The Jade Mage: The Becoming: Volume 1

by Latoria, William D.

  “This is a light globe spell. I wrote it down so that you could copy it. All the directions on how to cast the spell, and what’s required, is in the scroll. Also, it can be used, instead of your staff, if you need light. Consider it an alternative, once I’ve taught you how to make the spell in the scroll your own.” Isidor said, carefully. Tartum’s enchantment on his staff still terrified him, and he was researching, night and day, to figure out how Tartum did whatever the hells it was that he did.

  If Tartum took offense to the comment, or even heard him, Isidor couldn’t tell. His full attention was on the scroll. Opening it slowly, he smoothed it out on top of the crate. It was glorious! Spells could be his in an instant, if he just found the scrolls! All that wasted time with the spell book! He couldn’t wait to get more.

  “So where do we begin?” Tartum asked. His eyes never leaving the scroll.

  Isidor smiled and placed an empty jar in front of him. Next, he pulled out a large bag of sand and filled the jar about half way with it. Then he opened himself to the magic. As it flowed into his being, he pulled out his small dagger and cut a deep wound into his finger. The blood started to flow immediately, and Isidor used it to fill the jar. Once the jar was full, Isidor sucked on his self inflicted wound, until the bleeding stopped. Covering the top of the jar with his palm, Isidor shook the contents until the blood and sand were well mixed together. Once this was done, he looked at Tartum with a smile.

  “That’s lesson one. In order for the scroll to work for you, it must be your blood the ink is made with. You must fully open yourself to the source of magic, and only then do you fill the jar with your magically infused blood. The sand is the component that is required for this spell. For stronger spells, more components and more blood will be required. The greatest scrolls are written by powerful casters, that spend years bleeding themselves to fill the jar required to create the ink for the scribing of such powerful scrolls. The components must be completely covered by your magic infused blood, in order for the next part to work.” Isidor said.

  Placing his hand over the jar of blood and sand, Isidor infused the jar. “Ulu-jthloth Mnenme!” Isidor spoke, and the jar started to glow and shake slightly. Then, without warning, there was a bright blue flash, and the jar was still again. The liquid inside the jar was glowing a soft, blue light, and it radiated a gentle heat. Tartum’s eyes almost fell out of his head.

  “This is how you know you’ve done everything right. The blood and components have been blended by the magic and are now infused. From here it gets difficult. You have to dip your quill into the ink, and while writing, you have to keep a steady flow of magic coursing through your hand, into the quill, and to the paper. It’s a little tricky, and if you fail to keep the flow of magic steady, the whole scroll will be destroyed.” Seeing the look of alarm in Tartum’s eyes, he explained further, “Dont worry, it won’t hurt you really, the paper just crumples up, and sometimes there’s a small fire.”

  To demonstrate this, Isidor dipped his quill into the ink and shut off his connection to the source. The moment he began trying to write, the parchment started to crinkle and curl into itself. When it was a small ball of ash, there was a “POP!” and the paper burst, spraying ash over the both of them. The scent of burnt paper was heavy in the air; they both coughed and waved their hands in front of them, to disperse the smoke.

  Still choking a little, Isidor spoke, “See? You’re not really hurt...just...hard to breathe.” Coughing, Isidor gave Tartum the quill.

  “Practice writing the scroll using my ink for now. Once you’ve gotten the technique of flowing magic through a medium, into a medium, we’ll begin your training on making your own ink. Just make your scroll look exactly like the one I gave you. When you complete fifteen flawless scrolls, we’ll move on to the ink. Also, I’ll show you something else that’s useful about scrolls.” With that, Isidor stood up and left Tartum to his training.

  Alone with his materials, Tartum picked up a fresh piece of parchment from the pile on the floor and began his training. His mind raced with the new applications this facet of magic would open up to him. Dipping the quill into the glowing blue ink, Tartum began to practice his new art.

  ...

  Tartum leaned back in his chair. Arching over the back, he let his muscles relax and his spine to crack. He had been laboring over the table for almost a month now, perfecting the art of scroll transcribing. He was loving every minute of it. Every morning he would wake, wash up, eat, and then sit down to write until his stomach reminded him it was time to eat again. Occasionally, it was other parts of his anatomy that required the breaks, but mostly just his stomach. He didn’t mind.

