Acclayne Book 1: The Game Begins
Chapter 1

Time, in Acclayne, is a thick substance. It gloops, honey-like, never really getting anywhere. Time there doesn’t differ too much from other places; it is still pretty much endless, it just goes about it’s business rather more slowly. In Acclayne you can find yourself waking up of a morning, doing the chores that would usually take you all day, and still be in time for elevenses. On Earth, time is of great consequence and is measured to the millisecond. There is never enough. It is constantly running out. Thus records of history are fairly exact- down to the day. This is not so in Glakyrie. History is quite vague- full of ums and ahs and thereabouts.

It was on one such meandering day that Methyn; Deputy Headmaster of the Corthus Institution for the study of Magic and Wonderment, found himself teaching History to some rather uninterested students. As Deputy Headmaster he didn’t teach many classes as a rule, which he was highly grateful for. It was not so much the subject matter, but the students. They showed about as much magical tenacity as Grandma’s “good” china. History, as a subject, wasn’t too bad. There was no practical involved- which meant there was less likelihood of Methyn being blown up. This was always a plus in his books. Instead there was a different problem. Unbound by the restrictions of time as they were it was difficult to make clear the key events of Glakyrian past. It was also difficult to make clear the deadline for homework; but the children failed to see the problem with that.

This particular day, soon to be lost in time with every other, Methyn was covering the basics; the history of Magic:

“At some unspecified point in time, a Glakyrian by the name of Corthar; the literal translation here being “Thinker”, was pondering the potential of an Acorn while out in his garden. He wondered: if the potential of an Acorn was so great and yet it was so small whether this meant that the potential energy within the Acorn may be harnessed by something bigger than itself. Yes, you?” Methyn stopped and pointed to a small boy at the front of the class. He had his hand in the air, waving it eagerly.

“Sir, what do you mean by potential energy?” He sighed, relieved to have asked his question. Methyn sighed for another reason entirely.

“The potential energy of something is the stored energy that it has within itself. This potential energy can manifest itself in different ways…”

“Yeah like the potential energy of my fist to punch your face Malcolm.” Came a snigger from the back of the class.

“I’ll see you in my office at lunchtime Kaylaer. The potential energy of the Acorn means that it is able to grow into a huge Oak tree. Does that clear that up for you Malcolm?“ The little boy nodded his head beatifically- his enthusiasm gone; replaced by the realisation that his chances of being beaten up after class had just sky rocketed. Methyn continued, “After much thought on the matter- trying to harness the excess energy with his mind and failing. Corthar gave up and decided to develop the use of magic instead. He had inadvertently discovered magic while deep in thought about his Acorn. While looking inside himself- visualising what his mental energy may look like, he happened upon a different kind of energy. A fast moving substance, similar to an electrical current, pulsing through his body. He had ignored it at first and continued on with the matter at hand but the draw of the unknown was too great and thus the beginnings of magic were discovered.” Methyn looked up at his students to see Malcolm’s hand once again in the air. “Malcolm?”

“Sir, is that energy the same thing we learn about in our channelling class?”

“Yes Malcolm. That energy is raw Magic, the potential Magic energy of a human being is far greater than the potential of anything else. There is so much that we can do. Channelling class teaches you to harness that energy and put it to use.” Methyn had to wonder what their teachers were actually teaching them; if anything at all. “ It is not quite clear on when the harnessing and use of magic came to be as sophisticated as it is currently in Glakyrie, it is only known that it has been a fair while. According to legend Corthar had two children; Cortharen the “Great one” and Corthus the “Thoughtful”. Cortharen was the eldest and became a great hunter, her skill with magic was even greater than her father’s. The youngest, Corthus, was somewhat less impressive. Theoretically he was as smart as his father and sister, he just did not have the drive nor the inclination to do anything with his thoughts. He lacked the motivation to achieve greatness and so settled for a sort of thoughtful mediocrity.” Methyn paused briefly when he saw Malcolm’s hand in the air. “It is from these two children that the two largest cities in Glakyrie are named.” Malcolm’s hand came back down. “Cortharen, the larger of the two cities boasts the latest in modern convenience, has a low crime rate and has some of the greatest practitioners of magic that Glakyrie’s long and meandering history has ever known. Corthus, on the other hand, is somewhat less high-flying.” There was a cough from the back of the class. What Methyn was trying to say was that compared with it’s sister city, Corthus was distinctly average in every way. It ticked over slowly, meandering like time itself and was quite happy to do so, thank you very much. When it did decide to finally participate in the magic lark, it produced the most mediocre of sorcerers. But they did the job, and that was all Corthus ever asked of its occupants. Malcolm’s hand shot up again, but before Methyn could address him the bell sounded and the seats at the back of the classroom began shuffling.

