No Return

by Zachary Jernigan

  The sheets burst into flames, and a figure rose above the fire.

  Pol grinned. Pitch smoke billowed from his empty eye socket, as though his insides had caught fire. A wide beam of golden light shot from his right eye. The black ink of his sigil tattoos arced and coiled on his skin, forming the shapes of animals and men—a dragon, soaring across his stomach—an elder, stretching its long limbs into an X. The fists had opened upon his chest, so that two open hands appeared to be pushing from within him, struggling to break free. The wounds she had inflicted upon him closed without scar.

  No, she thought. No. This cannot be.

  The cold light of his eye found her, pinned her to the floor like a specimen on an examination table. Unable to move, a scream welled up from within her but could not escape. She gagged upon it and gagged again, forcing acid into her mouth. It burned as it bubbled up through her sinuses and dripped red from her nostrils. She choked on her own sick.

  Suddenly, the light passed from her, and she heaved the contents of her stomach onto the floor. Shaking from the pain, nearly blinded by tears, she managed to say one word:

  “How?”

  “How?” he mocked, perfectly replicating the strangled tone of her voice. “Through trial and effort. Through pain and devotion. While you plotted revenge, I made myself a conduit for power. A weapon.” He descended slowly to the floor. “Commend yourself for taking me by surprise. Your spell was exquisite, and it will not die with you. No, do not try to speak. I will not hear your excuses, your plea. I do not want to hear you say that you love me again.”

  She regarded him, sigils snaking over his naked form. He was beautiful, and terrible. The aroma of singed meat filled the room. The sound of heavy wings beating.

  “You expect anger?” he continued. “Of course you do. You have debased me, torn my eye from my skull. But now you see what I have become, yes? How could you hurt me? In a way, you have actually assisted me. I see now that suffering can be a catalyst, as can fear. Unintentionally, you have hastened a process that I would have labored upon for months, maybe even years. In the space of a heartbeat I have been transformed.

  “While your hands moved to finish their task, I learned secrets beyond your wildest dreams, Ebn. In the space of a few heartbeats I saw all of Jeroun, including the land across the ocean, under the clouds, where the elders sleep. I touched the idiot minds of spiders and the labyrinthine minds of wyrms. Over all I felt the mind of Adrash, ticking like an immense thaumaturgical engine. I knew then that he was a man, different from me only in the degree of his power. I saw the worlds he has set foot upon. I saw life, and it is a mystery to me no longer. I know that we are but tourists on this world. Adrash, humankind and the elders—we are all children of the stars.”

  His gaze focused upon her again, fixed her where she lay, chilled her to the bone.

  I have no hope against such power, she thought.

  “No, you do not,” he said. “Nor do you have any reason for fear. You will soon be reunited with the stars. There are so many souls to help you on your way.” He spread his arms. “Many stay on this world, but never for long. So few things anchor us to earth. The void calls to us, the allure of open roads. All concern slips away, all trace of fear and responsibility. Soon you will forget the petty concerns of life. The acts of gods and men will no longer concern you. I almost envy you your journey.”

  She wanted to speak, and felt her jaw freed. “Is that what you are now? A god?”

  “No,” he said. “That will take a bit more time.”

  She grew colder with each step he took toward her. By the time he reached her feet, she had gone completely numb. All trace of her spell had faded, leaving her resigned. This reaction shocked her for a moment, and then faded. One should not question a blessing, and it felt so good not to worry anymore. Perhaps, she considered, this was what she had longed for all along.

  To be overcome. To be bested. The only true expression of love is submission.

  “Sleep,” Pol commanded. “And never wake.”

  A gentle weight dragged her eyes closed, and true darkness overcame her.

  POL TANZ ET SOM

  THE 26th AND 27th OF THE MONTH OF ROYALTY, 12499 MD

  THE CITY OF TANSOT / JEROUN ORBIT,

  THE KINGDOM OF STOL TO JEROUN ORBIT

  He lifted the blood and the smeared remains of his eye from the mattress particle by particle, leaving the fabric spotless. He walked across the room and opened the window, allowing the globe of congealing liquid to escape. The sound of it hitting flagstones on the pathway five stories below was a muted handclap.

