There was a quickly drawn map of a place she didn’t know, and the margins were filled with geometric doodles that were obviously Sivaram’s guesses at what the Power really looked like. It seemed that even before he went and broke his brain and went full-on murder crazy, he was already wound a little tight.
Dearest Devika. I know this letter must come as a surprise, as so much time has passed that surely you must have thought me lost and dead in the jungles, but I have prevailed. My journey to the colonies has been a success. I found the man I have been looking for. The stories about the wizard are true. All of the stories are true. It is magnificent. It is not the creation of new magic, for the magic is already there, we are simply reaching out and taking more of it for ourselves. The Power is an incredible entity, made up of thousands and thousands of intersecting nodes, each one of those capable of some small shifting of the supposedly immutable laws of the universe. I have taken new forms of magic to myself, as many as my frail mortal body can bear. With each one, the mysteries have become clearer. Reality is far more beautiful and far more terrifying than we have ever imagined.
There were dozens of letters to his wife, yet not a single one written to Sivaram in response. She wondered if Jacques had simply never found those, or if she had never bothered to respond at all. The thought made her sad, but then she delved back into the world of the Mad Traveler.
The magic is wasted. It grows so strong while we live, but then it is all lost when we perish. If only there was a way to save this, to keep it, to nurture it and mold it across the generations. All that I have learned, all that I have gained, it cannot be learned through a book or through lecture or pathetic human language, it can only be mastered through immersion in the river of magic. But why must this precious river flow? It must be dammed. It must be stopped. I will not die like this. Pointless.
Faye’s journey continued. Notes and alchemical solutions, chemistry diagrams and mathematical notations that were far over her head, yet each one became increasingly erratic. Now the geometric representations of the Power had become darker, uglier, harsher. Where they’d been elegant before, these lines seemed twisted, the paper had often torn beneath the fury of Sivaram’s quill. There were long dried droplets of blood on the pages, as if he’d gotten a nosebleed and not noticed because of the intensity of the concentration needed for his calculations.
Jacques came back from lunch. She had not realized that he had left, nor had she heard him ask if she wanted anything. He placed some meat, cheese, and bread next to her, and she ate it without tasting it.
The next letter was addressed to no one. His handwriting had been shakier, harder to read.
I am close to a breakthrough. The wall between our world and the Power is thin here. My mind is unable to comprehend that which must be done. I am weak. No one else understands. Their Power is wasted. Fools. They stumble blindly, not understanding what must be done. I will take their Power, take it and use it as it should be used.
I do not believe in gods. Gods have never helped me. Everything I have done, I have done through my own intellect. Yet now as my mind fails me, I have prayed for help.
I think something has answered.
Faye did not understand the next drawing at all. It was half math, half shapes, and it made her head hurt just looking at it. She had to force her eyes away and let loose an audible groan.
Jacques was sitting across from her, watching, sipping from a glass of wine “Yes. I see you found the rough draft of the spell which would become your curse.”
“Is that what it is?”
He took a sip. “I believe so. Do not feel bad. It has that effect on everyone.” There was a sharp knock on the door. Jacques spoke loudly in French. A coachman stuck his head in and asked Jacques a question she couldn’t understand. She did understand that Jacques’ answer of oui meant yes, and then the man left.
“What was that about?” Faye asked.
“He merely wanted to make sure we had all of our windows closed for our safety. Do not worry.” Jacques took the bottle out of the bucket of ice and poured himself some more wine. “Please, continue.”
Dearest Devika. I have succeeded where all others have failed. They called me mad, but I have confirmed the truth. The Power is alive. What we call magic is the means by which it feeds. It grants a piece of itself to some few of us, and as we exercise that connection through every manipulation of the physical world, the magic grows. Upon our death, that increase returns to the Power. It is a symbiotic parasite. Grown fat upon us, the process repeats, more Actives are created, the cycle continues. The Power itself has a certain measure of awareness. Aware? Yes. I do not know yet if it knows that I have stolen from it, and if so, how it will react to my petty thievery. As the Power is using us, I intend to use it. I beg your forgiveness for what I must now become.
