Valdaris

                The meeting hall is constructed entirely into a vast expanse of softly glowing ivory marble.  The pillars, floors, and walls blend with the tooled wooden benches and tables that have been worn to the smooth patina of frequently used and highly waxed wood, creating a serene atmosphere conducive to rich and productive thought.  Indeed, the entire backdrop is starkly at odds with the roiling sea of black robed figures, gyrating and gesticulating in a primitive dance fueled by unabated anger.  All logical argument is lost high in the vaulted ceiling where it is distorted into a mind numbing buzz and projected back down to mix with, and then overpower, a ruthless, staccato hammering. 

                Seeing that his efforts are worthless, the livid dwarven Head Minister throws the useless gavel down on the table and plops back to his bench with an inaudible humph!  Crossing his arms and strumming his fingers against the smooth fabric of his robe, he stews and fumes as he views the Ministry Hall from beneath thick brows bent in disgust.  His steel grey gaze pans around the room until it lands on the Governor, a slender elf with a similar bend to his dark brow and an equally molten brown stare.  The Head Minister takes the opportunity to communicate a series of jabbing signals with his stubby fingers.  This earns a weary nod from the elf, and both men rise and mount a steep flight of stone steps carved along the front wall of the Ministry Hall.  They come to rest on a platform just under a huge obsidian gong.  In the wall beneath the enormous disc are a series of eight rods--four bronze and four silver--attached at various heights.  Shaking his head in disgust, the Head Minister grasps a bronze rod in his wide palm, closes his grey eyes, and begins concentrating.  Although he cannot see his elven counterpart, he knows the Governor has wrapped his slender fingers around the matching silver rod when an icy current shoots through his compact frame.

                The hum is unnoticeable at first, merely a vibration in the background.  Eventually the noise reaches a crescendo that has the ministers grabbing their ears, robes billowing in black clouds around weakened knees as they fall onto the wooden benches. 

                Absolute silence and stillness greet the Governor and Head Minister as they descend the steps to take their seats.  The dwarf clears his throat and many of the black robed figures jump, their senses left raw by the recent magical assault.

                "This arguing and childish loss of control will solve nothing. Maintain yourselves or I will move this to a private session." Although barely louder than a gruff whisper, the admonition reaches every ear in the room.

                The head Minister brings his hairy knuckled hands up to absently smooth the chest of his robe as he rereads for the hundredth time the writing on the sheet of parchment in front of him.  His brow creases into a scowl as his fingers cease their stroking.  After a moment of stillness, he begins tapping them in a thoughtful rhythm.  Gravely, he looks over to the Defender's table.

                The dwarf takes in the utter stillness of the convicted elf.  The alabaster skin and silver hair glow like the marble of the hall and combine with a motionless pose to create the illusion of a finely crafted statue.  He is waiting.  Waiting inside his stone armor to meet the sentence he knows is inevitable.

                Preceded by a resigned sigh, the words are nonetheless spoken with conviction.  "I can see no other solution.  I support the proposed sentence.  Governor?"

                The convicted elf raises his head and for the first time, the Head Minister sees hope in the dejected gaze as it slides past him and over to the Governor, hope that is dashed as the elven minister's face contorts with the pain of a tormented soul. 

                "Nor I.  Let the sentence stand." As the Governor sails from the room on the wake of his decree, the hall once again fills with stunned voices.  Four dwarves move to secure the newly sentenced prisoner.  They could have saved their efforts.  Daltrath Valdaris, Arch Mage in the Blue Order, is bound to his chair in overwhelming shock, barely able to move with the unimaginable weight that grows in his chest and constricts his throat.

                This time, the piercing demands of the gavel bring immediate order to the assembly.  "Let the records show, then, that Daltrath Valdaris, by popular vote with a margin of one, has been condemned to lifelong exile after being Stripped.  The details will be wrought between the heads of the races, namely myself, Greyson Goldorn, dwarven representative and Head Minister of the City of the Stars, and Gravin Valdaris, elven representative and Governor of the City of the Stars."

                It seems as if Greyson cannot wait to bang the gavel one last time and escape out the side door.

*    *    *  

                 The Head Minister's private chamber is as still and quiet as a cave.  The earthy atmosphere of warm woods and woolen carpets is a welcoming contrast to the starkly formal marble of the meeting hall.  Governor Valdaris, hunched over a massive wooden desk with his head in his hands, makes no move as Head Minister Goldorn enters the room and pulls the door shut behind his stocky frame.  Muffled movements-- first footsteps, then the dull clink of glass on glass, and finally a thunk as a glass of amber liquid settles on the heavy wooden desk--go unnoticed by the soul-sick elf.  In fact, until the dwarf rests a rousing hand on Valdaris' dejectedly rounded shoulder, he is unaware that he is no longer alone.

                "Drink."  The single word rumbles from between whisker clad lips as the dwarf makes his way around the wide expanse of deeply stained wood to his own matching chair.

                "C'mon.  Drink.  It may not warm your soul any, but it will do wonders for your constitution."

                The stout glass is wrapped in a shaky grip and transported to numb lips, where its entire contents are emptied in a single swallow.  The brown fingers are much steadier as they return the glass to the tabletop.  The dwarf was right.  His soul still aches hollowly, but an angry burn has begun in the vicinity of his heart.  With every beat, his blood is heating in anger.  Anger at a brother who put him in this position to begin with.

                "There you go, Gravin my friend.  Your pretty elven cheeks are once again tinged with the pink of roses."

