This effort began more than twenty-five years ago as the summer day-dreams of a teenager. Always a project that I’d “get to” when I retired. It would still be foolish scribble in an ancient Trapper Keeper notebook if not for the encouragement of my best friend.

So thank you Mark Olszewski, for the kick in the butt.

Thank you Joanne Burns, for the encouragement along the way.

Thank you John Helfers, my story editor, for invaluable feedback.

Thank you Donna Harriman Murillo, my cover artist, for capturing the essence of the Staircase.

Thank you, Tim Greenan, my map illustrator, for bringing the world of Tenebrae to life.

And thank you Thea, for your support throughout. And by “support”, I mean prodding, interest, encouragement, marketing, coordination, planning, feedback, and too many other things that freed me up to write this novel. So, yeah…support doesn’t quite cut it. Not by a long shot. Of the eight or so synonyms google was happy to provide,
sustenance
probably best captures what you have meant to me during the writing process.

So thank you, Thea, for the
sustenance
.

Part 1: The Prophecy

Chapter 1: Rites of Passage

~
Magi~

“Shh! Be quiet, you two,” said Lionel Arrington, the best archer in Brigg. “You want to eat, right?” The air was still. His nocked arrow was lined up on a small, wild deer.
Thwang.
The arrow missed clean, and the prospect of fresh meat scampered away.

“Damn. You kids broke my concentration
! I was looking forward to roast venison tonight.” Lionel was not pleased.

Kids? Kyle and I are eighteen!
Magi thought indignantly.

“Quit
your belly aching, Ranger. I’m twice your size, and see fit to do with the food we brung,” Sindar, an enormous man who wielded a great two-handed sword like a stick, said as he plopped down on a large rock next to the path they were all following, his rusty armor squeaking and scraping against the stone. This seemed to annoy Lionel further.

“You see fit to deal with the food we
brought
because you’re twice our size. More of you to feed,” Lionel replied pointedly. “But no matter. This is as good as anywhere to camp. Boys, you can start a fire, can’t you?” Like most non-magic-users, Lionel put little trust in mages.

Magi Blacksmooth and Kyle Quinlan were travelling the well-worn path from the village of Brigg to the sprawling seaport city of Gaust. They attended the village school founded and run by their Master, the True Mage Marik Kinshaw, where they shared a small home with two other boys. The
village of Brigg was close to the foothills of the Crystal Mountains, in what people referred to as the Three Fingers area. The Fingers were peninsulas that stuck out into the Sea of Love off the coast of Elvidor, one of the larger continents of Tenebrae.

Marik had an errand for the two of them to run in the city and thought the three-week trip might toughen his mages up,
though he saw fit for them to be escorted by a couple of seasoned men. He was fond of saying that too many years buried in books and study makes a man (or woman, for that matter) soft, and that was not the type of mage that Marik turned out. He wanted them prepared for the larger world. A Dark World.

Marik and his school were treated well enough, but villagers just didn’t understand most of what went into the practice of
the Art. Lionel clearly wanted to make the teenagers contributing members of this trip, and Magi had no doubt that Marik had encouraged the Ranger to push him and Kyle. Maybe even challenge them. “And tomorrow, I think it a fine idea to teach you how to use a bow as well,” Lionel finished.

“Fire
—coming right up,” Magi said. Both he and Kyle had been studying magic with Marik for ten years, though in Magi’s case, he’d been around it his whole life. Kyle was already arranging rocks around a nearby pit to reflect the heat and offer a bit of shelter from the nightly wind. Magi checked one of his many pouches dangling unseen from within the confines of his travelling clothes as well as those hung about his waist. Unlike most mages, he preferred tunics and slacks to the typical loose-fitting robes more customary of his fellow mages. Marik used to give Magi his old travelling garb, since Magi preferred to dress like he was always on the move. He’d outgrown Marik’s largest outfits a couple years ago, and now stood a few inches taller than his Master, at just over six feet. Not quite as large as Sindar, but most definitely larger and stronger than any other mage in school.

Finding the proper pouch, he
appeared to have everything he would need. That was the first thing a mage must do when casting a spell—make sure they had all the necessary components. Then there was a mastery of the syntax—what to say. Then there was the issue of enunciation—how to say things, what syllables to emphasize. And finally there was the issue Magi had been wrestling with for many months now—restraint and control…how much of one’s power to put into the spell. All of this had to be done just right.

