The Warlock was held.
The patrons stared dumbly at the spectacle in their midst, then all at once they began to run. Magic was being used, and the result was inevitable. Twardy Zarost expected his hair to stand on end when the receiving-point gained charge. A rumbling thunder should come toward them soon then the silver threads of light would snake inward to meet at a bright confluence high above Slipper.
The wildfire would react to his use of magic, as it always did. Change would come upon Slipper with devastating intensity. The Gyre could not abandon the spell that held the Warlock captive; only the Riddler was free to act. But even as he began to cast the planned lure-spell to divert the strike toward the lowlands, he realised that something was amiss. There was no gathering tension.
The air was calm over Slipper.
It made no sense. The containment that held the Warlock was a mighty Order-spell; it combined the essence of five wizards. It should have triggered a massive wildfire strike. They had planned for it, they had expected it. The night sky was empty. A few stars twinkled innocently overhead, visible through the gap in the damaged roof of the ale-hall.
The Warlock seemed unsurprised by the lack of wildfire. He broke the small bottle that he held by crushing it in his right hand. The glass shattered and a puff of brown gas escaped, billowing to form a lopsided circle. It was filled with a strange light, as if it was a dirty window into another world. The Warlock whispered to himself.
“Hold him!” Zarost shouted to the distant wizards.
“We are! He is going nowhere!” the Mentalist answered. The cords of the Containment thickened, wrapping the Warlock in tight cocoons of force, Order-magic strong enough to hold a herd of angry bullgorgons. The Warlock could not possibly escape from the net.
Yet still he completed the Transference spell in his left hand. He did not release the pattern upon himself—with the bonds it would have been ineffective—instead he guided the coiled essence towards the tainted gap in the air. His arms were held, he could not move, but he could still use his mind to command his essence, in a limited way. The spell vanished as if pushed through a curtain. He had sent his Transference somewhere else, despite the Containment which should keep things exactly where they were. The window-space popped like a soap bubble. A wisp of brown gas curled in the air, faded, and was gone.
Zarost blinked. Something had just happened that he didn’t understand.
They couldn’t afford to have the Warlock cast any more spells—Zarost extended his hand and drew his personal essence away. The Warlock didn’t resist.
“Now we have you,” said Zarost.
“For the moment,” the Warlock replied. “But once you understand what you have done, you will release me.”
Zarost looked down at the traitorous wizard, into the dark holes within those red eyes. The Warlock had betrayed centuries of trust. His soul had crossed a bridge; he was no longer on their side. He was alone. Under pressure, he would always lie.
“Your treachery is ended, Warlock. You may as well speak the truth.”
“Treachery? Treachery!” He laughed, a small sound in the amphitheatre of the broken inn. “No Riddler, you are mistaken. Everything I have done was for our cause, for the triumph of Order. Are you too blind to see that? I have worked hard to get close to the Sorcerer, to convince him of my allegiance. I have endured great perils, taken great risks, but never did I abandon my oath to the Gyre. What I did was a cover to get close to the Sorcerer, to gain his trust. It might seem to you that I am a traitor, but in truth I have ever been loyal. That is why I do not fight you.”
Zarost considered the Warlock’s words. His calm expression was difficult to read.
“Explain the Kingsrim then. How could it possibly benefit us to have the anchor point of Eyri’s Shield loose in Oldenworld?”
“Do you think the Sorcerer would have believed me if I had done anything less? He is impressed with extravagance, with daring, with risk. I am so close to gaining his favour. I have done more in the last few weeks than all of you have achieved in a hundred years. Who among you have even talked to the Sorcerer, who among you has discovered his weaknesses? Only I have done this, and I have learnt that we were wrong, we always fought against Chaos, pitting our strength against his. That only makes him stronger, for he draws upon his source only in moments of need. But hear me now. If we work with him, if we support Chaos, if only for a short time, he loses the focus for his hatred. He becomes weaker. The only way to conquer Chaos is to become it. Once I have gained his trust, I shall be close enough to tame the beast, to pacify him; to end his threat.”
