The Greatest Archmage To Have Ever Lived [OP MC, LitRPG]

"Are you sure you don't want to see again?"

The garden behind the temple was small and overgrown, though not neglected; someone had clearly been tending it for a very long time and knew exactly which things to leave alone. Herbs grew from clay pots along the low wall, and moss had crept so thoroughly across the flagstones that it was difficult to say where the path ended and the ground began.

Meraine sat across from Sael on a low stone bench with her hands in her lap and her face tilted slightly upward, the way she often held it, as Sael observed. Not toward anything in particular, but toward the open air, as if the sky were a sound she was listening to.

"Quite sure, yes," she said, and smiled.

Sael nodded, then he remembered she couldn't see him nod.

"I respect your decision," he said instead.

A small silence followed.

They sat without speaking for a while and Meraine seemed perfectly content with that.

The priestess, he suspected, could sit in silence for hours and emerge from it refreshed. Sael could too, ordinarily. He had once gone six years without uttering a single word, a stretch broken only by a quiet "hmm" one afternoon for no particular reason, and then resumed. But this was different. He had a question sitting sideways in his throat and couldn't figure out how to turn it.

He shifted his weight on the bench, turned his pipe over in his fingers, looked at the trellis again as though it had become suddenly fascinating, and then looked away from the trellis because staring intently at a plant he couldn't name was not going to make this less awkward.

"You want to ask why," Meraine said.

Sael nodded — caught himself — and, with the weary acceptance of a man making the same error twice in the same conversation, said: "Hmm."

Meraine's smile widened just enough to confirm that she'd known exactly what happened both times, and was choosing to be gracious about it.

"When I first lost my sight," she said, "everything went dark. I won't dress that up. It was dark, and it was frightening, and I spent a long time wanting it back." She rested one hand flat on the bench stone beside her, fingers spread. "But over the years, something else came in slowly. A kind of... light that I'd never noticed before, not because it wasn't there, mind you, but because my eyes had been too busy with everything else."

She paused, as if checking whether she had his attention, which she did.

"There's a layer behind things, Archmage. Behind the air, behind the stone, behind the space between one moment and the next. The living can't see it. Their eyes are full. They're meant to be full; you're alive, so you look at living things, and that's right and good and how it should work." She tilted her head. "But I have nothing in the way anymore. So I see what's behind."

Sael's pipe had stopped halfway to his mouth.

"Fields," Meraine said. "Wide and still. A sky with no ceiling to it. I've seen rivers that don't flow, because the water is already where it wants to be." Her voice stayed even, almost conversational, as though she were describing the layout of a neighbor's garden and not something that made Sael's skin prickle. "Places that make this world look like a rough sketch. Like someone's first attempt before they understood what color was for."

She let that sit for a moment.

"If you restored my eyes," she continued, "I would see this garden. The moss. Your face, which I'm told is actually quite pretty."

Sael's pipe paused mid-lift. "I — sorry?"

"Hahaha," the old woman laughed audibly. "Some of the younger women at the temple talk about you fairly often. More often than is strictly appropriate for a place of contemplation, I'd say. One of them described your eyes to another in terms I would normally reserve for gemstones."

"I am," Sael said, and then considered an appropriate word. "...flattered."

That would do.

"Though the general consensus," Meraine continued, "is that you would look considerably better with less beard."

Sael's hand drifted to his jaw before he could stop it.

"My wife used to say that, too," he said, and laughed as he ran his thumb along the edge of it, thinking. Maybe he'd trim it down later. Some of it, at least. Or he'd consider it seriously for a few weeks and then do absolutely nothing, which, based on all available evidence, was the statistically dominant outcome.

"But I'd lose the rest," she continued. "The living eye drowns out the deeper sight the way a shout drowns out a whisper. You cannot hold both at once. I've looked into it quite thoroughly." Her hands folded together again in her lap. "And I am not done looking."

The last word landed differently than the others.

"My son died young," she said. "Young even by human counting. He was a kind boy. Reckless the way kind boys sometimes are, when they trust the world to be kind back to them." She did not say how he died, and Sael did not ask. "I've been told he passed on. That he's at peace. That he's somewhere good. Many people have told me many things, and they meant well, every one of them."

She turned her face toward Sael, and even without sight, the gesture carried the full weight of being looked at.

"But I haven't seen him yet. And I would rather look for myself than take someone's word for it."

