His hands sweated. He was nervous, hesitant. He walked down the path toward the wall. The heavy iron and oak gate stood almost twice his height. It looked unearthly in the moonlight and he tried to keep to the shadows as he made his way to the latch.
He felt for the spells and slowly untwined the magic. Satisfied that he would be able to open the door without notice, he wove a small spell to lift the cross-timber off and set it to the side. He summoned the door open and cast a spell over the hinges to make sure they didn’t protest.
He stepped through the door and had it close behind him, resetting the beam. He would replace the protections when he returned. He stood there for a couple seconds, staring at the outside of the door and the huge escarpment. Turning around, he set off at a quick pace down the trail toward the bridge.
When he reached the bridge, he looked back at the glamour over the Keep. The small rundown cottage still appeared as it had those many years ago when they had set the spell in place. He wondered how Dra’kor had felt when he saw it for the first time. He chuckled to himself because he imagined that Dra’kor probably cussed up a storm.
He tried to think about the time of Ror, signing the treaty and still he remembered nothing. He remembered to set his wards, and quickly wove a collection of protections. He chuckled; he remembered when that used to come as second nature. He continued wandering up the path in the opposite direction of Three Rivers.
Ja’tar listened as a hoot owl called in the distance and the sound of the stream tumbling over rocks filled the air. Crickets and whippoorwills filled the gaps with their music. It had been a long time since he had heard them sing. He felt like sitting down on a big rock and just enjoying the night. He realized how much he missed walking about the realms and being in the woods. He grunted. Sometimes you had to give up things for the better good. He wondered why it was always the more pleasurable and important things that seemed to require sacrifice.
Maybe they had it all wrong, this working hard and changing the world. Maybe the elves had it right, that art, music and fellowship are the most important, not the material things. He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and continued on.
The moon was full and the thin mountain air was clear enough that the stars lit the entire sky.
Ja’tar was glad that he had put on his heavy overcoat. He pulled the hood up tight over his head as the gentle breeze swirled the cold night air around his feet. He could see his breath as he breathed and he had small ice crystals forming on his beard and mustache. He pulled his hands deeper into his jacket. He stopped again when he could barely see the cliffs that surrounded the Keep and tried again to remember.
He sighed and took another step, placing his trusty staff in front, leading the way. The rhythmic tapping of his staff on the frozen road and the silent shuffle of his boots over the soil were the only sounds that seemed out of place. He was reaching the edge of the forest and the ancient pines towered above him. Ja’tar knew that once he entered, the moonlight would no longer light his path. He prepared an orb spell and held his hand out in front as the white light from the small orb lit his way.
He had walked another half-league or so when he paused again to test his memory. He thought back on the past. Although he still couldn’t remember specifics, he was having moments where he thought he could remember faces and events. He just couldn’t hold on to them or pull up any details. He looked back down the road; he had walked farther than he had thought he would have to go. He shook his head. The magic on the Keep and its grounds was strong. He mentally tallied a list of those he thought had enough power to do such a thing. It was a short list.
He decided that he would walk another ten minutes, and if that didn’t work, he would try again on a different night. The road wound now, making its way between the enormous pines. The circuitous path hid what lie ahead and what came from the rear. It made Ja’tar nervous and he widened his wards.
Ja’tar came to a small clearing and recognized it as the place he and To’paz used to go for late-night discussions and practice. Although he knew this place well, and remembered what they had done here, he couldn’t form a clear picture of any of their trips. He knew he should remember, but try as he might, his mind just wouldn’t stay focused on his task.
He decided that this was as far as he would go this night. He gathered up some branches and lit himself a fire on the side of the road nestled between a pile of huge boulders and the trees. The fire lit the entire area, but Ja’tar was sure that the light would not escape the thick forest. He sat down on one of the boulders and thought.
After a bit, he stood and walked to a boulder that was jutting out of the ground. He sighed heavily, extended a finger and chanted. Soon a bright arc of flame jumped from his finger to the rock and started carving out the words he had in his mind.
For my loving sister To’paz, who died unnecessarily fighting demons. Sum
Licens Solus Fidens!
- Your Loving Brother,
Jat’ar
He stepped back and admired his handiwork. He cast another spell that worked on the rock, shaping it into an elaborate shrine. He watched as the magic gradually changed its nature and before long, it was clear as glass, but it was not glass, it was a solid diamond.
Satisfied, he took out the small box of his sister’s things and held them in his hand. He stepped up to the shrine and chanted loudly waiting for his hand to glow pure white before plunging it and the items into the diamond. The diamond melted with his touch and his hand sank deep to his elbow into the stone. He let go and pulled his hand free, leaving behind his sister’s mementoes. When the diamond returned to its shape, he could see his sister’s books, necklace, and metal figurines stuck, forever encased.
He had another idea and searched for a spell. He wove an intricate weave and let it ooze into the rock. He stepped back and watched as an image of his sister floated in the middle of the diamond. He reconsidered. Finally, he cast a spell to hide the image and the contents of the monument from those with no magic. He didn’t want to intentionally rile the Guild.
