Father Barthold patted his shoulder.
"I know, my son. I grieve with you as well as for you; but, come now, assist an old man. Find forgetfulness in the old ways for a while."
Michael helped him straighten up the sacristy, and then helped Father Barthold don his vestments. Time passed quickly, and he did find a measure of forgetfulness in the chores of his old days as an altar boy. Michael noticed people filing through the foyer as they headed into the church. Some looked down the hall and waved at Father Barthold as they passed.
"It’s almost time, Michael."
"I’ll see you after mass. Could I come over and talk afterwards?" Michael asked.
"Of course." Father Barthold went to a wardrobe and pulled out a red robe and a white covering. He held them up before Michael.
"Michael, I seem to be without assistance tonight. Would you mind?"
"Father, I haven’t done this in years. I wouldn’t know what to do any more."
"Nonsense, you were an altar boy for years. It will come back to you as you go, and I could certainly use the help."
Michael sighed.
"Ok. I just hope I don’t embarrass you out there."
"There is no possible way you could do that, Michael."
Michael grinned and started putting the robe on.
"A bit different from the old ones," he noted.
"Yes, not to mention, the ones you wore as a child would never fit you now." Father Barthold smiled at him.
"I see the boy I knew in the man before me. I’ll point you in the right direction if you get stuck. Let's not keep everyone waiting."
Michael returned the smile.
As Father Barthold walked out of the dressing room, Michael fell into step behind him. He was extremely nervous about getting up in front of all those people. At least I don’t have to give a speech, he thought to himself.
The mass was a blur. He had a slow start, but Farther Barthold was right. He fell into the familiar routine about halfway through, and it was over before he knew it. Father Barthold stood at the church door, talking to people as they left, while Michael headed straight to the dressing room and removed the robe and covering. He shook them out, placed them on their hangers, and hung them in the wardrobe. As he was closing the wardrobe doors, Father Barthold came into the dressing room, humming.
Memories from his childhood came rushing back. Father Barthold always did hum after mass.
"Father, you may want to send the robe I wore out for cleaning. I was so nervous out there, I was sweating buckets."
Father Barthold chuckled.
"You did fine Michael, and I definitely appreciated the help."
Michael moved to help the elder man get out of his vestments. Once the robes were off and hung up, Father Barthold picked up his hat and placed it on his head.
"Let’s go over to the rectory and get something to drink," Father Barthold suggested.
They left the church and walked the short distance to the rectory. Michael matched his step to Father Barthold’s. He thought, as he did so, that the old priest was moving slower than he used to. His mind is still sharp though. They entered the rectory, and Michael walked to the kitchen with him.
"You want a beer, Michael?"
"Sure."
Father Barthold removed two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, and then they sat at the kitchen table. Same table and chairs, Michael realized, as he sat down.
"So, how can I help?" Father Barthold offered.
"Father, if you wouldn’t mind, could we make this a confession?"
"Whatever makes you most comfortable." He rose and went into the next room. He came back in a few minutes, wearing a purple stole draped around his neck, and reseated himself at the table, pushing his beer away from him.
"I suppose this is more than wanting to talk about Karin’s death."
"Much more. You see Father, something happened to me the night Karin was killed. I…I killed a man that night." Michael sighed heavily.
The old priest’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair as the shock of Michael's words was reflected on his face.
"Michael, have you told this to the police?"
"No, and they wouldn’t believe me if I did. I scarcely believe it myself; and you are not going to believe it either when I tell you what happened. I thought I was going crazy or that I imagined it. Father, I killed the man who shot Karin."
"You really should turn yourself in, Michael. I’m sure the police will see that it was self defense."
"You don’t understand, Father. How could you? I killed him with my mind. There is no body or weapon for the police to find."
Father Barthold’s face relaxed.
"Michael, experiences such as you’ve gone through can do a lot to your mind. They can make us think all kinds of strange thoughts."
"Father, you know Latin don’t you?"
"Of course. It is part of our studies for the priesthood," He replied, looking perplexed at this sudden change of topic.
"What is Latin for freeze, as in to freeze something solid?" Michael asked.
"Hmm, congelo, I believe."
Michael reached out and picked up Farther Barthold’s beer. He twisted the cap off and set it in front of the priest.
"Please Father, take a drink."
Shrugging, the old priest picked it up and took a drink.
"Nice and cold."
"It’s about to get colder," Michael said. He looked at the beer bottle and thought of it freezing solid, then spoke out loud.
"Congelo." The outside of the bottle frosted over and then cracked.
The old priest jumped at the resounding crack as the bottle broke. He stared at it for a few seconds, and then looked up at Michael.
"Did you do what I think you just did?" Father Barthold picked up the bottle and hurriedly put it back down, shaking his hand.
"Ouch! That’s cold."
Michael sat there staring at the cracked bottle.
"That’s the least of it. Scoot back from the table a little bit." Seeing him do so, Michael raised his hand to the bottle.
"Funditus incinerate."
