by Alan Baxter
After a few moments he tried again. ‘He’ll take a while to respond. Stubborn bugger, he is.’
‘Looks like he relies on reputation for business, rather than passing trade,’ Alex said.
‘Yes. He’s been around a while. He has an established clientele.’
‘Been around a while like you have?’
Welby gave him a wry look. ‘Yes. But he’s something of an adept rather than a magus. His skills are very limited though he thinks he’s something special. He’s actually incredibly irritating.’
‘I’ve met people like that in my game.’
Welby rapped on the door again.
‘What’s the name of this guy anyway?’
‘Mr Peacock,’ Welby replied, deadpan.
Alex laughed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. That’s what he insists on being called by everyone. Refuses even to admit to having a first name. Like I said — irritating. Here we go.’
The curtain whipped aside and a tiny, wrinkled man peered towards the window. Welby tapped on the glass. ‘Open up, Peacock, it’s Patrick Welby.’
Peacock waved a hand petulantly. ‘Come back tomorrow, you old fruit. I’m closed up, can’t you tell?’ His voice was high, harsh.
Welby gave Alex an apologetic look. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he called out. ‘Open the bloody door.’
Peacock stomped heavily through his shop, theatrical exasperation. He made a meal of sliding bolts, turning keys. When the door swung in he opened his mouth to bark at Welby then stopped dead when he saw Alex. His eyes roved down and back, his mind probing instantly, rudely. Alex let a pulse of anger wash through his tightly held shields for a fraction of a second, a magical bitch slap. Peacock staggered a pace backwards as Welby snorted with mirth.
Peacock was suddenly politeness personified, curiosity drifting off him like cheap cologne. ‘Welcome, gentlemen, welcome. What brings you here at this strange hour?’
‘This is Alex, a friend of mine. He’s going to read the book.’
Peacock’s eyebrows leapt skywards. ‘Is he now?’
‘He is.’
‘He’s going to try, you mean?’
‘No, he’s going to read it.’
‘Hmm. Well, you’d better come in.’
The inside of the shop was soaked in magesign. The books on the shelves swam in a mist of it, most of them simply old, beautiful things. Some, hidden here and there, were clearly something more. Not as powerful as Alex’s elemental grimoire, though similar. But the sensation from the back of the shop, seeping past the curtain like blood swirling in clear water, was far more compelling. It exuded a pull, a mental magnetism, the desire to stride in almost overwhelming.
‘He going to be all right?’
Peacock’s high voice pushed a cold knife through Alex’s thoughts.
Welby patted Alex on the shoulder. ‘Yes, he’s fine. Just very sensitive. Lead on.’
When Peacock pulled back the curtain it felt as if a furnace door had opened, blasting arcane winds. ‘Deep breaths, Alex. Relax and let it drift by you.’ Welby kept his voice low, whispered close.
Alex rubbed one hand over his face. ‘So much magic here!’
‘I know. Trust me, you’ll get used to this.’
Peacock turned. ‘What are you two whispering about?’
‘Nothing, old chap.’
They entered a room lined with more shelves, enclosed behind glass. The books were all grimoires of some description, every one heavy with magic. Alex felt the wards and shields as Peacock dropped them to allow entry. He got impressions of not only intruder shields, but fire, water, all manner of protection. He knew some of the methods used from his recent reading. The collected works here must be priceless. So much knowledge, so much power. He became dizzy. Peacock sat behind a huge mahogany desk, waving one hand impatiently at them.
An empty chair stood before the desk. Welby dragged another over from a corner. Seated at the dark wood, the three men observed each other. Peacock’s desire to look into Alex was obvious, though he wisely resisted the temptation. Alex scanned the bookseller’s shades and saw a variety of conceits, arrogance and superiority. Welby was right that Peacock thought himself something special. But his colours were dull. Alex knew better than to trust that now, having learned that a skilled magus would use such shades as a shield to their true self. He kept an eye on the small man anyway, watching for any slip. Several uncomfortable moments passed.
‘Well?’ Welby said eventually.