Finished, he stepped back and looked at his handiwork. It looked like a simple headstone, but when he used his wizard’s sight, it was beautiful. Still, it seemed insignificant, but it was the best he could do. He took one last look before he crossed the small field, returning to where his fire was burning bright.
The minutes slowly crept past as Ja’tar meditated on thoughts of the past. He sat for a long time, staring blankly into the woods. He sighed. Nothing. He pulled a small loaf of bread and some cheese out of his pack and sat eating, thinking about how he could break the spell. Problem was, he needed to know what was being blocked to unblock it. He took another bite and a swig of wine from his wineskin.
He pulled out the small figurine that Shar’ran had given him those long years ago and fondly rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. He felt the smooth surface and it somehow gave him peace.
He closed his eyes and thought back on happier times. He was hit with a sudden rush of memories that overwhelmed him. Thoughts he hadn’t had for centuries streamed into his conscious and he wasn’t able to throttle them or hold them back. People, places, events, they all came back. He burst into tears, unable to funnel his emotions.
His eyes shot wide, a memory, a very small seemingly insignificant memory, at the end of his consciousness caught his attention. A memory of his childhood, his training, appeared in a flashback. He was sitting with his father on the old bench outside his father’s room as they practiced his first spell. He remembered his father patiently demonstrating and explaining how to control the magic. Ja’tar smiled at the memory. He remembered how his father smelled, how he smiled and how he made him feel. He smiled at the fact that his father never mentioned the Zylliac and was showing him how to control real magic. Real magic! Dra’kor was right again, he thought to himself. Ja’tar was pleased, and scared.
Ja’tar carefully removed the medallion and set it on the rock a few feet in fr
ont of him. Again, he didn’t feel any different, but he knew that given time, he would be in pain and soon, he would start to grow old. He took the small figurine that Shar’ran had gifted to him, and set it back in his pocket.
He grabbed a leaf from the ground, held it in his palm, and concentrated as his father had told him. The leaf shuddered, but slowly floated up above his hand. Ja’tar checked for his connection to the ethereal beast, and grinned when it was not present. Ja’tar felt a tear slide down his cheek as he held the dead leaf in the air. His eyes welled up with tears and soon, he was softly sobbing.
Floating a dead leaf. It was such a small feat, so insignificant, but pivotal because it pointed out that he hadn’t completely forgotten magic. He remembered how much he loved the touch of it, how it felt, how it warmed him when he used it. In his mind, he was no longer a mage, and more importantly, he had no magi in the Keep. In that moment, he realized that the Keep was in serious trouble. In far more trouble than he had imagined.
He made the leaf rise and fall, move from side-to-side. His touch with the flow was coming back to him, but he knew that it would not be the case for the rest of the Keep. They had never learned the magic. For him, it was like remembering an old friend. The more he used, the more he remembered. He couldn’t wait to get back and tell Zedd’aki.
He remembered … Hagra, and smiled. He remembered Ror, the absolute horror of it. He remembered his elf friend Shar’ran and he remembered being a god. He felt the depth of the deception, the vileness of it. His mind cleared and he remembered the Ten. He remembered the treaty and he remembered his father ascending.
The depth of the glamour shook him to his core and he blamed the Ten, for they were the only ones with the power to do this. He tried to calm himself down, but his true nature was free. He felt his blood pound at his temples and felt his lip quiver as he began to fill with rage.
Ja’tar sat for a long time, holding the leaf, feeling the cold of the boulder through his coat as he fought to contain his wrath. What should he do next? The path wasn’t so clear. For the first time in over a thousand years, he had no guidance. The choice was entirely his and the decision he made would impact every person he knew. If he made the wrong choice, people were likely to die.
One by one, his memories came back. His nature returned. He could actually feel that he was different now, not just in his ability to touch and work the magic, but he sensed subtle changes in his personality. He felt himself losing control, being agitated and feeling well, arrogant! How dare they!
Ja’tar felt his ire rising. He thought about the days that had past, and the glory the Keep had once held. They had fallen to this, on his watch. He cursed the Guild and their rules. He decided then, and there, that he would help set things right in the world. The world needed them. He stood up forcefully and began pacing nervously. He snarled and glowered.
By now, thousands of leaves were circling over his head and the wind was starting to pick up.
Ja’tar swore under his breath as he felt the spells and power return. He remembered all — he was a near god! He was the most powerful man in the realms. He thought about all the brothers and sisters he had lost, accomplished magi, good people, kind people that were trying to help the realms. His eyes filled with rage and they turned red with the mage lust, the lust to destroy.
He shouted out loud, “By the Ten, I will find you and save you if any of you are still alive. On the grave of my mother, I swear it!”
He threw his hands up, uttered an incantation, and watched as a towering funnel cloud formed directly over his head, whipping up the dirt and leaves, uprooting trees. It soon reached to the sky. His hair was flowing around him, his robe was billowing in the wind, and webs of blue and purple power arced from his hands into the surrounding air. The funnel spun on the ground in the opening around him, bending to his whim. He made it move from side-to-side as it tore the ground and sent trees, roots and all, flying high into the sky.
