The Price of Information

The days in Myriath did not announce themselves with clarity. To Edric, they seemed to blur into one another, indistinct, marked only by the growing weariness in his feet and the constant sensation of always being a step behind what truly mattered. The city awoke early and never truly slept; even when the sun went down, there were voices in the alleys, lamps lit in high windows, and shadows that moved with far too much purpose to be ignored. Edric walked without a fixed destination, letting the streets guide him, learning by degrees that Myriath never revealed itself to those who arrived in a hurry.

In the first few days, he limited himself to observing. He sat on the steps of public fountains, lingered in the markets, and feigned interest in merchandise he could not afford. Listening had become his craft. He quickly discovered that the city spoke of everything, but never directly. Information came in fragments: an interrupted sentence, a comment made too low, a laugh too short to be honest. Among merchants and travelers, he learned that contracts were more respected than promises, and that words could be worth as much as coins—sometimes more.

It was thus, almost by chance, that he first heard mention of the Council of Mages. The name was spoken cautiously, never accompanied by enthusiasm. It was not a celebrated institution, but one feared and accepted as one accepts the weather or the seasons. Edric understood, gradually, that the Council did not teach magic; it regulated it. It determined who could practice it, where, under what conditions—and, above all, who should never even try. Magic was neither freely accessible nor openly taught: it was a guarded force, recorded and controlled by men and women whose power extended far beyond arcane circles.

As the days passed, Edric heard stories of aspirants who never made it past the first test, of apprentices expelled for displaying “instability,” and of schools that would not even accept candidates without some manner of family history. The pattern repeated itself with uncomfortable clarity: mages' children became mages; the children of nobles received instruction; the rest learned early on not to ask questions. There were exceptions, they said—there always were—but they were rare enough to become convenient legends, used to justify a system that remained closed.

It was at this point that something within Edric began to rearrange itself. He remembered the cold rooms of the Arcane Academy of Varethia, the formal refusals, the words spoken with false kindness. Blood matters. How many times had he heard that, explicitly or implicitly? At the time, it had sounded like an excuse, like arrogance disguised as tradition. Now, in Myriath, he understood that it was not merely prejudice—it was a method. Keeping instruction restricted to the same names, the same families, the same houses meant keeping power concentrated, uncontested, and too distant to be reached by someone like him.

Edric began to perceive that magic, more than an art, was a social structure. A language that a few learned from the cradle, while the rest were not even permitted to try to pronounce it. The Council existed to ensure this: not merely to contain abuses, but to preserve an ancient hierarchy, in which some were born destined to rule the invisible while the rest accepted living in their shadow.

By the time he realized it, enough days had accumulated for the city to begin recognizing him. Some faces became familiar; certain conversations ceased when he drew near. Edric felt the weight of what he had learned—not as a sudden revelation, but as a slow, continuous pressure. Myriath had taught him more in a few days than years of hope in Eldorwyn ever had: it was not enough to want magic. It was not enough to study it. Before all else, one had to belong.

Edric began to frequent the scribes' area like one forms a necessary habit. Every morning, after eating the bare minimum he could afford, he traversed the streets leading to the scriptoriums and parchment stalls, where the constant scratch of quills filled the air like fine rain. There, men and women leaned over narrow tables, copying contracts, letters, and records with the patience of those who knew that every word had an owner. Edric walked slowly, feigning disinterest, observing the faces, hoping to recognize one of them—a name that did not yet have a face, but which he had learned to look for nonetheless.

The days repeated themselves. He kept returning to the same stretch, sat on the same stone benches, and swept his eyes over the same facades. He asked little; he listened much. Gradually, he understood that no one there liked to be approached directly; scribes were like closed doors, and knocking too hard only guaranteed they would never be opened. Even so, Edric persisted, returning day after day, until his presence ceased to be strange and became just part of the landscape.

It was on one of these mornings, when he was already considering the possibility that he was wasting his time, that a voice arose behind his back, low and too firm to be ignored.

“I heard you were looking for me. What is this about?”

Edric gave an involuntary start, his heart racing. He turned too quickly and nearly bumped into the man behind him. He was neither old nor too young, dressed in simple but clean clothes, and his eyes carried a calculated attentiveness, as if he had already observed Edric for days before deciding to speak.

“Are you... Are you Tavian?” he asked, still trying to catch his breath.