Magi
grabbed a little cinnamon and threw it into the pit, the words coming to mind easily.

As the magic began build
ing in him, he felt that familiar sensation of time slowing down and an unnatural sense of focus wash over him. He noticed that one of the rocks Kyle used in his circle looked chiseled instead of naturally-shaped. A bear gorged himself on fish at least a league upstream on the river they were loosely following. A small snake was hiding under a large boulder in their camp, tasting the air with her tongue. She was protecting some eggs. The cinnamon burst into light blue flame and the magical fire burned bright and hot.

“Kyle, there’s a snake we need to clear out before we do anything else
,” Magi said as the sensation faded. “She’s got a nest underneath that boulder.”

“I’ll make short work of her, mage-boy,” boomed Sindar. “Might be we get meat
tonight after all.”

“We should be careful. There’s a bear upstream as well.” Magi got up to point o
ut the snake’s lair. Nobody questioned his insight—most people in the village of Brigg had heard of Magi’s uncanny ability to notice things whenever he cast a spell. His senses were unusually heightened. He saw, felt, heard, smelled, and even tasted things outside the normal spectrum. Most mages felt nothing more than a slight tingling right before their magic was unleashed. Magi experienced a symphony.

Sindar grabbed a long stick and jabbed it into a small crevasse underneath the boulder to flush out the serpent.
Magi heard it hiss as it poked its head out.

“Whoa-ho! Lookee here. Found ourselves a nice snake, we did. Stand clear, fellas.” Sindar d
rew the dirk from his belt; a short sword for some, but he wielded it like a dagger. He slashed down, attempting to sever the head, but the snake dodged out of the way, then struck at the warrior’s boot. The old leather was too thick, however, for its fangs to penetrate.

“Ah
—filthy serpent!” Sindar backed up and struck again, but his dirk was too slow as the snake dodged once more.

Magi was already working.
Taking a pinch of crushed alabaster in his hand, he focused on the snake, calling forth his magic. The snake immediately turned toward Magi, staring at him through beady little eyes. He could smell Sindar’s sweat, and while snakes didn’t sweat, he certainly smelled something wafting from the serpent.
Fear.
The bear was still feasting on an endless fish buffet. Magi could see where Lionel’s arrow had come to rest in a slender tree some sixty yards away, near the river’s edge. The mild autumn breeze felt cool as it stirred his reddish-brown, shoulder-length hair. The magic came forth from his outstretched fingers, and the snake froze in mid-strike, stiff as a board.

“Shouldn’t have any problem killing it now,” Magi remarked, trying his best to sound helpful.

“Show off,” Kyle said. “That was a pretty cool spell, though. Did you just learn it?” Kyle was staring at the snake lying twisted on the ground, frozen as if it had been dipped in mortar.

“Yes…was hoping to save that for the upcoming Tournament. Guess the secret’s out now.” Magi winked at Kyle, who just rolled his eyes.

“Bah, it was just a stupid snake. We had it covered,” Sindar snapped even as he examined the two small indentations on the side of his old boot. With a quick slash,
the snake’s head was off. Magi released his hold on it and it relaxed into a limp, knotted pile next to the fire.

“Best take care of the eggs down there, too.” Magi said. “Lionel, follow me. Let’s go get your arrow.”

Sindar carefully poked his dirk underneath the rock, trying to roll the eggs out to eat as well, but couldn’t quite maneuver it. Frustrated, he jammed his dirk into the crevice to smash them into pulp, muttering, “Bloody mages.”

~Xaro~

The ring of steel-on-steel was deafening. An ogre standing
nine feet tall was swinging a mighty morning star, much longer and heavier than any a typical human could wield. Xaro had attempted to pick it up once, and found he could lift one end up with both hands, and he was easily one of the largest men at Kekero. The ogre laughed at him and pushed him aside with a grunt, easily hefting his steel club over his head with one hand. The enormous studded, steel ball at the end of the club was bigger than a man’s head.

Now he was training against the ogre, working on the only one-on-one battle that would simulate a larger opponent with a weapon of greater reach. Judging by the powerful swings of that brutal weapon, the ogre didn’t seem to think this was “training.”

