Mirrorworld

by Daniel Jordan

  “Okay well that’s one thing,” Eira said, raising her hands in a self-consciously weak attempt at a conciliatory gesture, “but it’s not why you’re here, is it? It seems you have a grievance that goes past a philosophical disagreement; I’d really like to hear it. You say you need our help; I’m willing to give it. On my word, we’ll do what we can. But I’d really prefer to do it with minimal amounts of murder.”

  Keithus laughed, but any further reply was sideswiped by a sudden interruption from Oroitz, the obese, toad-like councillor, who appeared to have supplanted his reverie of terror with a quality of offended outrage, and so made his presence known with a sudden outbreak of incoherent spluttering. “What?” Eira asked, turning to him with an expression that read shutupshutupshutup.

  Oroitz stood up, his fists clenched. He had turned a remarkable shade of purple. “Why are you humouring him?” he asked of Eira haughtily. “What possible reason is there that we should not evict this uncouth, blabbering lunatic right now? How can you stand there and debate with him like he has every right to be here? He bursts his way in – causing untold damage! – and you chat with him like you’ve gotten together over tea?! This isn’t the-“

  Sadly, it was the grave misfortune of those assembled to never find out what this was not, as it was at this point that Keithus raised a hand, and with a blast of something invisible, sent Oroitz flying. The man landed heavily amongst the back benches, nearby Viaggiatori scattering hurriedly from the impact crater of this unlikely projectile. A soft groan rose from the crash site, the only thing that dared penetrate the horrified silence that followed, but Oroitz did not move. Unsatisfied, Keithus waved his hand again, and the heavy symbol of opulence and excess that was the fat councillor’s chair rose into the air, floated over, and fell on its owner with a decisive thud.

  All eyes turned back to the central table. The remaining members of the council endeavoured to look as invisible as possible.

  “There was no need for that,” Eira said quietly.

  “There was every need,” Keithus growled. Flames were leaking unabashedly from his fingertips, and his eyes were like black holes spitting fire, reflected over and over in the many ornamental mirrors that decorated the chamber’s walls. The air in the room seemed sharper, thinner and weaker with every passing moment. A crescendo was rising in the wizard, renewed from what might have been a moment of levity, set aflame once more by Oroitz’s contributions.

  “Well, as you say,” Eira said, defiant, undaunted. “Now, I’m sure everyone in the room will agree when I reiterate that this doesn’t have to go any worse than it’s already going. I’m not going to actually ask them, because I’m damn sure that they’re going to agree if they know what’s good for them. But there you go. Please, Keithus. What is it that you would ask of us? What do you want?”

  “It’s too late for that,” Keithus said coldly. “Far too late. You should have thought of that long, long ago. But I will tell you anyway, because it’s important to me. There are two things I want.” Suddenly, the wizard’s voice seemed distant, his breath taken away by the path of destiny that he perhaps saw unfolding in the middle distance to which he now stared. “The one for which I need you is this; I wish to cross the Mirrorline. My destination, my destiny.. Earth. There’s a lot to be getting on with, a lot of time to be made up for. But first will come my second desire: vengeance. I will have it. On the one who caused this, yes, but you are all as he was, and so shall meet the same fate.”

  “Yes, that’s the one I’m having a bit of trouble with,” Eira said flatly. “You can’t ask us to open the Mirrorline for you and then thank us with mass murder. It’s not exactly incentive. I can see you’re upset, maybe you’re not thinking particularly clearly right now. That’s okay, I get that a lot. How about we look at this another way? Tell us exactly what it is you think we did to hurt you, and maybe then we can work something out. Maybe we can open up the Mirrorline by way of apology.”

  “Eira!” called a new voice, urgently. It was Malydwyn, tall and serious, who now dared call attention to himself in spite of his wider colleague’s fate. “You cannot be serious!”

  “This is not the time for discussing this,” Eira told him sharply.

  “But you know we cannot do this!” Malydwyn practically shrieked. “We cannot let him cross the Mirrorline! A wizard so strong – a source of magic – he cannot exist on Earth! Such imbalance would shatter the worlds! I am sorry,” the man said, turning, to his credit, to speak directly to Keithus, who had closed his eyes and was standing stock still. “I truly am. But there is simply no way we can give you what you seek. I would not wish to give you false hope.”