The man tilted his head slightly, a gesture that was not quite a nod.

“I am.”

Edric took a deep breath and straightened himself.

“My name is Edric. I... I would like to ask a few questions.”

Tavian evaluated him for an instant too short to be comfortable, then made a gesture for him to follow.

“Come. This is not the sort of conversation we should have standing here.”

He led him down a narrow corridor, away from the main bustle, into a modest room illuminated by a single high window. The place smelled of fresh ink and ancient parchment. There was a wide table, shelves filled with tied scrolls, and a chair that creaked at the slightest movement. When both were seated, Tavian wasted no time on courtesies.

“Your questions have a price,” he said without preamble. “You must know very well that information has its value.”

Edric opened his mouth to answer, already prepared to agree, but Tavian raised his hand, cutting him off before he could speak.

“My time here is precious. So you will pay first for the right to ask the questions. If I have any answers, you will pay more. And the price changes according to the weight of the information.”

Edric remained silent for a few moments, feeling the discomfort settle between them. It was not the arrangement he had imagined, but he saw no alternative either. Finally, he nodded and handed over the few coins he had set aside for that encounter. Tavian counted them swiftly and pocketed them without expression.

“Speak,” he said.

Edric began slowly, choosing his words like one stepping on unstable ground. He told of his desire to become a mage, of his repeated attempts to enter the Arcane Academy of Varethia, and of the constant refusals, always wrapped in cold formalities. He said he wanted to know if there were other methods of learning magic—paths that did not pass through the closed doors of the Academy.

When he finished, Tavian remained silent. His eyes did not waver from Edric, as if trying to decipher whether this was an ill-timed joke or a sincere confession. Time stretched uncomfortably until Edric began to shift in his chair, regretting every word spoken.

At last, Tavian spoke.

“That kind of question carries a different price.”

He stood up, walked to a small drawer built into the table, and opened it. From it, he withdrew a rolled parchment, carefully sealed with dark wax. He sat back down and placed it on the table, sliding it toward Edric.

“I have a message to deliver to a client. I do not have the time to take it. The price for me to answer your question is: you will do this for me.”

Edric furrowed his brow.

“Deliver a message?”

“And bring back the answer,” Tavian completed. “Immediate. Without delay.”

He explained that the recipient was a merchant known for trading rare spices, whose residence lay at the far southern end of the city. The journey there and back would consume a few hours, perhaps more, depending on how busy the streets were. Edric hesitated only long enough to realize that, once again, he had no choice.

“Very well,” he said, reaching out.

Tavian handed him the parchment, but before Edric stood up, he added in the same calm voice:

“No prying. Do not break the seal. And don't even think of vanishing with it. If the message does not reach its destination, I will know. And I will set the city guards after you.”

Edric felt his face flush. He found it absurd that Tavian would even conceive of such a thing, but he checked any protest. He merely nodded.

He rose, tucked the parchment away carefully, and turned his back, leaving the room with the distinct sensation that he had just accepted an agreement whose true cost he did not yet comprehend. The mission awaited him—and with it, the next part of the price he would have to pay to keep asking questions.

Edric used the experience he had gained over the last few days to choose his route. He no longer walked like a newcomer, lost between wide streets and narrow alleys; he had learned to read the city's flow, to avoid crowds when he needed to advance, and to blend into them when he wished to pass unnoticed. He alternated main thoroughfares with side passages, crossed small nameless squares, and took shortcuts between warehouses, always mindful of the weight of the parchment hidden beneath his tunic. Myriath seemed less chaotic to him now—no gentler, but predictable enough for one who knew how to observe.

As he made his way south, the city air shifted. The scent of fresh bread and rust gave way to more intense aromas: cinnamon, dried pepper, sweet resins. The streets became wider again, designed for loaded wagons, and the buildings grew in height and solidity. Stone warehouses flanked the path, marked by commercial symbols and names engraved on well-kept signs. Private guards replaced the common watchmen, observing every movement with silent attention. Edric understood he was entering the territory where commerce spoke louder than any decree.

The merchant's residence stood out from the rest, not by exaggeration, but by order. Clean walls, reinforced gates, high windows protected by wrought-iron grates. Edric approached with caution and announced himself to a servant who soon led him to the inner courtyard. There, a middle-aged man examined open crates, evaluating merchandise with an experienced eye.

“I seek Ravian Corveth, spice merchant,” Edric said.