Steam wafted up from the bottle as it started to melt, and then it turned to ash and settled on the table. Michael looked up to see the stunned expression on the old priest’s face. He picked up his own beer, opened it, and handed it to him.
"Here Father, you look like you could use it more than me." Absently taking the beer from Michael’s hand, the priest continued to stare at the small bit of ash on his table. He raised the bottle and took a drink.
"That is what I did to the man who murdered Karin," Michael confessed.
"Michael, I...I just don’t know what to say."
"Do you believe in magic, Father?"
"No, Michael, I don’t. I believe in miracles, but not magic. This must be some kind of mental ability like pyrokinesis."
"You would think, but it’s not. It doesn’t work without the words. I’ve tried. Besides, I have never heard of being able to create substances with your mind. Burn them and move them yes, but not create."
"What are you talking about?"
"Can I have an empty glass Father?"
"Sure." The priest went to the cabinet, retrieved a glass, and brought it back. Before handing it to Michael he asked.
"You are not going to turn it to ash are you?"
"No. Just set it on the table. You’ll see." The priest set the glass on the table and stepped back a few paces.
"No need to move away for this. Repleo meus vas per unda."
Michael felt the familiar breeze in his mind and watched Father Barthold’s face as the glass filled with water. The shocked look turned to wonder.
"Michael, that glass was empty."
"Yes. Now it’s filled with cold water. Go ahead, try it. It’s just water."
The old priest cautiously touched the glass, seeing that it didn’t freeze his hand like the beer bottle. He picked it up and took a cautious sip.
"That
’s amazing. That would be really useful if you could do it with beer." He beamed at Michael. Michael laughed so hard his sides hurt.
They sat in the kitchen for over two hours talking of the old days and of Karin. Michael explained everything that happened since their dinner on Tuesday night.
"So you say you saw nine doors in your mind and six of them opened when that guy shot Karin?"
"Well, they didn’t actually open until I saw Karin lying on the ground. I got this terrible pain in my head, and it felt like my mind was being ripped apart. I didn’t see the first three open. They were already open. I saw the next three burst open. Then I felt the pain all over again, only worse."
There was a knock at the door.
"Hold that thought, Michael. I’ll be right back." Father Barthold got up and went to answer the door. He flipped on the porch light and looked through the peephole. He saw a man standing at the door that he did not recognize, but who seemed vaguely familiar. Frowning, the priest unlocked the door and opened it.
"Can I help you?" The old priest asked.
"Nay Father, I have come to help Michael," the man replied.
"Michael, Michael who?"
"Come now, Father, you are a smart man. At least, that’s what my Grandfather always told me. Michael is in trouble, and I am here to help him."
The old priest’s eyes grew wide, and he peered more closely at the stranger.
"Who did you say your Grandfather was?"
"I didn’t, but his name was Micah Christani. I am named after him. I am Micah."
"I thought you looked familiar. Why, you look exactly like him when he was young."
"So I have been told. May I come in, Father? Michael will want to hear what I have to say and, if he chooses, I can help him."
"How do you know Michael is even here?"
"The same way my Grandfather knew what you were looking for many years ago."
The old priest raised an eyebrow at the stranger and stood aside.
"Well, come on in then." As Micah walked through the door, Father Barthold commented.
"You know, your Grandfather had the same flare for the dramatic. It must run in your family."
Micah stopped and smiled at the old priest.
"And you are as irascible as he said you were. He always did like you, you know, said you were a good man in spite of yourself," Micah laughed.
"That sounds like your Grandfather. Come on, Michael is in the kitchen."
"You are a long way from Italy Father. How did you end up here?"
"I gave up research years ago and wanted to come home to preach. It took a while, but a parish finally opened up here, and the church transferred me."
Father Barthold led Micah into the kitchen. Michael stood when he heard them come in.
"Michael, this is Micah. He is the grandson of an old friend of mine. He says he can help you."
Micah inclined his head to Michael, and Michael nodded back warily.
"So, Michael, has life been getting a bit strange for you of late?" Micah asked smiling.
Michael looked questioningly to Father Barthold.
"No, Michael, I didn’t say a word."
"The good Father is telling you the truth, Michael. And since he is still wearing the purple stole, I will ask him to keep all he sees and hears under the seal of the confessional."
"As you wish," Father Barthold muttered.
"Please, Father, Michael, be seated. I have much to tell, and I am sure you will have many questions." Micah waited until they both had resumed their seats.
"Let’s see, where to begin…"
"How about beginning by telling me what the hell is going on with me," Michael quipped.
"Ok, but before that, you will need a little background in arcane lore. Consider this Magic 101." Micah took a seat at the table, folding his hands together on its top.
"There are nine doors of magic. They are broken into three groups of three. With each door comes different powers, and with each set of three, a different designation. A mage that has opened any of the first three is called a Magician. Upon opening the fourth, he or she becomes a Sorcerer, and when the seventh is opened, a Wizard. When a door is opened, the mage is given title by how many doors he or she has opened; a mage that has opened two doors is a second key magician. One that has opened six, like you Michael, is a sixth key sorcerer."
