Jeff Grubb: The Last Guardian

The youth realized that he was staring at the old man, “Khadgar,” he said, then after a moment presented the tightly held letter of introduction. “Of Dalaran. Khadgar of Dalaran, in the kingdom of Lordaeron. I was sent by the Kirin Tor. From the Violet Citadel. I am Khadgar of the Kirin Tor. From the Violet Citadel. Of Dalaran. In Lordaeron.” He felt like he was casting conversational stones into a great, empty well, hoping that the old man would respond to any of them.

“Of course you are, Khadgar,” said the old man. “Of the Kirin Tor. Of the Violet Citadel. Of Dalaran. Of Lordaeron.” The servant took the proffered letter as if the document were a live reptile and, after smoothing out its crumpled edges, tucked it inside his livery vest without opening it. After carrying and protecting it for so many miles, Khadgar felt a pain of loss. The letter of introduction represented his future, and he was loath to see it disappear, even for a moment.

“The Kirin Tor sent me to assist Medivh. Lord Medivh. The Wizard Medivh. Medivh of Karazhan,” Khadgar realized he was but a half-step from collapsing into a full-fledged babble, and with a definitive effort tightly clamped his mouth shut.

“I’m sure they did,” said the servant. “Send you, that is.” He appraised the seal on the letter, and a thin hand dipped into his waistcoat, pulling out a set of black rectangles bound by a thin band of metal. “Blinders?”

Khadgar blinked. “No. I mean, no thank you.”

“Moroes,” said the servant.

Khadgar shook his head.

“I am Moroes,” the servant said. “Steward of the Tower. Castellan to Medivh. Blinders?” Again he raised the black rectangles, twins to those that framed his narrow face.

“No thank you…Moroes,” said Khadgar, his face twisted in curiosity.

The servant turned and motioned that Khadgar follow with a weak wave of the arm.

Khadgar picked up his rucksack and had to lope forward to catch up with the servant. For all his supposed fragility the steward moved at a good clip.

“Are you alone in the tower?” Khadgar ventured as they started climbing a curved set of wide, low stairs. The stone dipped in the center, worn by myriad feet of passing servants and guests.

“Eh?” responded the servant.

“Are you alone?” repeated Khadgar, wondering if he would be reduced to speaking as Moroes spoke in order to be understood. “Do you live here by yourself?”

“The Magus is here,” responded Moroes in a wheezing voice that sounded as faint and as fatal as grave dust.

“Yes, of course,” said Khadgar.

“Wouldn’t be much point for you to be here if he wasn’t,” continued the steward. “Here, that is.” Khadgar wondered if the old man’s voice sounded that way because it was not used that often.

“Of course,” agreed Khadgar. “Anyone else?”

“You, now,” continued Moroes. “More work to take care of two than one. Not that I was consulted.”

“So just you and the Wizard, then, normally?” said Khadgar, wondering if the steward had been hired (or created) for his taciturn nature.

“And Cook,” said Moroes, “Though Cook doesn’t talk much. Thank you for asking, though.”

Khadgar tried to restrain himself from rolling his eyes, but failed. He hoped that the blinders on either side of the steward’s face kept the servant from seeing his response.

They reached a level spot, a cross-hallway lit by torches. Moroes crossed immediately to another set of saddle-worn, curving stairs opposite them. Khadgar paused for a moment to examine the torches. He raised a hand mere inches from the flickering flame, but felt no heat. Khadgar wondered if the cold flame was common throughout the tower. In Dalaran they used phosphorescent crystals, which beamed with a steady, constant glow, though his research spoke of reflective mirrors, elemental spirits bound within lanterns, and in one case, huge captive fireflies. Yet these flames seemed to be frozen in place.

Moroes, half-mounted up the next staircase, slowly turned and let out a gasping cough. Khadgar hurried to catch up. Apparently the blinders did not limit the old steward that much.

“Why the blinders?” Khadgar asked.

“Eh?” replied Moroes.

Khadgar touched the side of his head. “The blinders. Why?”

Moroes twisted his face in what Khadgar could only assume was a smile. “Magic’s strong here. Strong, and wrong, sometimes. You see…things…around here. Unless you’re careful. I’m careful. Other visitors, the ones before you, they were less careful. They’re gone now.”

Khadgar thought of the phantom he may or may not have seen on the overhanging balcony, and nodded.

“Cook has a set of rose-quartz lenses,” added Moroes. “Swears by them.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Cook is a bit foolish that way.”

Khadgar hoped that Moroes would be more chatty once he was warmed up. “So, you’ve been in the Magus’s household for long?”

“Eh?” said Moroes again.

“You’ve been with Medivh long?” Khadgar said, hoping to keep the impatience out of his voice.

“Ayep,” said the steward. “Long enough. Too long. Seems like years. Time’s like that here.” The weathered steward let his voice trail off and the two climbed in silence.

“What do you know about him?” ventured Khadgar, finally. “The Magus, I mean.”

“Question is,” said Moroes, pulling open yet another door to reveal yet another staircase up. “What do you know?”

Khadgar’s own research in the matter was surprisingly unproductive, and his results were frustratingly sparse. Despite access to the Violet Citadel’s Grand Library (and surreptitious access to a few private libraries and secret collections), there was precious little on this great and powerful Medivh. This was doubly odd, since every elder mage in Dalaran seemed to hold Medivh in awe, and wanted one thing or another from him. Some favor, some boon, some bit of information.

Medivh was apparently a young man, as wizards went. He was merely in his forties, and for a grand bulk of that time seemed to have made no impact whatsoever on his surroundings. This was a surprise to Khadgar. Most of the tales he had heard and read described independent wizards as being extremely showy, fearless in dabbling in secrets man was not meant to know, and usually dead, crippled, or damned from messing with powers and energies beyond their ken. Most of the lessons he had learned as a child about non-Dalaran mages always ended in the same fashion—without restraint, control, and thought, the wild, untrained, and self-taught wizards always came to a bad end (sometimes, though not often, destroying a large amount of the surrounding countryside with them).

The fact that Medivh had failed to bring a castle down on top of himself, or disperse his atoms across the Twisting Nether, or summon a dragon without knowing how to control that dragon, indicated either great restraint or great power. From the fuss that the scholars had made about his appointment, and the list of instructions he had received, Khadgar decided on the latter.

Yet for all his research, he could not figure out why. Nothing indicated any great research of this Medivh’s, any major discovery, nor any ground-shaking achievement, that would account for obvious awe in which the Kirin Tor held this independent mage. No huge wars, great conquests, or known mighty battles. The bards were noticeably sketchy when it came to the matters involving Medivh, and otherwise diligent heralds nodded when it came time to discuss his accomplishments.

And yet, realized Khadgar, there was something important here, something that created in the scholars a mixture of fear, respect, and envy. The Kirin Tor held no other spellcasters as their equals for magical knowledge, indeed often sought to hinder those wizards who did not hold allegiance to the Violet Citadel. And yet they kowtowed to Medivh. Why?