The garden held very still around them.

"I search every morning before dawn, when the veil is thinnest. I walk through those fields and I look. I haven't found him." Her voice didn't waver. "But I've seen others. People who have passed, moving through those places, going wherever it is they're going. He's there. I know he is. I simply haven't reached the right world."

Sael sat with that for a while. The question that came out, when it came, was quieter than he expected.

"So you can actually see them. Those worlds you're describing."

"Sometimes," Meraine said. "Not always, nor clearly. Some nights the perception is sharp and I can see for what feels like miles. Other nights there's only the dark, and I sit with it." She turned her face back toward the open air. "But even on those nights, I know the Path is there. I've walked it too many times to doubt it. That is enough to keep looking."

"...I see," Sael said.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The wind picked up just enough to move through the garden and stir the herbs in their pots. And white flowers shivered as a petal came loose, drifting across the flagstones between them before catching against the edge of Meraine's bench.

She didn't see it land, but she tilted her head slightly, as if she'd felt it pass.

Sael put his pipe back in his mouth, drew once, and let the smoke rise without shaping it into anything.

"If it offers any consolation," he said, after a while, "the orcs dealt with Barek. For what he did here and on the continent. He did not go unanswered for."

He didn't say more than that. Meraine didn't ask him to.

"Thank you, Archmage," she said quietly.

"Hmm." He stood, tapped the pipe against the edge of the bench, and slipped it into the fold of his robe. "I've grown quite interested in the Paths. For more reasons than I care to share. I'd like to find my way to it soon, if I can."

Meraine tilted her head slightly toward him. "Be patient with it. It is not magic, at least not the way you understand magic. You will fail many times before you see even a glimpse of the other worlds. Many, many times. The Paths do not open because you are powerful."

"I understand," said Sael.

He wasn't entirely sure he did. But he understood enough to know that the rest would come from doing, not from talking about it in a garden.

He looked around one more time. The moss, the herbs, the unidentified flowers on the trellis. A month he'd spent here. It had gone by strangely fast, the way time does when you're not doing much and not minding it.

"I should be going," he said. "I've been here over a month now. Word seems to have gotten out that I've returned, and people have started showing up. Some of them want to become my apprentices. Others want me to grant them wishes." He paused. "I have no idea who told them I grant wishes."

Meraine laughed at that.

"You are probably not aware," she said, still smiling, "of half the things that are said about you out in the world."

"I'm not?"

"You are not. And perhaps that is very much for the better."

"Hmm," said Sael.

That particular hmm, if unpacked, could have filled a small room.

"I'll visit," he said. "Every three months or so. To make sure all is well."

"Then I look forward to your visits," she said, and laughed by herself.

Sael nodded politely, but his brows furrowed as he wondered what was the laugh about, because she was still laughing as if there she just made... a joke.

"Oh."

Sael let out a short, surprised breath through his nose — the precursor to a laugh he clearly hadn't planned on having, and shook his head once, a bit annoyed at himself for not catching it sooner.

"Your sense of humor," he said, "is uncomfortably close to mine."

"I've been told it's an acquired taste," she said.

"So have I. Usually by people who never acquired it."

She nodded at that.

"[Float]"

Sael's feet left the ground. "Would you convey my thanks to the new Steward?" he called down as he rose slowly. "And to the rest of the people here. For their hospitality this past month."

"I will," said Meraine. She turned her face upward toward where his voice was coming from. "Though I should tell you, most of the folk here have no idea that Sael the Great has been living among them for the better part of five weeks."

"I think it's better that way," said Sael.

"Hmm," said Meraine.

He rose past the temple roof, and as he cleared the crowns of the old trees that lined the grounds, he paused — just for a moment — hovering level with their highest branches. He reached out and gently touched a leaf.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For the shade. And the company."

The trees, being trees, said nothing. But the wind moved through them just then, the leaves stirred, and Sael chose to take that as an answer.

He rose higher. Past the point where the wind changed and the air thinned and cooled against his face. The temple shrank below him until it was a pale shape among green, and then the clouds took it, and it was gone.

His cloud was where he'd left it — drifting in a wide, lazy circle about half a mile up, in no particular hurry to be anywhere. Robin was sitting near the edge with his legs dangling off the side, while Oz was looking at the sun in the horizon. Lance, the young priest, was standing with his arms crossed, also watching the horizon.