  “We don’t know for sure, damnit,” Eira said, flexing her hands as if imagining them around Malydwyn’s neck. “Earth has wizard-kin: magicians, illusionists and the like. If he is careful.. we can run tests, at the very least! Who’s to say we couldn’t come up with a serviceable scenario?”

  “But could he follow it? He’s clearly unstable! Even if we did find a way..”

  “Listen to me,” Eira said sharply, slicing through Malydwyn’s words. “Others have come to us before with the desire to travel to Earth, and where we might have said no, it’s impossible, go away.. we never have. We have always at the very least tried to find a way to make it work. Why is it now so difficult for you to agree to do so again? Obviously, this is an unorthodox situation, even by our usual standards. It won’t be easy. It might not be possible. But it seems foolish to not try, especially considering that the person asking is threatening to kill us all! Right now, diplomacy seems like a way better option. I would love to work this out. I’m sure Keithus would too.”

  The wizard, it seemed, had little to offer. He still stood still, eyes yet closed. With his attention seemingly distracted, some of the braver Viaggiatori had begun to edge towards the doors, where the wizards that Keithus had bought with him now stood together, engaged in a furious argument that echoed the ongoing back and forth between Eira and Malydwyn. Keithus stood like stone between these two disagreements, seemingly absent, but the flames that licked from his fingers told the tale his expression dared not; they grew stronger, pulsing with anger, weaving themselves about his body, settling across his form in the shape of a fearsome, ethereal suit of armour. They extended his shape, made him appear larger, stronger, spikier, all the more terrible. Their effect was challenged only by the strange winds that had begun to blow about the room, whipping up the thin, stale air into a frenzy that tugged at the hall’s decorative mirrors and masonry as if feeling for weakness. The day receptionist could feel the tension in the room as if it were a tangible object; they were inches from the climax, helpless beneath the headman’s axe as it quivered in the hand of its master, hesitant, held on his word, primed to fall. It seemed too late for words. But then what else?

  Suddenly, there was laughter. High of pitch yet somewhat strangled, it cut apart the whistling of the wind, consumed the day receptionist’s frantic thoughts, tore through the argument with Malydwyn that Eira was still frantically trying to climb out of, and directed all eyes back to its originator. Keithus had thrown his head back as the cold mirth escaped from him, rising like the steam that flew from his eyes as helpless tears were born into the flames that lay within.

  “I had to try,” he told them, as his chuckles subsided. His voice was stronger, deeper and darker, surely augmented by his thaumaturgic art. “Even in my anger, I knew I had to give you a shot. But, listening to you as you ignore me, talking your trade for the sake of worlds, caring nothing for the one you wronged who stands here in judgement.. I’ve heard enough, heard enough to know I can hear no more. You are all meddlers and fools, and I have no more words for you. Now I only have this.” He punctuated his words by spreading his arms wide, and the armour of fire that had been superimposing itself over him burst into full relief, deepening to a blue that made the summer heat seem sparse and chill. The stray winds gathered around him as their intensity spilled
over, tearing mirrors and stonework from the walls and causing the tall benches to begin creaking alarmingly. “Don’t worry,” Keithus added jovially, as the detritus began to pirouette around him on the circling winds, “I’ll leave one of you alive. I have need of you yet.”