There was an old, badly damaged photograph of a very young woman. Nobody could smile in photographs back then because your face muscles would get worn out before the picture took, but she was still rather pretty.
“That was when I became involved,” Jacques said softly. “She was one of us. A knight and a . . . friend . . . Sivaram was a vulture at first. When people died around him, he would snatch up their magic. Even those who are considered normal are not without some small touch of magic, for the Power would often touch them, find them wanting, and then move on. The Spellbound would steal even that, but it was not nearly enough. He needed more, and the stronger the Active, the better.”
As the stack of papers dwindled, there were fewer notes and letters, but it was made up for with newspaper clippings, and Faye read every single one. Murder. Murder. Murder. Accidental Death. Mass Murder. Drowning. Plane Crash. Theater Fire. Ship Lost at Sea. It went on and on and on . . .
“There were more. Many, many more. Travel in, cause something awful, Travel back out. I suspect that many of the assassinations that helped speed along the Great War were his doing, his insatiable hunger for chaos, and the hope that a great modern war would bring tremendous death with it. That’s finally how we caught him. I set a trap. I simply went to the greatest slaughter the world had ever seen and waited for him to show up. Normally I would ask if you had any idea how deadly an assassin a motivated and highly skilled Traveler could be . . . but you know, Faye. You know very well.”
Faye could only nod. She tried to only used her Power to do good things, but for her, killing folks was a snap. But this . . . she flipped through the newspaper clippings. This was unimaginable.
“Yet even then we underestimated him. Sivaram was no longer a mere mortal Traveler. The spell he’d carved into himself saw to that. He was hard to catch, even harder to kill. He massacred my men and anyone around him. I believe the Spellbound became our greatest threat.”
“More than the Chairman?”
“It was arguable, but I was in the minority. There was at least a cold logic to everything Okubo Tokugawa did, and yes, I know he killed far, far more people that Sivaram ever dreamed of, by an order of magnitude. The Chairman’s Imperium has made butchery and slavery into a bloody, emotionless trade, mechanized, unfeeling, something only an all-powerful government can do. Sivaram was alone, most of the elders saw him only as a mad dog that needed to be put down. However, after studying the man and following him for years, I came to understand the true threat. Read his last letter. It had never been posted. Read, Faye.”
Dearest Devika. Much time has passed since I have written. I have been consumed by my work. I write this letter in a brief moment of lucidity. I do not know how many more I will have, as they are becoming fewer by the day. Do not let my sons listen to the rumors of what I have become. The rumors are true but they must never know of the evil created by my hand. I was blinded by pride. One does not steal from the Power without paying a price. It is more intelligent than I suspected and it is learning. Though I thought I was using it, I was truly the one being used. Human emotions are not sufficient to describe the Power, but it was not upset when it discovere
d my theft. My resourcefulness gave it hope. The Power tried to prepare me for a task, but I was unworthy of its gifts. I have failed the test. Now all that remains is the hunger.
The failure of understanding the Power’s true nature is upon my head. Though incomprehensible to our pathetic minds, it has its own mysterious desires and purposes. It is using mankind for something, developing and steering us in the hopes of accomplishing its goals.
When I was young and naïve, I thought to master the Power by toying with geometries beyond human understanding. I was nothing, but I stepped before the Power and presented myself as a sacrifice, as a science experiment. The Power utilized me, and though I have failed, it will try again, for I surprised it. I showed it what mankind is capable of. This spell burned into my flesh is too strong to die now. The Power will find a new subject to toy with.
What an interesting phenomenon. Look at the laboratory rat. What a clever thing. This rat’s pathetic mind discerned new avenues that the observer, even with its far superior intellect, could never see. Of course not, it is hard to see when you are on such a lofty perch. Behold the rat’s tricks. The rat dies, but the experiment is incomplete. We will train more. The experiment will begin again. There will be more rats. The rats must be fed.