“You can’t influence the Sorcerer. Even the Sorcerer cannot control his power. That is what Chaos means! The absence of control. You will never have any influence over him.”
“I already do,” the Warlock replied. “Did you fail to notice that the sky above Slipper was drained of wildfire? That was at my request, so that we might have this discussion in peace.”
Zarost wondered if that could be true. It was more likely that they were under a faulty area of the wildfire web. “If taking the crown was a cover, why did you never tell us?”
“Come now, Riddler! If I had told any of you, you would have tried to stop me. Not so? This plan is too daring for a council of timid old-timers to consider, but I could wait no longer. The last conflict with the Sorcerer was dire—something had to be done. To act on my own was better than waiting for a false hope, and the crown of Eyri was a small sacrifice, because Eyri was already a failure. Can’t you see that your new pet wizard is too inexperienced to make any difference? She will be swept aside; we shall all be swept aside unless we change. To triumph we have to get our hands dirty: we must get close to Chaos. That is what I have done, that is why you must release me, so I can press on with my task.”
Zarost should have known that the Warlock would break out on his own, he had ever been ambitious. Black Saladon didn’t see the big picture as Zarost could see it, wrapped in prophecy, beauty and betrayal. He would never see it that way, because Zarost couldn’t share that vision with anyone.
“You underestimate the Lifesinger,” said Zarost. “She carries a real hope of renewal for all of us.”
“She is nothing but a channeller. The Sorcerer has already captured her Goddess, she will be silenced, and you will have nothing except for a fading memory of that song. Do not gamble our lives away on a false hope.”
“The Sorcerer only knew how to trap the Goddess Ethea because of the lore you took to him, stolen from the Sanctuary. You caused the Lifesinger’s power to be threatened, you jeopardised our hope!”
The Warlock shrugged. “Some sacrifices had to be made. It had to seem to the Sorcerer that I had turned my back on Order. He was quite convinced.”
The Warlock had traded the Lifesong for the Sorcerer’s favour. Zarost could not contain his anger. He grasped the Warlock by his moustache. “Such a sacrifice is unforgiveable!”
“I do not need your forgiveness, Riddler.”
Zarost hit him then hit him again. There was little permanent damage that Zarost could do to the wizard, but it would hurt the Warlock until he had healed himself, and it helped Zarost reign in his fury. The Warlock was held immobile by the Containment. A fiery anger swelled in his eyes.
“You play a dangerous game, Riddler,” he warned, through bloody teeth.
“And I will play it to the end. You will tell us what the Transference spell you cast was intended for.”
The Warlock flashed him a humourless smile. “It shall be my pleasure to tell you, to see you understand the depth of your dilemma. The bottle contained a small discontinuity.”
“Where from?”
“Turmodin, of course.”
A chill ran down Twardy Zarost’s spine. The Warlock had sent his spell into the brown haze, and his spell might have appeared in the Pillar.
“What use is a Transference spell to the Sorcerer? He would not use an Order spell.”
The Warlock looked away
from Zarost, into the night sky. “You understand so little about Chaos. He will use anything, if it will bring him the prizes he seeks.”
“Where will that spell guide him to? Where did you send him?”
“Think about it, Riddler. To keep me contained, you must all remain here, not so? You are trapped by the trap you have cast. Wouldn’t you say that is a perfect opportunity for someone else to break into a protected place? When you realise where that is, it will be too late. Ruin is upon you! Release me if you wish to save what you hold dear from the wrath of the Sorcerer.”
33. AN AWFUL APPRECIATION
“How often the wise words we need
lie in the writings we are forbidden to read.”—Zarost
Ametheus—three thirds of a man that didn’t match.