One simple spell, and I could be done with this clumsy beast.
The ogre was big and strong, but slow and unintelligent. Though this was meant to be a battle “to the yield,” the ogre was swinging for keeps. Yet Xaro resisted. Nobody at Kekero knew him to be a True Mage; he had cast an illusion to hide his magic behind normal-looking eyes, for it was the bane of all magic-users that upon climbing the Staircase—the Test of their skill—that one’s eyes would forever be changed to pure white. It was meant to be a signpost for all others that this person possessed great power as a True Mage. His illusion was a terribly costly spell, for it had to be maintained at all times, even in his sleep, always draining him. It went against the decree of his Order, and some would argue was an affront to God. Yet his ambition was to master more than just spellcasting, and the famed fighting pits at Kekero would never allow a Mage into the Warrior Guild. To acquire this knowledge and skill, he would need to be a chameleon. His prophecy had told him as much.

For Xaro, becoming a True Warrior represented the final stage of his skill building.
He was already a True Mage, but his thirst for knowledge and skill caused him to branch out further. He possessed the tracking, hunting, and forestry skills one would expect to find in a seasoned Ranger, having travelled with and been trained by Paul the Wanderer, the acclaimed mercenary that was known to sell his sword to both sides of every conflict (but was practically impossible to track down afterward). Xaro knew all the poisons every Assassin loved to employ, and could pick a lock by hand better than most any Thief if his magic failed him. And for good measure, he had studied the Clerical Arts half a world away in the hidden tower of Dariez, where he learned how to heal…but was restrained from animating the dead. Of all the major guilds, only the Clerics denied him his True status, due to his failure with the dead…at least so far. He would continue to pray for such an ability. Surely his God and Master, Kuth-Cergor, would not withhold this power indefinitely.

No matter—
I have no equal among men
. Yet he shuddered when he considered his Master. He pulled his hand across his tan, clean-shaven face, with nary a whisker across his square jawline crowned by a cleft in his chin. He pushed his hand through his brown, curly hair that matched his nondescript brown eyes. Fake eyes, of course.

Acquiring this knowledge and skill had taken Xaro nearly thirty adult years—well past the time for apprenticing and learning. Most men mastered their chosen craft to whatever level their talents and abilities allowed by their early twenties. Few humans lived deep into their sixties; as the saying went, it was a Dark World, and a hard life for most. Yet despite his age, there was not a streak of grey within his thick, wavy hair. Powerfully built, there was no stoop in his shoulders, no pause in his long, confident strides. There was not a crinkle or a laugh line anywhere on his face. It was timeless. This prayer, at least, was one that
had
been answered.

He would not cheat against the ogre
—not this time at least. He was content to put into practice what he had learned, using his superior stamina and agility to avoid the ogre and force him to tire by swinging that immense club until even he could barely lift it. He knew exactly how long a reach he had, and stayed just outside of it, keeping his sword drawn, using his shield mostly for balance. A direct hit on his shield would shatter his arm, and he knew that. So he danced, spinning around the ogre over and over again. He thought about throwing a dagger—something from a distance, but the hide combined with the light armor the ogre was wearing would just blunt the blade. No, it would need to be a sword strike.

For two hours the contest continued, with
a few jeers from his fellow fighters—the less intelligent ones who had money riding on the ogre, and the jealous types who simply wanted to see him cut down. But most cheered for Xaro. He had a natural penchant for leadership in the way he treated his fellow warriors. He was cocky, but also charismatic. He was hard, but came across fair. And perhaps most importantly—Xaro seemed to always win.

Blow after blow rained down, crushing air and dirt.
The ogre was struggling now, swinging more wildly and becoming increasingly off-balance. Finally, Xaro saw an opening after one such swing. He ducked
forward
on a two-handed downward blow by the tiring ogre, sidestepping the handle. The morning star stuck into the ground and bit; it took a few tugs to dislodge it. Xaro somersaulted between the ogre’s legs, drawing his blade across the back of the ogre’s unprotected right knee. It screamed in pain and crumpled to the ground, blood shooting out in a thin jet before pooling underneath him. Xaro sprung to his feet lightly, poised for the kill.

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