The madness I have wrought is nothing compared to what will come. Please forgive me for what I have done.
The ink had run in spots, as if his tears had watered the paper as he’d been writing. Faye slowly returned the letter to the stack. “I don’t get it,” she lied. Not understanding everything was not the same as not understanding anything at all.
“Very few members of the Society ever saw that, and among those who did, most dismissed it as the ravings of a madman. I disagreed.” Jacques put his glass on the table between them. The usual affable, pleasant demeanor he tended to wear was gone, having been replaced with the face of a very cold, very discerning investigator. “Mad? Perhaps, but driven mad because he understood just what he had unleashed upon mankind. I see in that letter the same thing I saw in the letters of criminals giving their deathbed confessions, a stark realization that actions have consequences.”
“You ain’t really worried about what the Spellbound does . . .” Faye muttered. “You’re worried about what the Power is up to.”
”Sivaram thought his actions, killing in order to steal magic, pleased the intelligence behind the Power. We are talking about a being which feeds off of us, uses us, changes us, gives blessings and takes them away without a shred of anything we recognize as logic or decency. It would appear that Power is an advocate of evolution, let the strongest survive, and let the weakest perish. Magicals were a new step in evolution, one brought about by the Power. The Spellbound was one of those magicals taking evolution into his own hands, and it seems that the Power approved. Sivaram said he did not believe in gods.” Jacques snorted. “Heh. It seems to me he found one that believed in him. And it is neither a merciful nor wrathful god, but rather an ambivalent intelligence that cares only about itself.”
Faye had never thought of the Power that way, and it made her a little uncomfortable. “I’m gonna stick with Jesus, thanks.”
“I ask you, Faye, what happens to us if the Power decides to take this experiment to the next stage? What happens if you, the second generation of this spell, continue to further its goals?”
“I don’t—”
“It will create more like you, probably many more. And they will steal magic from anyone who is weaker than they are. At least the Chairman is an orderly form of destruction. This other path is one of utter chaos. We can contend against the enemy with understandable goals, but it is nearly impossible to fight one that exists only to cause chaos. Now do you understand why I voted the way that I did?”
Maybe. Yes, but Faye still didn’t like that one bit. Anybody else who voted to kill her would have to deal with her veto power, which would probably consist of a round of 12-gauge buckshot to their face. “And what if you’re wrong, and the Power is right? I told y’all what the Chairman said about the Enemy coming to eat the Power. I can feel it myself once in a while, like a big weight hanging over us all. Maybe the Power was trying to save both us and it.”
“So we should tolerate a known risk in order to protect against a risk that may not even exist? The Chairman was the king of lies. Why should I expect him to be any more truthful in death than when he was in life? You wish to risk this because it is your life which is at stake. You are biased. Perhaps you can control the Spellbound curse, perhaps not. That still remains to be seen. You have been in this world for such a short time. Those letters you read from Sivaram span over thirty years. It took decades to wear him down and turn him into the monster that he became.”
“But I won’t do that.”
“And why would you not? Strength of character? Love for your fellow man?” Jacques gave a bitter laugh. “Sivaram loved his family and his people with all of his heart, but the curse wore him down eventually. It cut him to the soul, stole his humanity, and soon everyone around him, especially those with magic, were in danger. They were mere vessels holding the Power he sought . . . And he took that Power, oh, did he take so very many lives.”
“I’d never do anything to hurt my friends!” but even as the words left her mouth, she felt the sting of doubt.
“The Spellbound does not get to have friends, or family, or comrades, or lovers. The Spellbound is alone. The Spellbound is a force. Sivaram started out as a pacifist and a scholar and look where he wound up. You have been known to us for only a short time, but already look how many other Actives you have killed.”