Amyar, the scarred face, looked down upon the Goddess. She was still chained to her rock. The bloodied waters had risen far up the sides of the amphitheatre. The broken crescent of the moon’s reflection danced in the surface of the pool like a dervish dancing for the dead. Quivering ripples moved outward from the prisoner—the Goddess was whispering to herself. She wouldn’t stop. Yes, she understood her dilemma. The watery tomb would soon be sealed and the immortal would taste mortality.
All that power, yet she was so helpless. According to brother Seus, the Goddess Ethea was responsible for the life in every living thing. She was the current which ran through everyone, a song which resonated in the blood. She was life, and she was his to command.
He and his brother Seus weren’t planning to kill her. They only wanted her to believe that they would. In the moment before her death, when she was truly desperate, she would give life to another. He had prepared the vessel well—the Wicker Man was ready, and the clerics would make the perfect sacrifice. They would provide the flesh for his father’s coming. All that was needed was for the Goddess to begin her song, and he would light the fires at his father’s feet. Into flames he would come, born within the screams of death, smoking flesh and wildfire. The Goddess would fill that Chaos with life and the Destroyer would step into the world.
“You will sing!” Amyar roared. He leant hard against the boulder. It crashed down the short slope and struck the water with a great splash. The wave washed against her feathered shoulders. She turned her head away to protect herself then she cried out. Somewhere under the surface, the boulder had settled against her. She was trapped by many boulders. Ametheus had rolled down every one, and each time the water level had risen. Another few boulders, and a bit more rain, and she would drown.
Yet still she refused to sing.
Brother Ethan regretted what he was doing. The Goddess was beautiful, she was gentle; she was kind. He wished she would just sing, so he could stop tormenting her. She was a creature of air and the water held special terror for her. Ethan thought they should stop, perform the ritual from the book and release her, but the others didn’t agree, so he hid his own tears, crying silently in the shadow of his brothers, as Amyar set his hand against another boulder. Ethea pleaded to him from the watery prison below. Amyar gathered his weight.
Just then, something in his pocket exploded. He stood still, puzzled. His brown bottle! He shook out the shards from his pocket in an excited flurry. A sickly pattern of Ordered essence turned in the air before him. He raised his hands, shrieking with alarm. Why was it here? Ethan wondered. Then he remembered, or Amyar did. The dark-faced wizard had told him it would be so—a special spell to move him to the Sanctuary. The dark-faced wizard had promised him the place would be abandoned. He could destroy it and be there to destroy the Gyre when they returned to save it.
It took him a moment to remember the plans he had laid for the Sanctuary. Sometimes there were so many ideas in his head he couldn’t count them, so many paths to follow that he got lost.
They were going to walk straight into the Sanctuary?
“Yes,” Amyar reassured them, “we have thought about this before.”
“What will we do?” he asked Seus.
“We will take a Node with us and release it in their den. Then we shall get creative around it. We shall destroy what we can and divide them as they come. The Gyre is like a tree with too many branches and only one root. They rely completely on their store of knowledge. We shall demolish their books. The tree can not stand once we have broken out its foundation.”
Ethan smiled. The wizards and their Sanctuary, now this he could do.
“We must leave the Goddess and face the wizards,” he said.
“Yes,” whispered brother Seus. “Tonight is the night.”
They contemplated the turning pattern of pale gold essence—a gateway to the place of the wizards’ power, hidden from them for so long.
“Can we trust the black-faced one?” Amyar asked.
“We don’t have to,” Ethan replied. “He wants to gain our Father’s favour, so he can’t do anything to hurt us. If we can finish off the Gyre before our Father comes, just imagine how proud He will be!”
Ametheus left the boulder where it was, poised on the brink of the slope above the Goddess.
The Sanctuary.
He summoned a Node from the Pillar. It came slithering across the ground with a sputtering sound like a phlegm-choked death-breath. He gathered it up, stepped forward into the twisted oblate swirl of golden essence, and the Transference spell took hold of him.
_____
Tabitha was alone in the Sanctuary. The wizards of the Gyre had gone to capture the Warlock. They had feared she might be exposed to dangers that she couldn’t handle, so they had left her where it was safe. If it was possible for a building to have emotions, she would have said that the Sanctuary sulked, alone in the desert beneath the silent stars. The building was as cheerless as a tomb.