Peacock sank his chin into one gnarled hand, fingers seeming too long for his diminutive frame. He stared, brows knitting in a frown.
Welby made a sound of exasperation. ‘What?’
‘I’m not sure I should show you the book.’
‘I’ve seen it a hundred times.’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘Ah, you fear Alex here may actually be able to read it?’
Peacock harrumphed. ‘Fear, no. But if he can, what’s in it for me?’
‘Well, you’ll get an idea of what the book is about. Anything Alex reads he’ll read aloud. Right?’
‘If you say so,’ Alex said. ‘You’re both a lot more convinced I’ll be able to read this thing than I am.’
Welby opened his palms on the desk. ‘Come on, show us the book.’
Peacock, still frowning, fumbled in a drawer then leaned down out of sight. A sound of metal on metal and he sat up again soaked in swirling ’sign, wrapping itself around him like a hundred tiny smoke dragons. Alex was unsure what he had expected, but visions of some giant leatherbound tome were in his mind. A magnificent book with heavy parchment pages. What he saw seemed ridiculous. No more than four by three inches, maybe half an inch thick, like a pocket notebook, the cover stiff leather, tooled around the edges in an intricate design. It looked like something you’d buy in a shop that sold incense and ‘Protected By Angels’ stickers, though the power swelling off it was undeniable, almost pulsing with a sense of desperation to be out. The book begged to be opened, consumed.
Peacock turned it and placed it on the desk in front of Alex, leaving his hand on it a moment before sitting back, eyes suspicious. The old men sat with a sense of urgent expectation. The book was dark crimson red, almost black. Strange symbols were faint on the cover, pressed into leather worn shiny smooth with years. Leaning forward, staring at the alien shapes, realisation dawned. Simply by wanting to decipher any meaning in the design Alex read it as easily as reading his name. ‘Darak Uthentia.’
Peacock sat up in his chair like he’d been shocked. ‘What?’
Welby smiled.
‘It says “Darak Uthentia”. Those are the words, but I don’t know what it means. The symbols kinda impart the sound of the words, but the words are … I don’t know, they don’t make sense.’
Peacock turned on Welby. ‘Who the fuck is this whelp, Patrick?’
Welby held up one hand. ‘No need for anger.’
‘He can read it and not know what it means?’
‘Apparently.’
Realisation dawned on Alex. ‘Oh, they’re names. Proper names, that’s why.’
Peacock fumed. Patrick sat smugly confident, clearly waiting. Alex felt trapped between them. For want of anything else to do he picked up the book, opened it. Peacock’s and Welby’s attention became avid, intense.
The pages were dry and slick to the touch, some kind of ancient vellum. The age of this thing was hard to imagine. The script appeared similar to that in his grimoire, though more complicated, somehow denser. Alex focused on the first line, let his eyes slide around the writing, trying to peer past the indecipherable lettering and seek the meaning within. ‘“Darak was broken before history began, nature of the universe changed,”’ he read quietly. ‘“The Eld split the rock, the King betrayed and trapped. Nothing ever the same again.” Sounds like a bad epic fantasy novel,’ he said with a smirk. He looked up when there was no reply. Welby and Peacock sat open-mouthed, Welby entranced, though the old bookseller s
eemed furious. ‘I can read on …’ Alex said.
‘Could it really be a history of the Darak?’ Welby asked quietly.
Peacock shook his head, suddenly agitated. ‘I don’t know what to think. It’s all just legend and bollocks anyway. Isn’t it?’
Welby stood, paced back and forth. ‘Well, who knows anything for certain? Let him read more.’
Peacock snatched the book from Alex’s hand, diving under the desk with it, a clang as his safe door closed heavily.
‘What are you doing?’ Welby cried.
Peacock still wore a livid expression. ‘I don’t like any of this. I don’t like that you’ve just brought this boy here. Who the fuck does he think he is? Who the fuck do you think you are?’
‘Peacock, you’re being irrational, man! Let him read it. The things we could learn!’