  Yesterday, he would not have done this. He had always disposed of blood and other bodily fluids as all smart mages did: by vaporizing them. Material from one’s body, most especially blood, could easily be traced back to the owner and used in spells to influence or even control him. The academy possessed no shortage of schemers and usurpers. Cleaning crews also knew how to turn a profit.

  He need never worry about such trivial matters again.

  “Begone,” he commanded. The ash that remained of Ebn’s body rose from the person-shaped smudge on the floor behind him and swirled in the air, gathering itself as if it were a spirit risen from the grave. It streamed over his shoulder, spilling into the night to be taken away with the breeze. Turning as the last of it was freed, Pol caught the final scent of her, burnt and sharp yet still possessing the trace of coriander, her favorite scent.

  He would miss her, undoubtedly. At times he would be reminded of her, and think of the waste. She had been instrumental in his upbringing, and a great leader in her time. But that was long past. Age and obsession had dulled her edge.

  Still, he reminded himself, what a display in her final hour! What stunning brutality and rage! If she had only turned her energy to more worthwhile pursuits. If only she were not so blinded by lust, perhaps she could have been partner to him.

  At the same time, had she not defiled him and taken his eye, causing him pain beyond measure, he likely would not have undergone his transition. It might well have been years before he could challenge Adrash...

  Challenge Adrash . His lips puckered at this new thought.

  Smoke poured from his left eye socket. For a moment, light leaked from the crack of his closed right eyelid. Though one eye was closed and the other absent altogether, he saw his surroundings with perfect clarity. He leaned on the window frame, angling his face to the sky in order to see the leading point of the Needle. Through concentration, he caused the image to bloom, take on detail. His perceptions quickened. The night breeze stilled on his skin, the sounds of the city became a warbling moan, and the three spheres slowed almost to a halt.

  All at once they seemed but fragile things. Rickety baskets. Toys.

  This new perspective rocked him back on his heels.

  Challenge Adrash, he thought again. Is this truly what I intend?

  He examined this new goal, which had announced itself in his mind fully formed. As if he had been planning it all along. As though it were the only goal.

  Searching, he found no other ambitions or enmities—a development as shocking as any he had experienced, for after years of internal dispute amongst his peers he had built up a long list of men and women whose actions had offended him.

  As a scholar, he was honor-bound to punish them.

  As an ascendant god, however, he felt no such obligation. He no more shared the concerns of the outbound mage than those of the average dockhand. Even Shav, whose act of betrayal Pol had lifted from Ebn’s mind, was not so much forgiven as forgotten.

  And when all of his earthly cares had been washed away—when all but one opponent was beneath him? What was he to do then?

  He stretched, and the shadow of great wings unfolded from his arms, reaching beyond the walls of his apartment. He sensed he had become a thing of light and smoke, standing on the edge of a great precipice, waiting for the slightest breeze to carry him out over the world.

  He opened his righ
t eye and vaporized the wall underneath the open window.

  Only one step to carry him into the night.

  He did not pause to reflect on his life, his accomplishments. He would not mourn the life of one elderman mage, but set his mind to the only appropriate task for a being of his station.

  Yes. He would challenge Adrash.

  ‡

  The night held him.

  His wings grew hundreds of feet wide, and the black silhouettes of birds and dragons danced upon his naked flesh. A portion of the alchemical ink had gathered at his scalp, covering it like a helm. With a twist of his neck, a thousand fine tendrils erupted and were caught by the wind, whipping around his head before lying in a tapering point between his shoulder blades.

  He freed his arms from the shadowstuff of the wings, which continued to beat of their own accord. A simple thought, almost a whim, produced a staff of frozen fire in his hands. Under his fingers its texture was solid, but it weighed nothing. The smallest desire turned it into a gracefully recurved bow, and on his thigh appeared a quiver of golden arrows. He called into being an ax, a longsword, form-fitting armor of glowing plates, each item weightless but diamond-hard.

