!11!1111!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He is the picture of calm. “Of course. It is an honour to be accepted into your ranks, Archmagi. As a child, I was raised on tales of your deeds.”

As soon as they are dismissed, he is grabbing Taralda and demanding she explain everything.

This is how the Staves of the Magi out of ancient Raikoth are made: 

Carved from the wood of a flying rowan, lightning-struck, cut with a named blade; scribed with the Nine Circles of Wizardry in purest mithril; woven all about with secret spells; topped with a jewel, and with a core of a phoenix's feather; bathed in the blood of the earth, and sealed with the strength of an unborn babe. 

"I got a better offer. Rest assured that we shall be working together quite closely."

“Explain.”

"I wonder if I should?" She is enjoying herself immensely.

Ambrose isn’t sure whose hair he’s going to pull out first: his or Taralda’s.

“Have we not been friends for centuries? Are you not the godmother to my children? Come on.”

She inspects her fingernails. "The Council has other functions, beyond what is publicly known. You may be apprised of them when you have taken your seat - they are most secret. Apparently there was substantial feeling that you are correct, that Raikoth was spread too thin last time. And so arrangements are being made to... support the Council in these other functions. And provide oversight. I am to be given authority over certain security duties of the Council." Which, naturally, will involve the Gate falling under her authority. 

Ambrose is still, staring at her. Taralda presumes with much smug satisfaction that he is seething.

The next thing she knows, she has been plucked from the ground as is being spun around. Both of their feet have left the air; he laughs and squeezes her tight, their robes whipping around them.

“Taralda, that’s amazing!”

Elves are very light. It's not hard to do.

She turns purple.

She gasps for breath. "I... your enthusiasm is... appreciated. Archmage."

“So… what does that make you? Arch-archmage? Like great-grandmother? Can I call you that?”

He is still holding her cheerily, seemingly unaware of her discomfort. 

"Yes! Yes you may! Let me go!"

She is going to be his superior again. All is well.

“Thank you for the permission, Great-Grandmother.” He places her, rather unceremoniously, on the ground.

This may be the most terrible news he has ever gotten in his life, but Ambrose’s spirits can’t be dampened today.

He is the Gate. Taralda is… a mysterious cool job that he totally plans on using as an inside eye into the real workings of Raikoth.

Oh, he HAS to tell Galora. 

Oh, gods, he's never going to stop calling her that is he. 

As though he knows exactly what she is thinking, Ambrose is grinning at her. He holds out his hand in quite a handsome gesture. “Care for a ride back to Altgrove?”

She extends a hand-

But Ambrose is somewhere else.

He is sitting somewhere, somewhere like a castle, solid stone walls of a comforting steel-grey, high narrow fortified windows that nonetheless blaze with sunlight.

Not again.

An internal sigh. He looks around.

Probably a Good god this time, considering the quite nice decor and the general noble ambience.

Now, which One is it? Sirenna, maybe? Or is it That New One whose Name keeps escaping him…? Iodine?

This truly keeps happening at the most inconvenient times.

“Uh… Hello?”

"Hello, Ambrose."

She's sitting opposite him - a sharp-eyed woman of about forty, heavily armoured and looking grim, but not angry. 

It comes to him softly.

“Iomedae.”

She inclines her head. 

"Why do you think we are speaking?"

Without thinking, he mirrors her gesture. 

Breathless, he speaks. “Is there some danger you have come to warn me about?”

"In a sense." She leans forwards. "Many of the workings of the gods are hidden; but you, Ambrose, already know many things mortals were not meant to know, and so it is more straightforward to speak with you. And what you said before the Council- well." She smiles humourlessly. "You may find it strange by what you know of gods, but that was rather a lot like an Iomedaean prayer. And once, very long ago, I too was a mortal, and so it is... you would not go far wrong understanding it as 'easier'... for Me to talk to mortals than for other gods."

"I tell you this to sate your wizardly curiosity, as something of a gift."

"In truth, the situation is far more dire than was vouchsafed to you. What do you know of the rest of your world? Beyond the borders of what you call the Known World?"

She was once a mortal? His wizardly curiosity only sharpens.

He keeps a leash on it.

With a grimace, he answers. “I have dedicated my centuries of life to exploring the unknown. I have discovered both beauty and danger there, and yet it remains as elusive as the day I started.”

The Gate’s stomach twists. “What must I do?”

"Raikoth in truth exists as a sort of... a small ring of firelight in the darkness. As you would understand it, there is nowhere else. Many interests are involved in keeping it that way. If it were to begin to spread itself by force, as you suggested, then it would open itself to reprisal, and its... current leadership... would be limited in their ability to interfere, by ancient arrangement."

"You prayed to Me. I tell you this: either the growth of your country must be led, not by its old leaders, but by such as you, and my Champion, at the risk of its destruction once more; or else you must wage that war yourself, alone."

"And I tell you one more secret, a most valuable one: there are paths not so very far from your own, down which you yourself become one of those evils to be vanquished. What I offer you is My guidance. But I am not the goddess of keeping mortals from trials, or even dangers, but rather the Goddess of Heroes. If you truly meant what you said in that chamber, then your path will be most delicate, most dangerous. But the good you could do is greater far than you know."

A weight on his chest, like an iron breastplate. Time is different here. He does not know how long it is that he is unable to speak.

He bows, his shoulders rigid.

“Thy will be done, Goddess.”

It sounds appropriate. It’s something he’s heard Galora say, sometimes.

She frowns. "Stop it. This would have been your will in any case, whether I reached out to you or not - you said as much. If you wish to pledge yourself to Me, that I might see you clearer and guide you better, then you may speak to Me so, but that is not who you are at this moment. It is a key strategic asset of the forces of Good that We have mortal allies, and not only servants."

He straightens, bashful. He… hasn’t felt bashful in a while. It reminds him of being scolded by his mother.

His memory of Elnara fades around the edges with every passing year.

“I see. You are… new to us in many ways.”

He falls quiet for a moment.

“In that case, I have questions. What do you perceive my role here to be, Iomedae? If I understand you correctly, are you entrusting your Champion and I with the… leadership of Raikoth? Presumably, the other Archmages and whoever really pulls the strings will not like this. I do not wish to cause infighting.”

"I do not have that power, and would not give it to you if I did. You must choose how to proceed. I am only telling you how great the darkness beyond Raikoth is, and advising you of what you must do, if you truly seek to take on the role of saviour, carefully, responsibly, without making the sort of mistake that is written on the tombstones of whole peoples, as Rathlan did before you. You may either use your influence to send forth your country's armies, and open it to reprisal; or else act alone, or with such allies as may personally aid you."

No pressure!

”I will do my best. That I swear.”

Ambrose had known the job would be difficult. Not like this. He will take all the help he can get.

He will do right by his wife and children.

”Thank you.”

"It is unfair on you. It is unfair on Me. But it is the way of our flawed world. And this is a burden you can bear, just as everyone can, and should, carry some of the burden of the war with Evil."

"And Ambrose - thank you."

The vision of a castle fades like a blaze of sunset, and-

Taralda is kneeling next to him where he sprawls against the wall of the Tower. "Ambrose? Ambrose!"

With a tired smile, he opens an eye. “What, are you worried about me?”

"Why, no. Collapsing in a blaze of golden light is practically normal where you are concerned. What happened?"