“And every one of them deserved, it too.” Faye snapped. “You can think I’m dangerous all you want, but I’m also the best we’ve got. If it hadn’t been for me, the Chairman would still be around. If it hadn’t been for me, Washington D.C. would’ve gotten squished by a demon. You think I’m dangerous, Jacques? Well, so is a gun.” She gestured rudely at his coat. Of course, she hadn’t bothered to check, but she assumed he had one on, as any properly attired gentlemen should. “Being dangerous is their job. Ain’t much call for one that’s not dangerous, now is there?”
Jacques looked her square in the eye. “Look out the window.”
Faye did, and it nearly took her breath away. The beautiful farmland they had been passing through was gone, and now as far as her eye could see was nothing but a swath of sick, grey dirt. An odd, uncomfortable feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. “What is this?”
“This was part of the battlefield left over from the battle which you have heard referred to as Second Somme. A geographic misnomer, to be sure, but that is the name which has stuck.”
Of course Faye had heard of Second Somme. She’d even seen a glimpse of it, since that was the personal hell which Mr. Sullivan had consigned himself to after she’d shot him in the heart. “It’s lifeless.”
“Worse than Oklahoma was?”
“Yeah. That was a drought. Sure it was a drought caused by magic, but this is different.” Faye shivered. There wasn’t even a breeze that could blow a tumbleweed across that grey bit of hell. Not that a tumbleweed could’ve grown there, either.
“It has been a generation, but look at it still. This land was defiled by magic, utterly ruined. The eastern half of my country was a muddy wasteland of trenches and barbed wire as far as the eye could see, but all of that, other than the occasional unexploded artillery shell that some poor farmer still occasionally turns over with a plow, has gone back to normal. This place, it never has, and never will. Too much magical energy was used here. Too much Active blood was spilled. The land was changed.”
She could feel the cold in her bones. There weren’t even buzzards, and the only thing close to plant life were broken, petrified tree stumps that had been that way since she’d been a baby. “It’s just dead, ain’t it?”
“Not quite. There are horrors which roam the wastes. A few living things were changed, warped. That much magic usage always has conseq
uences. It twists the very fabric of our bodies. Even breathing this dust will make you sick. It is best to pass through here quickly.”
Faye had thought she’d seen ugly before. The blackened circle that had been Mar Pacifica had been ugly, but it had been a fresh wound. This was an old scar a scrar that had never fully healed.
“You have not seen real war, Faye. You have seen skirmishes. This is what happens when magic truly goes to war against magic. You have not seen the utter savagery that comes from something of this magnitude. Second Somme was one of the largest battles in history, and it was the greatest loss of Active lives ever. Day after day they killed each other, magic being flung back and forth like nothing you could possibly imagine. The laws of physics were broken. Men became something more, and sometimes something less, and afterwards the land was so blighted that we could not even stay long enough to bury the dead without growing ill. We gathered what we could, and most of the rest were left to sink into the mud.”
“I’ve heard it was real bad.”
“If it had not been for General Roosevelt sacrificing his American Volunteers, then my country would have been conquered by the Kaiser’s undead hordes. It was only through a combination of luck, courage, and tenacity that this line held. Oh, how the Power must have grown fat on us.” Jacques sounded tired. Bitter and tired. “It must have been a feast.”
In the distance, Faye could see hills with living plants on them, so thankfully the battleground didn’t go on forever. All scars had to end somewhere. “You were here?”
Jacques was staring out the window. “For part of it, but I was drawn away when I received word of the Spellbound’s whereabouts. I missed the final offensive because I was a few miles away hunting Sivaram. He had been difficult to track during the war. With all of that death to choose from, there had been little need for him to strike out on his own, so this opportunity could not be missed. I was not alone. Knights from both sides deserted in order to assist me. All of us put aside our war in order to stop the greater danger. I was the only survivor, so perhaps in some sad way, Sivaram saved my life.”
Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles Page 17