  And, with another swinging gesture, he unleashed destruction on the Viaggiatori. A mighty fireball leap from his fingertips, crashing into the council table with a force that sent a shockwave through the room, whiplashing into the air anyone who had not taken their chance to escape and forcing their part in the chaotic dance of flashing and flying debris that engulfed them. The day receptionist flailed wildly for a handhold as he felt the storm pull at him, and found one in the nearest bench, which some blessed saint had nailed to the floor. Nothing else was spared; the great central table itself had been thrown into the maelstrom by the fireball’s impact, shattering into pieces as if it were fine pottery. Stray slabs whirled away into the storm, one piece crashing into Eira as she tried to dive out of the way and taking her off on a windy journey. The day receptionist held on with all his strength, trying not to see the grim spectacle that was unfolding before him. He could make out Keithus, stood proud in the centre of his spiral of insanity, laughing and laughing, adding more fireballs into the mix, or else swinging his magically extended arms at anyone or anything that happened to be flying by. The day receptionist watched, wishing he could look away, as the wizard’s claw tore through one unfortunate Viaggiatori and sent them spinning off into the squall aflame, screaming, showering blood in their wake. The day receptionist tried to whisper a prayer for whoever that had been, but at that moment all thought was knocked out of him by the large chunk of stray masonry that came hurtling out of the storm, tore him free of his handhold with a bone-shattering crunch, and took him away with it.

  Let it end, his mind cried, spiralling through the sky. Please, let it end.

  There was a heavy thud. From his unenviable position flying overhead, the day receptionist saw as if in slow motion; Keithus had turned, a hint of a frown barely visible behind the flames that overlaid his face, and recoiled to the impact of some invisible force. The strength of it knocked loose his fiery armour, and he cried out, grabbing at the loose threads of his slipped shroud as the storms surged, falling from his control, and tore it from him. Roaring with pain, the wizard turned, and was thrown across the room by the force of a second, unseen impact that nonetheless shook the room.

  The tempest winked out. In an instant, the air in the room swung from raging force to perfect stillness, disturbed only by the continuing momentum of those who yet flew through it. Time returned in a rush for the day receptionist as his recalculated flight path bought him into contact with the floor so hard that he bounced, flying free of the masonry that had carried him within a hair of it crushing him; it instead smashed down adjacent, showering his battered self with crushed floor tiles.

  The day receptionist lay there, flat on his back, for some time, feeling nothing but the terrific sensation of agony that coursed through every inch of his body. Gradually, sounds began to filter back in, and his vision unfocused from blurred colours into something approaching reality. Thought returned: what had happened? What was happening now? Grimacing, he pulled himself upright, ignoring the frantic creaks of rebuke as his body informed him at length how bad of an idea this was.

  The Main Chamber was wrecked. The walls were now bare but for blackened scorch marks and torn markings where their erstwhile decorations had been dislodged, sent on a trip that had ended with them scattered in pieces across the room just like their Viaggiatori architects. The Viaggiatori themselves were bloodied, bruised and broken; a few of them were picking through the wreckage, putting out fires and helping others up, but too many were lying around, groaning, their clothes decorated with the new crimson hue of spilt blood. The day receptionist looked past them, squinting through his wavering vision. A large chunk of the central table appeared to have come to rest on, in, or perhaps somewhere below the right-hand bench tier, which had collapsed under the impact; the day receptionist saw Eira determinedly pulling herself free by tearing half of her sleeve off. Another shard of the table had buried itself in the large, tall mirror that decorated the hall’s far side, splintering it heavily. The day receptionist stared blankly at the kaleidoscopic, dancing reflection of the room that it now showed. It was too abstract to make out; perhaps all was well.

  But where was Keithus? Turning away heavily, the day receptionist saw him. The wizard lay where he had fallen, unconscious, surrounded by the other wizards who had followed him here and, it seemed, eventually deigned to do something about that thing where he was destroying everyone. Nice of them, the day receptionist thought with woozy irritability. One wizard was moving around the room, dispensing healing magic to the worst of the wounded. Yes please, the day receptionist thought, struggling to stay awake, to focus on the curious questions that were lining up in his mind. What had been the purpose of this? How did they deal with it? He burned to know, but the cumulative ache of his many wounds was strongly recommending that he take a temporary reprieve from the land of the conscious, and had in fact already begun to shut down extraneous body parts in preparation for this. He waved faintly in the direction of the medical wizard, but it was too late; his eyes were slipping shut, the retiring auditor of his brain was turning out the lights, and so he instead bade unwilling but grateful welcome to the darkness, and fell into a blissful, unaware sleep.

