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It started with the death of the Rector. I had been eager to contest the Succession when the previous Rector had died but my great friend and mentor, Tormen had convinced me not to.
‘If you enter, I am sure you will win,’ he had told me. ‘But when you have won you will spend all your time defending your position. You are young, that gives you strengths but the old guard will think you weak and open to attack. Sit this one out. None of the other challengers will last 10 years and in that time your power will grow, you can take time to explore and research and when the next succession comes around you will have all the influence you need to govern effectively.’
Tormen had vouched for me when I was a baby, sparing me from the drudgery of a life as a farmer’s son. At first I did not agree with his view but I trusted his wisdom and as the years passed I saw he had been right. I visited old ruins and spent days at a time in the magic labs, seeking answers to how our craft worked. I am not sure I will ever find those answers but I gained a keener appreciation of how to manipulate magic.
The old man died before the Succession came around. I performed the funeral rites myself, conjuring dramatic illusions of his life’s work and guiding an asteroid out of orbit to ignite his pyre. It was perhaps my finest magic. We did not discuss it beforehand but I am sure he knew I would use the situation to further my cause, just as he had always taught me to do.
As I sat in my study with the envelope containing the list of challengers who had entered the contest, I felt a thrill to see confirmation that my time had come. I concentrated briefly and moved the letter through the unbroken envelope. My reputation had been built on such delicate manipulations.
As a student I had been taught how to slit an envelope magically but the poor teacher had never truly understood magic. Like many wizards they saw it as a means of improving on the actions of commoners. Few ever saw the real potential that magic offers.
The list was pretty much what I had expected. There were always a group of idealists, their imaginations far more potent than their skills, who would make no credible challenge.
The wizened Altor had entered again. Altor had contested every Succession for seventy years without success. In his prime he had been a great wizard but he had always been bested by a brilliant opponent or unfortunate circumstances. He didn’t pose a serious threat but he would be more capable than most of the others.
Another two or three competent wizards with no noteworthy story had entered, perhaps to gain experience, perhaps they were deluded enough to think they could beat me.
The final entrant was a minor surprise. Artemis was one of my own pupils and had a bright future. She had approached me to discuss entering the contest to cover my back and ensure my victory. I was impressed at her devotion but assured her I would be more than capable of matching my opponents. Any defeat lingers in the mind of a wizard and their peers, I warned her she might always carry it with her. Evidently she had decided to take the risk.
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