She sneaked down to the library and wandered through the books until she came suddenly upon Ametheus, standing in a dark corner. The book on the reading stand was old, really old, or it had aged faster than the other books she had seen. The pages were brittle and randomly holed, as if something had found the writing tasty, or the writing had eaten through the pages.
Thricety, said the cover, An Awful Appreciation of Ametheus, by Annah Nerine Good.
Unclassified! bloomed the lens suddenly. Unclassified! Unclassified!
She looked more leftly. The book groaned as she moved the heavy pages back. On the first page was something titled a ‘Claimer’, written in a scratchy handwriting, little letters that tilted at odd angles. ‘If you die because of this it is my fault and I am sorry. If this writing leads you to him but he is unwelcoming and wroth, say his name once, and you call on all three, and being conflicted he cannot get free. His name will bind him for a moment. That is the only defence I can offer. Be honest. I don’t fear Ametheus. I fear those who try to control him. ANG.’
The following pages were works of art. A story was told in images, little boxes of sketched faces and figures frozen in their actions, arranged in patterns, sometimes in sequence, sometimes overlapping, so that it took quite some time to apprehend the flow, which one led to which. It seemed that the writer had a mind that didn’t run in straight lines. The thoughts ran obliquely at times, from left to right, from right to left, up and across and down, and words danced in curlicues over the images, expanding the tale with information and exclamation, sometimes coming from the lips of shouting faces, sometimes forming poetic associations drawn in the background amid the notations, lines of force and patterns that seemed drawn for the pure pleasure of their design. The holes in the pages made it even harder to follow. It was entirely fascinating.
The Wonders of Childhood told a story of deprivation and desperation, a little figure clinging to the fur of a goat, a little figure looking up at ripe fruit on a tree too tall to reach, waiting for the fruit to rot and fall to where he sat among his tears, a little figure huddled against his goat as rain lashed his rags. His face was never shown, there was just an outline of his head in every frame as if the writer didn’t know what he looked lik
e, or wanted to keep her knowledge hidden.
The First Encounter told a story of a child hunted by tall thin creatures with bright sticks and dogs. It ended in a forest, where flames spread gleefully up the page and consumed the last of the attackers.
The Watcher in the World told the story of a man hidden behind a veil that separated the world beyond from the world within, and every time that man reached out through the veil he was met with horrified faces, fear, revulsion and violence.
There were many stories, episodes then, abruptly, it ended. There was an illustration of a chalice then… Nothing. She wanted to know more. She wanted to know what had happened to Ametheus. She wanted to know what had happened to the writer.
Terminated! flashed her eye. Terminated! Developing Chaos lore. Reclassified: book equates to Chaos lore. Alert! Bright lines skittered across her vision, throwing information at her faster and faster, formulas and metrics, three-dimensional explanations that made no sense although the understanding was imprinted on her mind. Her right eye was tearing too much, she had to stop reading. She couldn’t look at the book any more.
Tabitha couldn’t stay in the Library—she went back up to the chambers and sat by the pool, where the dangers in her wizard’s eye slowly faded, but the memories didn’t. Ametheus, alone against a world of hate, and a writer, killed for her creativity, or for her compassion. She was beginning to understand the Riddler’s reluctance about her exposure to their lore—their way. The Wizard’s way.
Tabitha hummed the Lifesong to keep her spirits up. She drew the Light from clear essence with a simple command and allowed the glimmer of sprites to drift over the water before her. She was beginning to understand how to use the principles of the three axes. The essence changed nature depending on the pole she directed it toward. It was driven by her intent. When she thought of a clear question, the lens presented information to her through symbolic shapes and force-lines that scampered across her vision and impressed the distilled wisdom upon her. She could learn their lore simply by watching, by looking through the ogle-i.
Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong Page 57