Ja’tar felt his face go hot as he was filled with fury. A millennium, wasted, he thought. He thought about all the good they could have accomplished. He filled himself with the power, lowered his trembling hands and spoke a single phrase in a voice that shook the very mountains, tonare e fulgur.
His eyes went white and he threw his arms up again, causing lightning to snake up the undulating serpentine funnel. It spread out like a web across the churning clouds, and sent giant white-hot bolts racing to the ground, splitting trees, and throwing rock shards in every direction. The ground split open and the earth itself burst into flame. He caught the lightning in his hands, felt it pulse and tossed it back into the clouds as he laughed. The thunder roared and the sound of the thunderclaps of the gods shook the mountains.
He screamed incoherently at the top of his lungs as he let all his rage flow up into the heavens.
The sky lit bright white, silhouetting a single mage, in full command of the energies of the universe standing in a small hollow. The trees trembled and the mountains growled. He was Kandor’a, born to be a god, fearful of no man! He cursed at what he had become. The very thought was repugnant.
He grinned widely and holding a single finger out, sent a yellow twisting cord of magic into the sky. It exploded, and all went dark. The sky cleared, the wind stopped and the funnel dissipated. Ja’tar had cleared the entire sky of clouds and all that was to be seen in any direction was the twinkling of stars, millions and millions of stars under the White moon. Off in the distance, the red Ocht’or moon was rising and it was just cresting above the peaks.
In a cave far to the north, under the ice-covered mountains, a giant blue dragon was slumbering. The cave, hidden in the Ice Spires in the realm of Northland had been the domain of the dragons since the Rotterdam pact. Here, they lived and thrived, free from the cares of man, safe, never to be hunted.
The dragon known as Voltaire opened a yellow and green sleepy eye and peered off into the darkness. It took a deep breath, filled the room with fire, and slowly moved its head from side-to-side, as the rock glowed red and steam billowed from the water-filled cavern.
Had that been what he sensed it to be? He thought to himself, Ah, my friend! I have wondered where you have been. It has been so very long. Welcome back Ja’tar Kandor’a, god of men. He closed his eye and smiled. His friend had finally returned.
Faraway, on a cliff high above Five Peaks, the lich stood stroking his chin, staring in the direction where he felt strong magic. He had witnessed the display of light and thunder. Even at this distance, he recognized it for what it was, a mage. A very strong mage, stronger than any he had felt in the past. If he could capture this mage, his master would be very happy, very happy indeed. The lich drooled and licked its lips, tasting how that much power would feel. He would drain that mage and make his power his own.
Ja’tar stood quietly in the little clearing staring at the stars as his anger melted away. He felt the tie to his familiar and heard the dragon’s words in his mind. A giant grin came to his face as he recognized the voice of his ancient and wise friend.
Voltaire! I had forgotten all about you my friend. There is evil magic at work here. We may need to dance together again. The response he received back was as he expected. Together is better. I await your visit. Do not stay away so long this time.
Ja’tar struggled with the enormity of the glamour. It had stripped him of his nature and his most precious memories. It had made him forget who and what he was, and worse, it had caused him to lose his sense of purpose. He swore that those responsible would pay, and they would pay dearly.
Finally, he raised his hands, healed the ground, straightened the toppled trees and set right all the damage he had done when he had lost his temper.
He felt a little embarrassed that he had lost control and he knew what his friend Zedd’aki would say about that! He lowered his head and walked back to the huge log, calmly reached down, picked up the medallion, and started to place it back over his head when he felt himself getting angry again. He chan
ted and tried to control his emotions, emotions that had been pent up for a millennium; he angrily threw the medallion to the ground and watched it bounce on the dirt, coming to rest against a huge rock.
He knew he needed to put the medallion back on, he was feeling a bit nauseated and light headed. He knew that the headaches would come soon, followed by the weakness.
He paused, remembering the life spell, which he quickly and easily spun. It should have been second nature to him, the first thing he checked and he cursed at his incompetence. He had fallen a long way from his former glory. He was so unsure of himself that he was second-guessing his craft. He used his wizard’s sight to view his handiwork. He felt an instant flood of relief as his spell took hold. He looked over at the medallion and knew that things would not go as easy for the magi who never learned the spell.
Of course, he also knew he would eventually need to don the cursed medallion, but for now, he preferred his head clear, free of all encumbrances. He pulled out his journal and wrote himself a note. He wrote clearly:
‘Dra’kor was right about the magic. I can still do old magic, but cannot remember it when I am close to the Keep. It seems to return to me quickly; however, I’m sure that I have lost much of what I knew. I seem to recall a stronger life spell, but couldn’t remember it before I had to return. None of the magi after Ror know of the old magic, I am positive of this. This presents a problem. The glamour taints your existence, and changes your nature; I could feel my head clear only after I had been clear of both the glamour of the Keep and the Querd medallion. The medallion prevents one from even remembering or accessing the old ways. I am confused, because it may be that the medallion, the Zylliac and the glamour are all related. All of this points to the Ten, although I find it hard to imagine that even they would be so evil as to cripple the Keep. It makes no sense to me their fighting the battle of Ror only to destroy the very wizards they were fighting to protect.’
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 01 - Eyes of the Keep Page 61
