Master Jilani was already seventy-five this year. At his age, with his strength, among orthodox wizards he would still have been in his prime. If he did not have a few witch bedmates, he would have been too embarrassed to show his face in public.
Yet Jilani looked as though he already had one foot in the grave. The skin exposed beneath his black robe, on his face and hands, was as withered as old tree bark.
The spellcasters of Zoroastrianism differed from European wizards. Their inheritance of extraordinary power was mostly unsystematic, generally derived from the legacy left behind by their predecessors. Its power might not have been small, but every use came at a steep price.
It was not as though the Sasanians lacked orthodox spellcasters in their service, but no one was willing to involve themselves in a war of this caliber.
The longer-lived one was, the more one cherished one's life.
It was clearly impossible to ask them to oppose Lothar—a newly risen giant of the Extraordinary world who had stepped on the legendary master Shemiel to rise to power and had surged upward like a comet in recent years—for worldly authority and wealth.
Upon receiving Ali's "order," or rather, request.
Jilani showed no intention of refusing. With some difficulty, he leaned on a staff topped with an orange-red gemstone resembling the "Sacred Fire" and stepped down from his carriage.
The young monk attending him tried to support him, only for Jilani to gently push him away.
He said to the other elderly man sitting across from him, "The Franks' demon is powerful and has endless tricks up its sleeve. I can no longer sit here waiting. But they surely still have further moves. I'll leave everything here to you."
The old man sighed softly. "Be