  Laughing, he returned the gleaming items to whence they had come. Mere extensions of his magical will, they would be of no use in orbit. Adrash would not be fooled by toys. Pol had spoken truly to Ebn. He had touched the mind of the god, and it was old beyond comprehension.

  An intellect like that would know strength from bluster.

  How ridiculous, to think only a short while ago he had plotted to bring knives and a target into orbit. The tools of children, a useless task of revenge. Truly, he had been no better than Ebn. Had Shav not betrayed him by leaving, Pol would still be embroiled in the petty task of killing her. He might never have achieved godhood at all. Surely, the quarterstock deserved as much thanks for his unintended assistance as Ebn, but it was not in the nature of gods to express gratitude to mortals.

  Pol rose higher. The wind pulled smoke from his left eye, forming a long streak behind him. Like a fish caught on a line, the golden beam of light from his right pulled him ever upward. His chest inflated slower and slower, drawing increasingly thin air into his lungs. Soon, even the wind stopped. He did not become cold, nor did he fight for breath. He burst from the bubble of Jeroun’s atmosphere, shedding his wings in thin streamers of shadow.

  It seemed perfectly natural to stop breathing, as he no longer felt the need to draw in air. The void sustained him, warmed him as though he were lying naked in the sun. Having been exposed to the void due to accident several times in his life, knowing the intense burn of its touch, he marveled at his lack of fear.

  Could he be so sure of his own power? Might not the effects of his transformation wear off, leaving him to die in orbit?

  He let such worries fall away. He would not doubt the evidence of his own senses.

  As he pushed himself toward the moon, he instinctively cast a dampening spell to push all thought deep within himself. He closed his mind as if it were a safe, and then turned the key in its lock.

  He had entered Adrash’s abode. It was only a matter of time before the god found him, no doubt, but Pol would not make it an easy task.

  ‡

  He flew at speeds far beyond the means of an outbound mage, yet the effort took minimal concentration. He was neither taxed nor famished by it, and soon—as though he had woken from a dream—the cratered wall of the moon was before him. A vast ocean of frozen iron, as pale as bone. Lifeless as the void itself.

  Pol shuddered when a force passed through him. He shivered as though he had been doused in ice-cold water, and his vision spun. The moon pulled at his body, trying to draw him forward. She whispered to him without words how sweet it would be to give in, to open himself to the void and embrace his fate. A ridiculous proposition, yet he wavered before her immensity, caught in her charisma. How delightful to spiral out of control, let her embrace him as lover. How wonderful to give in to the goddess Noeja.

  He nearly let go. He nearly fell. But just before the temptation overcame him, he wondered: Noeja? How is it that I know this name?

  The force lessened, allowing Pol a moment to gather his wits. The moon still touched him, and for the first time he sensed her personality, frigid beyond the void itself, disdainful of all life. She breathed in and out, expanding and contracting like a glacier in its trough. Relentlessly, she sucked the marrow from Pol’s soul. Instead of longing to be closer to her, he now fought the urge to run away. His fear slowly grew, doubled, tripled. He fought to find calm, and came up empty. He too would be empty, a shell, if he stayed any longer.

  Fly! he told himself. Never come back!

  But still he wondered: Noeja? Who has given me this name?

  The act of questioning was in itself an act of defiance—proof that he would not flee, but instead challenge the force which sought to coerce him—and in response he felt a measure of heat enter his body, easing the cold weight of his fear enough that it could be weathered. He shivered like a bone-chilled man before a fire.

  Tell me! he projected into the void. Who has given me your name?

  It began as a pressure behind his eyelids. It became the drumming of hooves on a baked plain. It became the ocean pounding upon the shore. It became the subterranean rumble of the earth’s plates grinding together. Finally, it resolved into words:

  Me.