"How do you know how many I have opened?" Michael asked shocked.
"Simple. By burning that man to dust, you demonstrated the ability of elemental creation. There was no fire nearby, yet he burned. Only a sixth key can create the elements. You are unique, however, in that no one has ever been able to open six doors almost instantaneously. Mental trauma has been known to open the first three, but never more than that. You, my young friend, opened six when your lady was killed."
"She was my wife," Michael said in a whisper.
"And I did not open them. They burst open on their own. I saw her lying there covered in blood, and then the pain in my head hit me. I saw nine black doors. Three of them were open, emitting a bright light. Then the pain worsened, and the next three exploded open."
"Nine doors! You saw all nine doors?" Micah moved forward in his seat and stared intensely at Michael, his eyebrows drawing down in the center.
"Yes. What does that mean?" Michael replied taken aback by Micah’s intensity.
"Michael, with magi, they can only open as many doors as they can see, each door unlocking more power. The head wizard at Kantwell can only see eight doors, all of which he has opened. He is considered the most powerful wizard alive. There have been no magi for centuries that have been able to see all nine. Make no mistake, Michael, you opened those first six doors, albeit unconsciously. The mental anguish of the loss of someone held that dear to you caused the magic, dormant in you, to react to your need. Mental trauma has been known to open the first three doors in more powerful magi, but until now, there has never been one who opened six. Plus, you have been able to cast spells with no prior training. You have the potential to become the most powerful wizard in the worlds. Michael, you are in greater danger than I thought. By the way, how did you know how to cast that spell?"
"I heard the words in my head. What danger?" Michael asked leaning back and away from Micah.
"You heard the words. Did you know their meaning?"
"No."
"And they came to you unbidden?"
"Yes. It seems the words just come to me at the time I need them. They are always in Latin."
"This is without precedent." Micah seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he continued.
"Yes, Latin is the language of magic. It has been the magi tongue for time untold."
"If magic has been around that long, how come the majority of us know nothing about it?" Michael inquired.
"Yes, how has it been kept a secret all this time?" Father Barthold asked.
Micah sighed and eyed the stole around the old priest’s neck.
"Ok, here goes. There is another world, separate from this one. A world called Thelona. Magic thrives there, as do the eldrin races. Once, magic also existed here. Long ago, there was not a direct gateway between the two worlds. In order for the magi to move between them, they had to cast spells to traverse the distance from one to the other. It consumed much time and energy to do so. Therefore, the magi enlisted the dwarves to build a physical gateway, and some of the most powerful wizards and druids in existence infused this gateway with the ability to transport people between the worlds. All went well for a time."
"Most of your old legends originate from things that still exist on Thelona; werewolves, elves, dwarves, trolls, ogres, and such; the eldrin races. Then the dark ages came to this world, and magic was declared heresy. The church and crusaders set out to destroy magic and any being that was not human. The eldrin races fled to the safety of Thelona, and most of the magi went with them, sealing the gateway so that none without magic could cross into Thelona. That gateway remained sealed until about
a hundred years ago when it was opened for research purposes. By that time, all on this side had forgotten the purpose of the gateway. Werewolves and elves had become fantasy characters to frighten and delight children. Magic became scarce here. If it was practiced at all, it was done in secret, for the witch hunts and burnings were well remembered."
"So, magic does still exist here. It’s just not as prevalent as it used to be?" Michael asked with a thoughtful expression.
"If that is the case, then how did I end up with it?" Michael inquired further.
"A distant relative of yours had to be magi. He or she probably never knew it since there were so few left and none around to teach of it," Micah answered.
"How can it be so powerful in me if there haven’t been any recent practitioners in my family tree?" Michael asked.
"Do you know that for certain, Michael?" Micah inquired raising an eyebrow.
"Well, no, but I think I would have heard something."
"Not necessarily. Besides, magic doesn’t work that way. It is in the blood, and though parental magic does tend to lead to magic in the offspring, it does not always. Magic can skip generations and come on strong or feeble in later generations. Just as two great wizards could combine to give birth to a lowly magician, two non-magi with the proper ancestry can give birth to one such as yourself. All that is required is that somewhere in your lineage, there was a magus."
"I see. How, then, am I in danger?" Michael asked, changing the subject.
"Michael, there are two factions of magi. Those who believe that magic is for the benefit of all and should be used as an aid to the world. Merric, the head wizard at Kantwell, and those who follow him believe thus. Then there are the ones who believe magic is a tool to be used to dominate and bend others to their will. They believe magic gives them the right to do as they please simply because they are powerful. Mortow is their leader. He is an eighth key wizard, an equal to Merric. Both sides constantly seek to recruit new magi. Mortow seeks to increase his power, and Merric endeavors to oppose him. I think Mortow is responsible for the death of your wife. I believe he had her killed so your power would manifest. Mortow will come for you and try to convince you to join him," Micah explained.
The Chronicles of the Myrkron: Book 01 - The Nine Keys of Magic Page 8