The man raised his eyes.

“That's me.”

Edric withdrew the parchment carefully and held it out to him.

“I have a message to deliver. And I need to take back the answer.”

Ravian accepted the parchment without ceremony. He broke the seal and read in silence, his eyes scanning the text with practiced speed. Upon reaching the end, he furrowed his brow and let out a low murmur, more irritated than surprised.

“That scribe knows nothing but how to bleed me dry...”

He folded the parchment with excessive care, as if folding the parchment were easier than holding back his comment. Then, he cast a brief glance at Edric.

“Wait.”

Without saying anything more, he entered the house, leaving Edric alone in the courtyard. Time dragged into minutes far too long to be ignored. Edric observed the coming and going of servants, the distant creak of wagons, and the constant scent of spices impregnating everything around. He thought about the agreement he had made, of the answer he did not yet have, and how much anxious anticipation this simple delivery had already cost him.

At last, Ravian returned. He carried in his hands a new parchment, neatly rolled and sealed. He approached and handed it to Edric.

“Take this back. He will know what to do with the answer.”

Edric received the parchment and gave a slight nod, not daring to ask anything else. He tucked it away with the same care with which he had received it and turned, leaving the courtyard and the residence behind.

When he returned to the streets, the journey seemed to weigh on him differently now. He carried not just an object, but the certainty that every step distanced him a bit more from the simple life he had known. He adjusted his tunic, took a breath, and began the walk back, knowing that the true cost still lay ahead.

Edric returned to the scribes' area with the afternoon already well underway. The way back seemed shorter, perhaps because he now carried something beyond the sealed parchment: anticipation. He found Tavian in the same narrow chamber, leaning over the table, his fingers stained with ink. The scribe barely raised his eyes as Edric approached.

Without a word, Edric held out the parchment. Tavian took it from his hands like one receiving something that already belonged to him, broke the seal, and read the response in silence. His face remained motionless until the end of the letter, when a slight trace of satisfaction crossed his expression, too fleeting to remark upon. He rolled up the parchment carefully, opened a drawer, and stored it away among other documents, as though that exchange were merely another entry in a much larger book.

“Sit,” he said then, without looking at Edric.

When Edric obeyed, Tavian rested his elbows on the table and faced him for the first time with true attention.

“Before answering your question, I want to know your motivations. Not what you want, but why.”

The tone was not accusatory but evaluating, as if he were weighing something invisible. Edric took a moment to reply. When he spoke, his voice came out lower than he intended.

“My father had books. Many. Books about magic and about mages. It was he who taught me to read. Ever since I began to understand those words... I became fascinated. Not with power, but with what they did. With the idea of comprehending the world in another way. Since then, I've wanted to do the same.”

Tavian listened without interrupting, his gaze fixed, indecipherable. When Edric finished, the scribe let out a slight sigh, almost imperceptible.

“Fascination is not a vocation,” he said. “And that will hardly make a mage of you.”

Edric felt the weight of the sentence, but Tavian continued before he could react.

“Still, it is not my place to decide that. That choice is yours. I will make no effort to stop you. Furthermore...” he made a vague gesture with his hand, “I owe you an answer.”

He straightened himself in his chair and spoke with the objectivity of one recounting a fact, not a promise.

“There have been mages who developed without the support of the academies. Few, it is true. Most of them found some manner of clandestine tutor, someone willing to teach on the fringes of what is permitted. I do not know any of those tutors.”

He paused briefly, measuring his next words.

“But I know someone who might.”

Edric leaned forward slightly.

“A storyteller. A street preacher. An elder with white hair who earns his living telling ancient tales in exchange for coins or food. He speaks too much, understands too little... but he has heard a great deal over the years.”

Tavian paused briefly.

“His name is Serith. He usually stays at the Plaza of the Steps. A fitting place for one who lives by being heard.”

Edric opened his mouth to ask another question, but Tavian raised his hand, closing the matter.

“Good day to you.”

The tone was definitive. The agreement was fulfilled, and nothing more would be obtained there. Edric stood up, understanding that it would be of no use to insist. As he left the room, he felt something rare since he had arrived in Myriath: not relief, but hope.

Knowing that there had already been those who learned magic outside the directives of the Council of Mages and the academies changed everything. It was no guarantee, nor a clear path—but it was proof that the doors were not as completely closed as he had always been told.