“Sir, Sir!”

“Malcolm, class is over. I have a meeting with the Headmaster.” What Methyn meant by this was that he first had a meeting in his office with a rather large mug of sweet milky Tea, then a meeting with the Headmaster shortly afterward. Malcolm looked crestfallen as he shuffled out of the room.

Methyn breathed a sigh of relief as Malcolm shut the door behind himself. He felt sorry for him, he really did. He had a drive that was lacking in Corthus. A student like him would be much more easily accepted in Cortharen. That was if he had the ability to match his enthusiasm. Gathering his paperwork he left the classroom and headed for his office. History classes were held in one of the old buildings. They had stood the test of elongated time and had become almost part of the natural landscape. The old stony faces were covered in moss and were perpetually damp which meant the classrooms always had that heavy, wet concrete smell- like a city in the rain. He was glad to be out of there for now. The Headmaster’s rooms were in one of the less soggy old buildings, his own office was in the new building at his request.

The new building was new in the sense that it was built sometime after the old buildings. A little before Methyn was born he believed. It was an angular building and unlike the older constructions, stuck out like a sore thumb. It was cream cubism against the landscape. The colour only broken up by the masses of large windows. Methyn’s office was at the very heart of the building. It comforted him to be surrounded by such modernity. When he was required to teach he usually requested classes that were near his office so he was able to make a quick escape. This often meant that he ended up teaching one of the practical classes. There wasn’t enough milky tea in the world to compensate for that as far as Methyn was concerned. Today he opted for smell rather than irritation, a choice he was glad of when he saw that the outside wall of the Kinetic Magic for beginners class had been obliterated. Again. He sidled past unnoticed, hopefully the teacher wouldn’t come looking for him while he was in his office. He’d helped Magically rebuild that wall at least thirty times since he’d become Deputy Headmaster. At first he’d questioned Mrs Stokes teaching ability, but there was only so much you could do with a classroom full of Magically inept thirteen year olds who really cannot be bothered.

Relief flushed through him as he reached his office door, it was a sturdy barrier between him and the rest of the school. It protected his sanctuary, and most importantly of all; his stash of Cortharen tea bags. The office itself was painted the same cream as the rest of the building, though most of the walls were obstructed by imposing bookshelves, stacked full and organised first by subject and then by author. Methyn was nothing if not organised. The whole room was testament to that fact. There was not one speck of dust on any of the many shelves, no knick knacks and no photos. There were; however, two deep blue nautical paintings on the wall behind his desk, and a Terracotta coloured futon in the corner.

The Institution had been Methyn’s home for as long as he could remember. With no home outside of the school to speak of, he fell into a teaching job straight away- his magical ability setting him apart from any other candidates. He had barely left the place since. It was only recently that he had began venturing out on his annual holidays. Not that he ever really spoke about it with anyone, and he never took any photos, so the destinations remained a mystery. In fact Methyn’s peers knew very little about him, which was partially due to his being substantially younger than most of them because of his fast track into teaching. On Earth Methyn would have been bordering on middle-aged. The softer handsome features of his youth had sharpened with age and disappointment so that his face held a permanent look of distaste. It was not that he was no longer handsome but rather that the warmth that had once been so attractive was now missing- snuffed by his lack of enthusiasm for his own life. True to Corthean nature he was of average height; a mere seven foot two. This may seem quite tall to you and I but as a rule the average height in Corthus was actually much shorter than the average height in Cortharen. His once slim physique was starting to show the beginnings of a spare tyre after too many mugs of milky tea with biscuits. It was the one thing that kept him going during the long mornings that he often spent teaching the younger children- the promise of sweet milky tea and a digestive; a chocolate digestive if he was feeling particularly down. This vice was probably the only solid fact anyone had about Methyn. Apart from Master Cartaisey of course.

