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Archon Island* was little but a silhouette against the dim dawn as Acolyte Dracone Volat, Sextus Erineensis, flew in towards it on the back of Concitatus, his mount, yet, even in the early morning light, he could still see the skirt of white-capped waves that crashed into the island’s towering cliffs and echoed throughout its frigid halls.  The cells of the neophytes were deep down inside the castle, tunnelled close to the cliff faces so that no member of the order could fail to hear those waves and not remember their humble beginnings.  For Sextus, though they had once been a harbinger of troubled dreams and many more sleepless nights, they now held the unmistakable timbre of home.

The thought quickened his heart and he dug his heels deeper beneath Concitatus’ scales to make the small wyvern fly ever faster towards it.  The message he carried in the leather pouch attached to his belt was too important to be delayed and time was truly of the essence.

Concitatus swooped lower over the surging ocean, scales spray-spattered, letting the surface winds push him towards the island. As the cliff face loomed ahead he slipped upward on thermals, to spiral  once, then glide gracefully into a gentle landing in the dusty, cloistered quadrangle set aside for the purpose.  Sextus didn’t wait for anyone to help him but nimbly undid the leather straps holding him in place and slid down Concitatus’ neck as the creature stooped to drink from a large trough near the castle wall.  He didn’t even bother to tie the beast up, but ran through the cloisters and into the castle proper, ignoring the confused looks from the acolytes on landing ground duty, standing just inside.

The corridors were empty.  On a normal day, they would be full of neophytes rushing to breakfast, whilst the older acolytes would heading off to their duties.  Today was far from normal, however, and rather than getting up before the dawn, many would have stayed awake all night as the count was taking place.  Now they would all be in the Great Hall, awaiting the announcement of the result, due any minute.  Sextus took a deep breath and hurried ever faster, taking the turns he had memorised as a child and which had been worn into him in his adolescent years.  He had been away a long time, but some things never fade away.

And, sure enough, within moments he had reached the long, straight corridor which led to the doors of the Great Hall.  They were visible in the distance, huge in contrasting ebony and gilded metal.  The sight of them was almost reassuring, except that, in seeing them like this, Sextus knew that things had already gone horribly wrong.  The doors to the Great Hall always stood wide open, that all might enter and join the communion of the Order, but now they stood shut tight and either side, dark-robed figures waited.

“I need access to the Hall,” Sextus began as he approached, “I have important evidence which must be presented before the Order accepts a new Archmagus!”

“You’ve arrived too late,” said one of the figures, stepping forwards and flipping back his hood to reveal a scarred face beneath a balding pate, “the result of the vote is being announced as we speak.”

“Then I must enter at once!”

“Why don’t you tell us first and if we’re convinced, we’ll let you through,” said the other figure from within his hood, his voice urbane and smooth.

“It should be brought before the entire Order, not merely a couple of lackeys!”

There was a dark blur and suddenly Sextus was leaning back, held in the grip of the scarred acolyte, a knife to his throat.

“Really,” Scar said, “we insist.”

“It’s about Archmagus Pacificus,” Sextus said with a gulp that made his Adam's apple jut out just enough to draw a small bead of blood which slipped down his throat as if dancing with its twin, mirrored in the blade of the knife, “he was… murdered.”

“Well that does sound like important information,” said the second acolyte stepping towards them, “and what evidence do you have of this crime?”

Sextus’ gaze dropped towards his pouch, then flicked back up as he realised what he had done.  The second acolyte reached down and plucked it from its place on the belt.  He opened the pouch carefully and withdrew the scroll within carefully as if uncovering a sacred relic.

“Yes,” he said with a sigh, “It only occurred to us that the old man might have one of these planted somewhere after we’d done him in.  Careless, really.”

He held the scroll in one hand and clicked his thumb and forefinger together on the other.  Instantly the vellum went up in flames, turning to ash in seconds.

“I guess that means you don’t need to interrupt the results anymore, doesn’t it?” said Scar with a cruel grin.

“And yet, you must have read it,” the second acolyte added, “or else why would you bring it here in such a hurry? Now that really was careless.”

Sextus felt the knife press just a little deeper, then he knew he had to shout out.  He might die, but surely they would hear in the Great Hall, surely they would know what happened then?

He opened his mouth and the knife cut through his jugular, through the gristle of his vocal chords, through his spinal column and out through into thin air with no more resistance than if he had been made of silk.  There was no blood and the head landed neatly on the stones of the corridor to stare up at its killers with dumb horror.  Then, with a click, all was ash.

*Government Island, in modern TSP.