‘No. I need time to think about this.’
Welby pulled a cheque book from his pocket, slapped it on the desk. ‘Name your price.’
‘What?’
‘Name your price. Absolutely any price you can imagine. Name it. I’ll pay it. That book is useless to you without someone to read it. If you won’t let him read, then sell it to me and you’ll be richer than you could possibly imagine.’
Peacock’s mouth worked like a beached fish. ‘Are you mad?’ he managed eventually. ‘I’m not selling it, especially now. It’s worth more than even you have squirrelled away. Maybe I’ll get the boy to read it to me and then I’ll decide on a price to tell you what it says.’
Welby sat down, steepling his fingers. ‘That’s a ridiculous suggestion. I found the boy; I’m hardly going to let him work for you.’
Alex had heard enough. ‘Who the fuck do you two think you are? I’m not some servant to be bartered over. Some “boy” for your uses. You can both fuck off.’ He stood and turned to leave. The pull of the book, even locked away under the desk, was strong. He was desperate to read more, to simply hold the thing, feel its power. But he refused to sit there and be argued over like a commodity. He strode off through the shop. He heard Welby curse the old bookseller and jump up to follow.
Alex didn’t look back. He headed down the cold cobbled street, hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets. He could hear Welby puffing as he caught up. ‘Alex, please, I’m so sorry.’
‘Whatever.’
‘No, really, please forgive me. That vile man never fails to bring out the worst in me.’
Alex looked over his shoulder, pinning Welby with his gaze. ‘I’m not your property.’
Welby shook his head, wringing his hands. ‘No, please, it’s this bloody book. I’ve tried for so long to fathom something about it. When you started to read it like that, well, it was overwhelming. Alex, we really need to read it. Surely you can feel how magnificent it is. Don’t you ache to know?’
Alex stopped dead, turned to face the old magus. ‘I’m learning more and more by the minute since I met you and I’m not sure how far I want to take that. All this is pretty fucked up.’
Welby put a hand on Alex’s forearm. ‘But you do want to know about the book, don’t you?’
Alex ground his teeth. Of course he did. He had never wanted anything more in his life. There was something primordial, commanding, seductive about that tome and he was desperate to hold it, read it, absorb it. He had no doubt the thing contained incredible power. And he could read it when it appeared no one else could. Welby smiled. Alex wanted to punch him.
‘Let me buy you a drink and tell you a little bit about what you read,’ Welby said. ‘At least understand better what you’ve revealed already.’
Alex sighed. He could certainly use a drink.
A pub was never far away in London. As Welby led him into the warm, wood-panelled comfort of a traditional ale house, Alex paused. He felt something. Turning slowly, his eye fell on a beautiful blonde across the road. She seemed to be in her mid or late twenties, fit and lithe, eyes smouldering as she watched him. She wore tight jeans and T-shirt, short leather jacket, practical boots. He let his vision expand, wondering if he sensed more than simply the stunning good looks. Something lurked beneath her passive exterior. The everyday presence she maintained appeared almost flawless; he couldn’t see through it without forcing the issue, but he knew there was something else there. The blonde tipped her head to one side.
Alex blinked, confused. Too much happening too fast. He had no idea how to respond to anything any more. Was this girl hitting on him? She smiled crookedly. It was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen.
‘What are you doing?’
Welby’s voice broke his concentration. Looking at the old man, he smiled ruefully. ‘Just distracted by …’ He stopped, mouth slightly open, leaning to look down the road.
‘What?’
‘That blonde over there,’ Alex said quietly.
‘What blonde?’
‘Exactly. She was right there. I’ve never seen anyone so dazzling.’
He walked across the pavement, looked up and down the road. Shaking his head he pushed past Welby into the pub. ‘Why should that be any more normal than anything else today?’
Welby followed him to the bar.
Sitting in a quiet corner with pints of London Pride, Welby’s mood was sombre. ‘I really am sorry for how I behaved.’
Alex grunted.