Master Cartaisey, Headmaster of the Corthus institution for the study of Magic and Wonderment, had known Methyn since he was a new pupil at his school. It was a very long time ago but Cartaisey could remember it well. It was possibly one of the very few things that he could remember well anymore. By Corthean standards Cartaisey was the greatest of all magic practitioners. With somewhere over five hundred and thirty four years of experience he was also the oldest of all magic practitioners. How he was still going no one really knew, but it was pretty impressive by anyone’s standards. As one would expect of someone so old, he no longer had a completely solid grip on all of his faculties- which made for some interesting lessons. Several students had been turned into rabbits in an attempt to demonstrate basic illusory methods 101. They had not yet been turned back. This was simply one of the risks amateur sorcerers were willing to take in order to study under the great Master Cartaisey. Well, at least it was one of the conditions under the terms of agreement that they’d signed when joining the institute. Whether they’d read it or not was another matter entirely.

Cartaisey had once been Methyn’s hero. He had idolised him as a child and he had become almost a father figure to him. But with time the veneer had worn away as had the majority of Cartaisey’s rationality, so it seemed that only Methyn could really see and understand the deterioration of the once great Headmaster. Methyn had worked under Cartaisey as the Deputy Headmaster for the past twenty or so years. Before that he had studied under him for at least ten. To Methyn the whole thing seemed a lot longer. He was in a position that most, if not all sorcerers wanted to be in. His colleagues couldn’t understand his complete lack of enthusiasm for his job. Methyn wondered if they ever opened their eyes to the reality that they were living in. Teaching students that clearly didn’t give a toss either way had seemingly affected him more than others. Needless to say he did not choose this position himself, but rather was hand picked by Cartaisey, an even greater honour in the eyes of his fellow professors. Methyn hadn’t wanted the extra responsibility, it was enough trying to get through the day without having any of your students spontaneously combust- which had happened a few times. What with Cartaisey’s constantly deteriorating state Methyn often found himself doing the day to day running of the Institution. It was enough to drive anyone mad, so it was unsurprising that after so long in the job Cartaisey was losing the plot. For years they had been churning out below average sorcerers. If you could even call them that. Most of them still had trouble with basic alchemy. Methyn despaired of them. If these children were going to be the future of Corthus’ magical community then there wouldn’t be much of a community at the end of it, and if there was, the chances of it blowing itself up were pretty high.

Methyn sighed contentedly as he drank the last of his tea. He had his tea bags specially imported from Cortharen. He may not have been able to benefit from the modernity that the inhabitants of Cortharen did, but he could still enjoy their superior tea. Having had his fix he prepared himself for his meeting with Cartaisey. Apparently it was over a matter of some urgency; something regarding the Royal family. He gathered a few papers, not really knowing what he might need, and headed toward Cartaisey’s rooms. He wasn’t sure if he was going to find the rational thinking Headmaster today or if he was going to find the loon that had replaced him on so many occasions. More than once he had found him lying on the floor of his office, legs pointing towards the ceiling: he claimed the pixies in his shoes were trying to pull him up into outer space. When Methyn was younger he may have believed this. Now that he was older, magic; the harnessing of the bodies natural energy, was not anything remotely supernatural. It was a science, or even an art. Pixies, Gnomes, Fairies… they just didn’t exist. Add to this the fact that Cartaisey spent most of his time in adult nappies and it was understandable that Methyn felt more than a little dejected.

While Methyn was making his way toward Cartaisey’s office, the messenger from the Palace had already arrived and was pacing outside the imposing wooden door. The chief messenger was a very nervy man. He did not mix well with people, in fact speaking to people that he didn’t know put him even more on edge than he was usually. Occasionally his friends would joke that he was so on edge that one day he was going to fall off. Despite his fear of meeting new people the chief messenger did not hate his job. Usually he was only required to deliver letters, summonses, documents and the like, but today the message he carried was extremely urgent. So urgent in fact that the King had not had time to write it down. He would have to deliver it verbally. So it was with extreme trepidation that he approached the Headmaster’s office door.

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