by Layton Green
Lord Alistair exchanged a glance with the three wizards from the Ninth, who had sat quietly during the meeting, already aware of the events Lord Alistair had set in motion. “There is something I have in mind,” the Chief Thaumaturge said, his smile as cold as a winter’s evening.
After the dispersal of the Conclave, Lord Alistair exited the towering, midnight-blue pyramid called the Sanctum—the headquarters of the Congregation—by flying down the wizard chute from the Gathering Room to the columned entranceway flanked by two thirty-foot colossi guardians, then through the invisible force field surrounding the structure, an extremely complex multi-discipline ward passable only by those bearing the imprimatur of the Congregation.
Most of the wizards arced upwards in flight, towards the tops of their respective spires. Lord Alistair did the same, soaring high above the pathways of mosaic tile that wove through the manicured gardens separating the wizard compounds. The vista of colored spires needling high above the city never failed to move him. Each was a different length and hue, symbols of the beauty and progress of the Realm—and the might of the Congregation.
Alistair’s two personal majitsu accompanied him. Most majitsu did not possess enough magic to sustain flight, but these were two of the strongest of their order. As they neared Lord Alistair’s residence, half the size of a city block and the largest compound in the District, the majitsu peeled away, alighting at the base of the moat. Lord Alistair flew past the topiary and polychromatic fountains, all of which served defensive purposes, and continued towards the blue-white central tower, linked by Gothic bridges and archways to the surrounding beehive towers whose dun-colored stone flowed and smeared in surreal patterns.
He flew through his ward and into an opening halfway up the central tower, landing on the plush sheepskin rug of his private chambers. The period Oriental furniture and Luxorian tapestries had remained unchanged since the death of his wife, a cuerpomancer from a prominent Londyn lineage. As always, Lord Alistair’s eyes lingered on the portrait of his wife and daughter, holding hands beside a loch of purest blue.
Amber orb lights kindled and then faded as Lord Alistair ascended the wizard chute, illuminating his workshop, library, artifact rooms, and finally the observatory atop the tower.
It was an observatory befitting an elder spirit mage: artistic renditions of the astral plane wrapping the support columns, celestial maps and astrological charts covering the walls, a tinted glass ceiling showcasing the glory and mystery of the heavens. In the corner of the room, a circle of darkness pulsed with streaks of silver light, twelve feet in diameter and framed by a thick layer of azantite.
A long ivory pew ran along one of the walls, above which hung a row of obsidian helms. Lord Alistair plucked one marked ‘Inverlock Keep’ and strode to a raised dais in the center of the room, which supported a silver throne that revolved and tilted to allow for observation of the heavens.
And a spirit mage, of course, did far more than just observe.
Lord Alistair sank into the throne and fitted the helm to his head. His vision blurred as a spirit signal whisked across the ether. When he could see again, he found himself looking at the workshop in his cloud fortress through the eyes of Fesoj Gelmene, a wizard banished from the Realm for the unlawful practice of menagery.
“My Lord,” Fesoj said in Lord Alistair’s mind, the spirit helm neutralizing Fesoj’s sibilant lisp.
“Excellent,” Lord Alistair said. “You’re already in the workshop.”
Through the helm, Lord Alistair could see the five azantite pods in the center of the room, each bearing a window of translucent spirit glass showcasing the transformation taking place within.
Each, that was, except for the empty pod whose door and inhabitant had both disappeared—an occurrence which Fesoj and Alistair did not yet understand.
“There is still no sign?” Lord Alistair said, his gaze resting on the barren interior of the pod.
“None, my lord. Rest assured I’ve performed every test possible on the others, and they exhibit no aberrations.”
Lord Alistair clenched the sides of his throne, trying to control the surge of anger that sent cracklings of dark matter flaring across his fingertips. “How could this happen? Did the subject dissolve into spirit? Blood and stone! If it is alive and able to communicate—I think I need not explain what would happen. What the Conclave would do.”
“No, milord,” Fesoj murmured.
“One day they will understand, but not today. No empire lasts forever, and those that do not innovate and expand, respond to the challenges of the world, perish first. Rest assured our enemies have no qualms in developing new methods of warfare.”
“Of course.”
Alistair knew his genius menagerist could not care less about the machinations of world politics, as long as he was allowed to perform his experiments. A necessary evil, employing one such as he.
“How long before they’re ready?” Alistair asked.
“I plan to open the pods in three days time, and judge the state of the subjects.”
“If the tests are favorable, I think you know the nature of the first task.”
“I do.”
Fesoj started pacing the room, wisely diverting Alistair’s attention from the empty pod. When his menagerist passed the wall of shadow glass, Alistair saw the dark glitter of the menagerist’s reflection: a tall, angular wizard with the bald head and placid face of an archivist. Only the off-kilter line of his mouth, whose lips always seemed half-parted, belied the cruelty within.
“Have you consulted our phrenomancer again?” Alistair asked.
“Indeed.”
“And the sword? It remains in our world?”
“It does. Of that he is certain.”
How did it get here? Alistair wondered for the thousandth time.