Welby sipped his beer thoughtfully. ‘I can’t expect forgiveness right now,’ he said. ‘But I did promise you an explanation. Darak Uthentia refers to a stone of power. Darak is a stone that used to be wielded by a commanding group of magi known as the Eld. They used the stone to destroy a Fey king, known as Uthentia. Well, Uthentia is an honorific. Of course, to know his real name would give you enormous power over him. But I digress into irrelevancy.’ Welby paused.
Alex shook his head, amusement twisting his lips. ‘You sound like Tolkien or something.’
Welby ignored the comment. ‘Uthentia was an evil creature and he was trapped somewhere outside the known realms by the Eld. Some even considered the Eld to be ancient gods. They exiled Uthentia millennia ago. But doing it cracked their stone, so the legend goes.’
Welby paused again. Alex felt a wave of discomfort. The old man challenged his mockery, dared him to scoff. After all that had happened recently, was a story of Fey kings and magic rocks really so preposterous? ‘Peacock called it all legend and bollocks,’ he said, trying to hang on to some kind of normality.
Welby sipped again, clearly pleased Alex was listening. ‘Of course it is. Or maybe it is. Or maybe it’s all true.’
Alex rolled his eyes. ‘Fuck me. What is it you want from me?’
‘If that book really is some kind of history of the Darak and Uthentia, then it’s possible it might lead us to the stone itself. At least, to the missing pieces of it.’
The sounds of the pub wrapped around them, the hubbub of voices, clinking glasses, electronic beeps from fruit machines. Over it all an old rock song played that Alex couldn’t place. ‘Or it might just be a load of old bollocks,’ he said.
Welby raised both hands. ‘In which case it’s still priceless. That book is an ancient grimoire, written in an eldritch text I’ve never seen before. You can read it when no one else I know can. Even if it’s only a story, don’t you want to read it? There’s enormous power in stories. Look at the Bible or the Koran.’
Alex’s beer tasted good, dark and hoppy. He sipped at it rather than engage in more conversation. Why should he care about the strength or value of this book? He had enough to think about without more complications. But it was fascinating.
Welby grinned. ‘You do. You’ve got the bug. You want to know.’
Alex, though loath to admit it, was hooked. He could still feel the smooth, aged leather of the book on his fingertips. He could smell the vellum of the pages, feel the magic that soaked through the tiny tome. Surely it contained more than a story. The magic seemed to even soak through time and space to where he sat, stroking something at the base of his hindbrain, too seductive
to be safe. There had to be something dangerous about all this. But the seduction remained nonetheless and it was strong. Welby’s eyes were serious again. ‘What?’ Alex asked.
‘What if I told you it’s not all legend?’
‘You know more about it than you’re letting on, I suppose. More than Peacock?’
Welby laughed disdainfully. ‘That old fool has no idea. He thinks he knows a lot but he’s like a child with an encyclopaedia. The pictures intrigue him but he has no idea of the deeper understanding he’s missing.’
‘And you do?’
‘The Fey King was the most powerful creature Faerie had ever known.’
Alex smirked. ‘Faerie? Really?’
Welby scowled. ‘Don’t be distracted by cartoon fairy tales. The Folk, Fey, Faeries, they have many names. And they are very dangerous. I’d advise you to do some research at my house. To continue, the Fey King wrought havoc in the mortal plane and started to break down the few rules that kept any kind of balance. Only these rules stopped the Fey Folk from over-running the mortal world and enslaving humanity thousands of years ago. Certain humans, and, some say, gods, constantly waged a war against Faerie.
‘Eventually it was postulated that if the Fey King’s power could be weakened even briefly, there existed the opportunity to control him long enough to exile him. With him exiled, Faerie would have a far weaker grip on the mortal realm. That’s what the Eld managed to do, shattering their stone of power in the process. The Fey King has been lost between realms ever since.
‘Rather than risk anyone else having that kind of magic, the Eld scattered the pieces of the Darak across the world. Anyone potent with that stone? Too much to contemplate.’
‘So it makes a person stronger?’ Alex asked. ‘Like an amplifier?’