  The voice reverberated in the cavern of Pol’s skull.

  I am the voice of Noeja.

  Dust lifted from the moon’s surface. The entire planet quavered with the volume of this announcement, as if it had truly issued from deep within the satellite’s heart.

  Yet it was no goddess who had spoken.

  The dread that had pressed upon Pol ceased. In its wake rose the unmistakable air of amusement. Pol was filled with the sense of being humored by a wise superior, of being indulged by a patient guardian.

  The voice spoke again: You are a trespasser here, mage. Prepare to meet your god.

  Pol smiled despite the threat, despite the insult. He had passed the test. He would stand face to face with Adrash. Let the god believe he was a child. Let the god underestimate him.

  Pol descended to the moon and stood, the first mage ever to do so. None had dared set foot upon its fractured surface for fear of angering Adrash. He curled his toes into the soft, powdery regolith, soil that had never been touched by air or liquid water. When he lifted his foot, a perfect imprint remained. He walked, he hopped, he leapt forty feet at a bound. He stared up at the first and largest sphere of the Needle, which hung huge in the star-dusted sky, slowly turning.

  It was indeed a rickety basket. A toy.

  Pol projected his joy and his challenge into the void. He waited for Adrash’s arrival, wondering how the god would appear to him now that he could truly see.

  ‡

  Light preceded Adrash’s arrival, igniting the moon’s edge as though it were a steel blade fresh from the forge. The stars above this curved line dimmed and flickered in response, and to his chagrin Pol found he had raised his right fist to his temple in respect. Much as the voice had nearly bent him to suicide, the light compelled him to awe.

  The god rose above the horizon, a second sun. A coruscating yellow-white fire surrounded him, extending miles from his body. For a moment, the shifting corona of flame seemed nothing more than a vain display, but gradually, like snarled paint strokes resolving into an image upon a canvas, its true form became apparent.

  Pol’s legs quivered beneath him as he took in the bewildering scope of the massive sigil, its lines melting and flowing in a constant state of rearrangement. No, he did not recognize a single configuration—if he spent a lifetime studying the symbol, its meaning would become no clearer. Here was magic on a scale impossible to comprehend.

  Fear churned his empty stomach. Lead flowed in his veins, weighing him down, sinking his feet into the sterile ground. He stood transfixed, numbed, waiting for the inevitable:
a quick death, befitting a frail, presumptuous mortal...

  The inked sigils fell like ashes down his naked form, gathering upon his calves and feet.

  Slowly, his knees bent...

  No, he told himself. I will not allow another to do my thinking.

  With great effort, he straightened his legs, swung his frozen limbs, shook the feeling back into his hands. Terror loosened its grip on his hearts, and the blood rushed giddily to his head. Thoughts spun, and then centered. Chastened for falling pray to the god’s influence yet again, he reminded himself that he possessed his own set of weapons. Awakened once more, the sigils whirled around his body like leaves in an updraft.

  Another flash of amusement.

  You do nothing to hide your thoughts, Adrash said. His voice was an avalanche of rocks, the rumbling of a volcano before eruption. What you have done to yourself is impressive, but you will not last long if you cannot silence that bullhorn of a mind.

  Pol cursed himself. He had allowed himself to be distracted. He reasserted the thought-dampening spell he had let lag and widened his stance. The black forms of halfstags and diamond spiders ran across his torso. A reptilian seabeast slithered up his right leg and a horned snake wound up his left. A thousand wasps roiled in flight on his arms. With a shrug, he unfolded his wings of shadow, spreading them like night’s blanket across the surface of the moon. Adrash’s light did not pass through.

  Better, the god said.

  Magic thrummed in Pol’s veins, screaming for release. He closed his eyes against the glare and saw his opponent clearly, striding forward, feet above the ground, features serene under the divine armor. He did not appear to rush, but each step brought him miles closer.

  I am ready, Pol broadcast.

  No, you are not, came the reply. But you came for a fight...