He realized Zedock must have carried the sword through the portal without informing him, but why? The only explanation was that the necromancer had desired to usurp Alistair’s power. Alistair was far more powerful than Zedock, but putting Spiritscourge in the hands of any elder mage would be a devastating combination.
Which, of course, was why Alistair wanted the sword for himself.
“What of the identities of those responsible for his death? Still nothing?”
“I did as you asked, and found a second phrenomancer willing to gaze with Zedock’s ghost knight. The result was . . . unfortunate.”
“The phrenomancer perished?” Lord Alistair asked.
“I’m afraid so. From what I understand, traveling the pathways of the dead is quite perilous, even for an experienced gazer. Madness and death commonly result.”
The dark lightning returned to Lord Alistair’s fingertips, now spreading up his forearms like a writhing, three-dimensional tattoo. “It had to be the sword, but wielded by whom? One of Zedock’s majitsu? And where is it?” He allowed his energies to relax. “Did our gazer have anything else to add?”
Fesoj hesitated. “He said the negative probabilities have risen. Almost to the point of equality.”
“Which probabilities, Fesoj? The last time we spoke, we discussed several prophecies revealed by the phrenomancer.”
Fesoj stopped pacing, his side reflection in the shadow glass now reminding Lord Alistair of a crane standing beside a lake, head bent and poised to strike.
“That when the sword born of spirit returns to Urfe,” Fesoj repeated slowly, reluctant to speak the words, “war is imminent, and one born of Roma blood will destroy you.”
Lord Alistair didn’t speak for long moments, waiting for his rage to subside. “The lost subject will have to wait,” he said, his voice thick but under control. “As soon as the first Spirit Liege is ready, send it to Zedock’s obelisk. Send it after the sword. ”
“Yes, milord.”
-14-
“How did you know I was a wizard?” Val asked.
Alrick looked at him askance. “Because of your psionic signature, of course.”
Of cour
se, Val muttered to himself. My psionic signature.
“Will you go?” The gazer said, his eyes boring into Val’s. “Will you lock gazes with me?”
“Will it help me find my brothers?”
“You’ll be able to affect the journey, so yes. It is dangerous, I won’t lie. And you must never leave the path. Let me guide you, and if you see something connected to your brothers, I’ll know. The pathways will appear.”
Val took a deep breath. He didn’t trust something he didn’t understand, but there was no time to learn. “How do I stay with you?”
“You’ll understand once we start. It will take a burst of will to separate from me. Remember, where we’re going, place and time do not exist in the same way. You’ll see impressions, memories, future possibilities. Sorting through them is the trick.”
“Why can’t we leave the path?”
Alrick relit the candle and extinguished the wizard light. The candle flickered in the darkened room. “Because of the beings that roam the Void. Some gazers, near the end of their lives or if they go insane, veer off the path and seek them out.” He handed Val the glow drops. “They never come back.”
Val placed a drop in each of Alrick’s eyes, noticing no effect.
“At times, you might see something of interest and be tempted to cross the Void. Don’t.”
“What exactly are these . . . roaming beings? I prefer to be prepared for all contingencies.”
The phrenomancer gave a low grunt. “No one knows. Entities beyond human comprehension. Other things lurk inside the Void, but those are the most dangerous, at least as far as we know.” He smirked. “No one really knows what lies within the Void.”
“What are the odds of encountering one?”
“A gazer can look inside his mind for days and not be in any danger, as long as he travels his own psionic veins. The further out one ventures, away from known pathways, the more dangerous the journey.” He held a hand up. “I will keep us in good stead, unless you are someone who is predisposed to . . . lose control over one’s mind?”
“That would be out of character,” Val said, re-fastening his oculave. “So what do I need to know?”
“Just look into my eyes and open your awareness. Think of your brothers. I will link and guide us.”
“Won’t we be in your mind, too?”
“I will shield it.”
“A final question,” Val said.
“Yes?”
“All real gazers are wizards, aren’t they?”
Alrick’s voice already sounded far away. “Of course. They have to be.”
The gazer blew out the light, and the darkness returned, broken only by the golden glow of two enlarged pupils staring at Val from a foot away. It was an unsettling sight, and Val started counting again.
One, two, three
Alrick’s leonine eyes were mesmeric, reeling him in. Val felt consumed by them, as if they were enlarging at the same rate Val was shrinking.
Four, five, six
He felt a tickle in his brain. It was the best way he could describe it, a feeling that someone or something was gently probing the inside of his head.
Seven
The golden orbs merged and expanded to fill the room. Behind the glow, as if at the end of a tunnel, Val saw an approaching wall of blackness crisscrossed by silver filaments, like a giant spider web in outer space.
Eight
The tickle became a prod
Nine
He felt weightless in his chair, as if someone had lifted him
Ten
The golden orbs moved past him and disappeared, leaving him wrapped in silver lines and darkness as he rushed down one of the silver pathways, deeper and deeper and deeper. The world had somehow become more than three-dimensional, the silver filaments branching like floating capillaries, tens of thousands of branches stretching in all directions into the distance, with no discernible pattern. He realized he was seeing not with his eyes, but with his mind.
Though he couldn’t see Alrick, Val had the sensation of being carried, and he gave in to the feeling, allowing the gazer to guide the way.
