Chapter 8: The Stag and the Wolf
FALL TERM - DAY 20
Marblebrook had warned me that the deal I'd struck with Orendell likely came with a few clauses. I can do magic, yes. That was a given. But, today I felt his influence crop up again. The wolf in my mind's eye is always there, and today he showed his face.
Marblebrook said the wolf isn't Orendell. I believe her for two reasons. First, because she's seen how deals with deities like him tend to go, despite how rare they are. And second, because she said the wolf wasn't Orendell, and now I know with absolute certainty that he is not.
It had happened a few months ago- the Night of the Crimson Haze. It's something to do with the three moons during the summer solstice– the sky turns red and the deities of the broken pantheons are able to cross into this realm for a few short hours. Or at least that was the version of it I grew up with. It was the kind of thing that only ever happened every half-century or so. Rare enough to be storied, but frequent enough most vampires had lived through a few of them already.
That night, the Stag's Court was aflutter. Lord Hart had donned a new crown of interlocking antlers adorned with gold leaf for the occasion. Ianthe wore a new circlet with blood red garnet stones.
It was the Crimson Ball - vampires were always throwing balls. Most of them had names, stupid, forgettable names, but this one I remember. It was held in honor of Orzoq - the first vampire. In my mind, Orzoq was more a myth than a real historical figure, but I suppose the same could have been said of Orendell, and he's already proved that's very much not the case. The story I knew went something like this:
Orzoq was an elven king, known first for his beauty, and second for his magic. He, like so many heroes of stories like these, was born with magic, and its gifts came naturally to him. With his magic, his subjects never wanted for anything. His people were wealthy, well-fed, and generally happy.
Until one day, Orzoq looked into the mirror and noticed the first signs of age taking hold of his features. He tried to return his youth with magic, but it failed. As he continued to try, the more he noticed the start of wrinkles. Then, the first strands of gray gleaming through his silken locks.
He didn't know then what we know now - that magic has a cost. And for him, it was his youth. (A quick aside - all the stories say that magic has a cost. I've always assumed it was true. Different things for different people but now that I'm at the Midnight Court, training to be a mage, is it true? If it is, no one's mentioned it. What does magic cost a mage? But anyway, back to the story...)
The more magic Orzoq cast the quicker he aged. He needed his magic for his kingdom, to keep it as it was, perfect. But day after day, the price was wearing on him. Orzoq was vain - we all have our character flaws, and this was his. He didn't want to grow old. He couldn't give up his magic either, so something needed to change.
One day, while trying to find an answer, Orzoq went out with his hunting party. Amidst the hunt, he locked eyes with a great stag. His bow string had snapped earlier in the day, so he was without his weapon. He gestured to his men, but they didn't see it. But Orzoq refused to let it get away. So, he used a spell to slay the beast. As its blood spilled, Orzoq felt for the first time no more years were taken from him. His sacrifice had been taken from the stag instead.