                There is a sardonic twist to the dwarf's lips as he deeply searches the other man's eyes, which are no longer hopeless.  They are an angry black, as cold as the obsidian of the gong hanging in the Meeting Hall.

                "It is flattering that you notice such things as the pink of my pretty elven cheeks, my friend."  Gravin's smirk is met with a snort which ruffles the heavy fringe of golden whiskers beneath Greyson's nose.

                "I've known you for fifty cycles.  Never once have I seen you as grey as you were when I came in here.  Are you sure you want to continue?  A suitable replacement will be easy enough to find."

                "No.  Now that we have come this far, knowing that what we must do is necessary, do you really want to start all over again hashing out the details with a reluctant replacement?  Although the sentence will stand, there are many ways the Elven Ministry can drag its feet and prolong the inevitable, while the situation continues to worsen with every passing day."

                "Well then, let's put our heads together and get this business finished.  The sooner we are done, the sooner you can begin to put this behind you."

                "Oh, my dear friend.  As long as the blood of my father runs in my veins, I will never move past what I must now do to my brother."

*    *    *

                It was decided that the ceremony should take place as soon as possible.  So on the third day after the sentencing, representatives from each  of the four orders stand in a line on the top floor of the Tower of Magic, all easily identified by colorful robes.  The two elves are clad in blue and green, while the two dwarves wear brown and white.  Daltrath, seated at a side table adjacent to the colorful line of mages, appropriately wears the grey of a neophyte.  During his first visit to the tower he was dressed in grey, just as he is now for his last.  Those two visits are separated by a lifetime.  The eager young man dressed in the rough robe his mother bought, filled with excitement and ready to begin his life, grown now into the bitter Arch Mage recently humbled by his magic, filled with dread as he hopelessly waits for the ceremony that will effectively mark the end his life.

                The Tower of Magic is the tallest building in the City of the Stars and was erected at the farthest point from the eastern edge of the outlying farms.  Its needle-like shadow falls on a manicured green garden in the morning and a silvery stone courtyard in the evening.  Everything about the grounds is beautiful from the twinkling fountain to the sculpted bushes at the gate.  Closing his eyes, the silver haired mage remembers walking the garden path hundreds of times, first robed in grey, then in a rich blue and finally in the sapphire studded silver of a Blue Master, never fully appreciating the view.  He would walk past the fountain, unseeing, as his mind spun, trying to evaluate the details of some new formula.  What was the figure at the center of the fountain?  Was it a goat?  He distinctly remembers long legs ending in hooves, but it seemed taller...distorted.  A hind?  How odd that he can't remember the fountain.  He passes it every time he travels to the out buildings that house his alchemy lab.

                The grinding of the sliding stone door pulls Daltrath from his memories.  The black robed figures of his brother and the Head Minister enter the room, followed immediately by the Arch Mage of each order.  These are his closest colleagues, men and women he has worked beside for the last twenty cycles.  He seeks out the face of the silver and blue robed elf.  It is Maurina.  She is strong and talented and will make a good figurehead for the Blue Order.  She was also not one of his close pupils and never worked on any of his projects with him, which he knows to be the full reason why she has been appointed to his seat over the much more capable and highly gifted Rogan.  Nodding his head in her direction he seeks out his brother's resolute gaze.

                Gravin looks worn and drawn.  The light gray peppering at his temples brings out the hollows in his cheeks and the shadows under his eyes.  Looking into that deep gaze, Daltrath searches for any morsel of forgiveness or understanding.  He merely finds a cold wall, so he looks down at his lap.

                Head Minister Greyson's voice scratches out a query to the colorfully clad representatives.  "Is all in order?"

                The brown clad dwarf steps forward, russet beard bouncing on his chest.  "It is, sir."  His words are accompanied by the nervously bobbing heads of his companions as they wordlessly support his assertion.

                "Then let us begin."

                The four representatives escort Daltrath from the antechamber into the candle lit Ceremonial Hall.  In the center of the room on the floor is an inlaid obsidian disc.  Much like the gong from the Meeting Hall, its purpose is to amplify magical energy.  Around the disc are silver and bronze plates, four of each, arranged at regular intervals.  The representatives deposit Daltrath on a small ivory stone platform at the head of the circle and then take their places on the metallic plates, arranging themselves in a semicircle facing the grey robed mage.  The Arch Mages are the last to enter the room, and they seat themselves in rows of stone benches behind the semicircle. Greyson pulls the door shut and remains in the shadows at the back of the room along with Gravin,, hands solemnly clasped and heads reverently bowed.

                One by one, the mages close their eyes and concentrate on sending their energy through their feet, into the receiving plate.  They begin a silent chant, mouths forming the ancient words that fly through their minds as they focus in on Daltrath's life force.  Delicately--magically--they separate the portion of his being used to control the natural force, known as the Power.  Each mage grasps tightly to this wriggling ribbon which has been used in such atrocious ways.  The tighter they hold, the harder Daltrath fights, his mind attempting to obliterate those probing fingers.  It is a silent battle, but one as strenuous as those fought with a sword.  Foreheads are wet with perspiration; ragged breaths are ripped from the surrounding air which has gotten noticeably hotter.  The candle flames begin to flicker and weave, the shadows they cast against the walls playing out the battle raging silently in the minds of the five people at the center of the room.

                Soaked and panting, Daltrath grits his teeth and releases a low, keening growl which modulates itself into words as he loses ground against the assault.  "You...cannot...have me!"

                With one last guttural, wordless scream, Daltrath's mind collapses and he sags in his chair. Just before he sinks into blessed oblivion, a memory of the fountain fills his thoughts. 

                "A winged horse."

*    *    *