The images started as soon as the first silver line split into five pathways. Alrick chose the one to the left. Val and his mother enjoying a game of Scrabble when he was ten, then watching movies together on the couch with a bowl of homemade popcorn, then running hand-in-hand through a leaf-strewn park as his mother’s brown hair tossed in the wind, her playful blue eyes sparking brighter than the sun. Mom, Val whispered to himself, you’re young again. And you’re not insane here.
The images began playing at high-speed, like one of those horror movies where everyone in the psych ward moves too fast. Val felt as if he could slow them down, but he didn’t want to interrupt Alrick.
As the pathways branched, the images changed. Val teaching Will how to play soccer at the levee. Val and his friends walking to the neighborhood pizza joint, combining their funds to order breadsticks and Cokes and play the jukebox. Val telling his father about a fight at school, his father ruffling his hair and making it all go away. Val watching Caleb kiss girl after girl on their front porch. Their father packing his bags for the trip to France, uncharacteristically serious, holding Val tight and telling him he loved him. The gutted feeling at hearing the news of his death, their mother collapsing in the living room and then leaving in an ambulance, Val forced to change his life and take care of the family. Standing in a witness room at a police station in Manhattan, explaining to two detectives why he had met with Mari at midnight the day before she disappeared. Val with grey hair, arguing in court before a jury. Val in prison. Val standing on the ramparts of a multi-tiered castle in the clouds, black electricity crackling from his fingertips, nightmare creatures made of ice climbing the walls.
These last things—they haven’t happened yet. Am I seeing what could have been? Or what might be?
He felt a tug, as if someone had pulled on the reins of his mind. He remembered he was supposed to be thinking of the last time he had seen his brothers.
It wasn’t that easy. As he tried to focus on Will to filter the images, the silver pathways branched faster, until they became a random blur. He did his best to slow the reel, focusing harder on Will as the pathways sped by, filtering through images of his youngest brother’s childhood. Will’s constant pranks, the first of his devastating panic attacks after their father died, Will’s off-the-charts test scores and inability to focus in class, the Navy and the New Orleans police and even the fire department denying his applications, the refuge he sought in the world of fantasy—
There.
Will and Caleb in the cemetery, fighting off skeletons and following Zedock and Yasmina through the portal . . . and then something Val hadn’t seen before. Approaching quickly was a four pronged branch, each a distinct hue of silver.
He had no idea what to do, so he thought of Will again and whooshed down the pathway on the far right, the lightest of the four.
More images of Will, often with Caleb and Yasmina. Fighting Zedock in his obelisk. Racing through the forest. Shackled in an underground cavern, hacking at a vein of minerals in the wall. Sleeping in a pirogue in the swamp. Kissing Mala on a windswept plain. Thrusting his sword at Val in anger. Fighting a winged demon that was holding Caleb in one of its claws. Falling into a chasm, arms flailing, calling Val’s name as he plummeted to his—
Val shuddered and tried to close his eyes, then realized he couldn’t. The images kept changing, at times leading to branches in the distance with even more nuanced shades of silver. Eventually the movie of Will’s life grew weaker and more ephemeral, and the silver lines became harder and harder to see. Finally they disappeared altogether, ending at a wall of blackness.
Val was confused for a moment.
Then it became all too clear.
His brother was dead.
No he screamed in his mind, his anguish expanding outward like a phoenix bursting into flame. As he roared, he felt the magic inside him pop,
and the entire fabric of the place, the silver filaments and the limitless black space in between, pulsed and warped as if a bubble of mercury had plopped onto a table. In that instant of time, he saw a field of new pathways, filaments of a thousand colors branching in every possible direction, the hues forming patterns of breathtaking multidimensional beauty.
The pulse ended, the landscape returned to normal, and Val was once again staring at a wall of blackness. He had no idea what had just happened. He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t understand any of this, and he didn’t care. One of his brothers’ pathways had terminated, and he didn’t need a mystic to tell him what that meant.
But Val had power. He knew it, and he was going to dive into that infinite dark and snatch his baby brother’s spirit from the maw of death.
He propelled his mind into the blackness, ignoring the tug from behind, rushing forward until the glow behind him ceased. Until there was nothing left at all.
At first there was an absence of light, of sound, of smell. A darkness so visceral and complete it made the darkest of caves seem well-lit. Val pressed forward, welcomed the black. In his mind, he extended his hands and flew, faster and faster and faster.
He wasn’t sure how long it took for the presence to emerge behind him. Alrick, he whispered in his mind? Is that you?
No answer.
The sense of a presence increased exponentially, a feeling that made Val feel as if he were a child wandering alone in the darkness as a child, searching for a lost toy in the back yard while the mystery of the night sky pressed down from above, suffocating him.
The beings that roam the Void, Alrick had said. Some gazers go to them. They never come back.
In the distance, a light appeared, soft and silvery.
Val shuddered at the implication.
Will.
He could bring him back.
Faster, he willed his mind. Faster.
He felt the presence approaching behind him like an avalanche gathering steam. Whatever it was, Val sensed that it was both a wondrous and terrible thing.