"Sorry for keeping you all waiting," Sael said, stepping onto the cloud. "Shall we go to Orlys, then?"

Robin was on his feet before Sael had both shoes on the cloud.

"Yes, sir!" he said.

Oz, who had not moved from his spot near the center, turned his head just enough to acknowledge Sael's arrival. "At long last," he said.

Lance straightened. "Your Majesty," he said, with a small bow.

Sael looked at him.

"Lance."

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Please stop calling me that."

Lance opened his mouth, reconsidered, and closed it. He gave a short nod that somehow managed to be reverent even in its brevity, as though the act of not calling Sael "Your Majesty" was itself a solemn act of obedience to the crown.

Sael decided not to push it further. He'd tried four times already over the course of the month, and each attempt had only seemed to deepen the young priest's conviction.

"South, then," Sael said.

The cloud shifted beneath them and began to drift southward as the wind picked up. The landscape below unrolled itself in long bands of green and grey, rivers catching sunlight in brief flashes between the hills.

Robin, who had settled back down near the edge with his legs over the side, sat up suddenly.

"Ah — right, sir."

He reached into his coat and produced a letter. It was sealed with wax, slightly creased from having spent time in an inner pocket not designed for correspondence.

"This came this morning," Robin said, holding it out. "From Orlys. Pigeon got in just before dawn."

Sael took it. The seal was pressed deep and clean into dark red wax with the crest of house Eryndor on it. He ran his thumb across it out of habit, feeling the impression, and then broke it and unfolded the letter.

It was Margaret's handwriting. He recognized it before he read a word. Her letters arrived every three days, carried by pigeon, and were filled with a mix of updates, observations, complaints, affection, and whatever happened to be on her mind that particular morning. They were about everything and nothing, really. Sael read every one of them. He kept them, too, in a pocket of his robe that was deeper than it had any right to be.

He read.

Grandpa Sael,

How are you today? I hope the answer is "very well, thank you, Margaret, light of the realm, voice of reason, architect of everything that actually functions around here." If the answer is anything less enthusiastic, I don't want to hear it.

I trust Darransh treated you kindly?

It did, Sael thought.

Now then. Orlys is in fine form. The preparations for the tournament are in full swing, the banners are up along the main avenue, the arena scaffolding is nearly finished, and someone has decided to repaint the eastern gate gold.

You should know that a number of the Pillars have arrived early. Quite early, in fact. Several of them made it rather clear — some subtly, some not at all — that they came specifically to see you. I won't list names in a letter in case this pigeon gets ambitions above its station, but you'll know them when you see them. Brace yourself for handshakes, meaningful looks, and at least one very long conversation you'll wish you could leave halfway through but won't, because you're polite, which I maintain is your single greatest flaw.

Sael lowered the letter for a moment and looked out at the landscape passing below.

The Pillars. He wasn't sure how things would go between them, but he needed them. About the Corruption. About what he'd seen here and what he suspected was moving beneath the surface of things that should have stayed still. That part couldn't wait, regardless of how many handshakes came attached to it.

He returned to the letter.

Now, to the matter you raised in your last correspondence. I'm pleased to report that things have moved along nicely. The legal framework is in place, the old charter has been located and amended per your specifications, and all relevant parties have been consulted.

In short: Pointbreak can be officially revived. All it needs is your seal. One signature and the guild lives again, with you as its Guildmaster. Try not to let the excitement overwhelm you. I know how you get.

You will, of course, need people. I've taken the liberty of drawing up a list of candidates; individuals I believe would suit the work and, more importantly, suit you, which as we both know is the harder criterion. Some are here in Orlys already. Others are scattered across the continent and beyond, as capable people tend to be when you actually need them. I've located most of them, or at least narrowed down where they've gotten themselves to, and I can have word sent out the moment you give the order.

On a lighter note, you won't recognize the city when you arrive. The artificers' quarter has been completely redone, there are new wardlights along every street, and the Archive has installed those projection tables you asked about. They are wonderful and I cannot wait for you to see it all.

Orion and Ilsa say hello, as always. Orion asked me to pass along — and I quote directly — "Eirwyn won't let me cast." I assume you know what that means. I certainly don't, and I have decided I don't care to.

Come home soon, Grandpa.

Lots and lots of kisses,

Your little Margaret

Sael folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his robe with the others.

"Hmm."

He'd need to get some candied peanuts on the way.