  Keithus opened his eyes, and was instantly blinded by the sun. Groaning, he rolled over, met resistance from gravity, and fell back into the position he’d started in. It soon became apparent that the reason for his difficulty was that he was, unexpectedly, in a ditch. He climbed out, slowly, looking around, trying to remember how he’d gotten into this state. Had he been drinking? This field, an expanse of abandoned farmland north of the city, seemed like a pretty standard place to end up after doing so, but no, that wasn’t the one. Hadn’t he been angry about something?

  Oh yes, he thought, that was it. As the memory blossomed in his mind, he felt the great, formless monster of his rage begin to stir behind his eyes once more. No, he thought, refusing to be led by it. It wasn’t easy; it was a grand, unfettered ire, an ill-tempered volcano that had been building steadily towards eruption ever since he’d looked into his crystal ball the night before, on an innocent errand, and unexpectedly discovered that everything he’d ever professed to know about life was a blatant, impossible, unfathomable lie. The anger had pulsed against the rhythm of his magic, yet the two had become inextricably woven together, powering each other, building to the beautiful chaos that he had unleashed on the Viaggiatori. If it hadn’t been for the wizards – it had to have been the wizards, because no other force could have stopped him – then he was sure that he would have killed everyone in the room, and slept all the better that night for having done so. Ha! he thought, as memory flowed through his mind. He remembered his tutors, always telling him that his inability to control his emotions was his great flaw, that if he didn’t keep them separate, they would threaten to overwhelm his magic, throw it out of his control, put him at risk of who knew what. Idiots. Emotion was magic. What else could it be? He was the most powerful wizard that the Mirrorworld had seen in centuries, and they dared to lecture him?

  He grinned a rueful, ironic grin. Of course, in a silly way, they’d been right. If he hadn’t gotten so wrapped up in wrath, he might have remembered how wizards were generally trained to watch out for any of their number who might be going a bit potty, and take emergency measures to restrain them should such a scenario come about. Why else would they have followed him?

  Hubris! That was the bugger. No one person was unstoppable, even if they were the Wizarding Tower’s golden boy, as powerful as it was even possible to be. It had to have been a combined assault from their powers – nothing else could have taken him down in mid-flow like that. A sneak attack as well! Very.. sneaky. But, well, it had done the job. Lesson learned.
Next time, he would watch his back. And there would, he knew, be a next time, because the wizards were fools, and had failed. They’d known better than to try imprisoning him, of course – they had to have known that there were no walls, physical or magical, that could contain him indefinitely – but they hadn’t done what they should have done, which was to kill him. Admittedly, he thought, grinning again, that wouldn’t have done them much good either, because they’d have set off one of the nasty countermeasures that he’d weaved around himself to ensure that anyone who succeeded would regret it pretty sharpish, but, whatever the cost, it would’ve still been the best thing to do. He’d surely killed people this day; his life would’ve been a justifiable price to ask in exchange for that. But no, and he’d wager it was because they just couldn’t bring themselves to knock off the golden boy. Hubris!

  He laughed again at the thought. Stood by the side of the rickety road that led back to Portruss, he threw his head back and roared. A lot of things had come to seem more amusing recently. Perhaps it was a sign of his growing insanity. His tutors had always expected him to go insane, he was sure. Always asking how he was, whether he was having a nice day or not.. they may have hidden their true intentions under a veil of innocence, but he’d figured out their game.

  Oh well. What difference did sanity make, anyway? Everything had changed now. Before, he’d been adrift in the sea of his life, unsure who he was and what he should be doing; now, he knew exactly what the deal was. If the price of knowledge was madness, it was one he was happy to pay, because it had given him ambition and purpose like he’d never known. He could see it even now; his twin desires danced in his mind as clearly as they had the night before, when, full of anger, full of pain, he’d fallen into a dark, delirious sleep, and seen his future written in lights. A voice had broken free of his apathy then, a voice so light and sweet that he knew it would never lie to him, and it had told him. He would cross the Mirrorline. He would fulfil the destiny that he had seen. He would take up his rightful place; otherworldly benefactor, the prodigal, the prophet, seer of visions, architect of a new world on Earth. The Viaggiatori would stand in his way, if not for that then for his actions this day.. and he would destroy them, enact glorious revenge on them and anyone else who dared oppose him.