  The first week had been the hardest. He was constantly covered in ash and disappointment. There was a trick, he discovered, to concentrating the flow of magic through his hand and through the quill, to the parchment. He had to imagine not writing with the quill, but with the thin stream of magic he was causing to flow into the paper. Once he had figured that out, it was just a simple matter of perfecting the technique. The hard part was concentration. Sitting on the uneven crates and trying to keep the quill steady had proved to be impossible. Finally, after the twentieth paper had popped ash on him, it became too much. Snagging up his coin purse, Tartum went to the market and purchased the most comfortable table and sturdy chair he could find.

  Incredibly well crafted, the top of the table was one solid round piece of oak. The bark of the parent tree was still ringing the edge. The top, itself, was sanded down smooth and had been treated with some sort of laquer that made the surface completely flat and even. The legs extended from the center and spread out enough to ensure the table wouldn’t wobble or shake. It was high enough that Tartum didn’t have to hunch when he wrote on it. In all aspects, the table was perfect for his needs.

  The chair he purchased was from the same vendor. After going through his relatively small stock of chairs, Tartum saw the chair the shop owner had been sitting in. It was incredibly worn and weathered. It had more chips and stains on it than all the other furniture combined, but something about it caught his attention. Without asking, Tartum had sat in the chair. It was perfect; firm, form fitting, and supportive. Sitting in the chair, caused his body to naturally assume a writing position. It turned out to be an heirloom of the shop owner’s. Luckily for Tartum, cold hard gold held more value to him than family heritage. Tartum liked that and had both pieces delivered to the wagon.

  Now sitting there in his mismatched but perfectly suited furniture, Tartum looked at his latest attempt. It was good. The glowing blue ink was alight in the scroll, and the words were neat and legible. The gestures were drawn with care, and all he had to do was finish up the component description, and he would have completed his fifteenth scroll.

  Dipping the quill in the ink, Tartum focused on writing with the magic and finished up the final few lines of the scroll. Leaning back in his chair again, Tartum held onto the magic for just a moment longer, exalting in the sensation. Releasing the magic, Tartum took a moment to appreciate his work. Even though he had spent the last month writing scrolls, cutting his fingers on his non-writing hand to refill the ink jars, it turned out that creating ink only took him a few tries to perfect.It was a very easy bit of magic. With only a little smoke inhalation and sore fingers on his left hand to complain about, Tartum picked up his completed scrolls and went to find Isidor.

  Tartum found him sitting in his bed of pillows reading. Isidor closed the book when he saw Tartum coming and put it under one of the pillows next to him. Tartum thought it was odd but was too caught up in his own achievement to give it a second thought.

  “Here are those fifteen perfectly transcribed scrolls you asked for, Master.” Tartum said, his voice dripping in sarcasm and pride.

  “Nice, and it only took you a month to finish. I was beginning to think you’d never be done. Even after you went out and got all that fancy furniture.” Isidor said, seeing Tartum deflate a little. He didn’t want him get
ting too arrogant, no matter how well he was doing. A little humility would do him good.

  Examining the scrolls, Isidor saw they were exactly what he expected. Perfect. Not one flaw, not one blemish. The scrolls were as perfect as if Tartum had been doing nothing else but scribing his entire life. It was as if he had been made by the Gods, specifically to master magic in all its forms. Isidor was, once again, very proud of his pupil. He would be damned before he told him as much however.

  “These will suffice, Tartum. They aren’t great, but they are good enough for a novice.” Isidor kept his voice flat and unimpressed. This served to further deflate Tartum. “Good!” Isidor thought, “I need him to be humble for this next part. I don’t want him killing us with his ego.”

  “Oh stop your pouting, I said they would suffice. Come on. Now that you know how to create them, let’s teach you how to use them. Also, go get your spell book. Meet me outside after you fetch it.” Isidor said, putting on his mantle of teacher.

  Tartum half flew to get his spell book and was twice as quick to get outside. He found Isidor just ouside the wagon, unrolling one of the scrolls Tartum had written. Another one had already been unrolled and was laying face up on the ground. Tartum went to stand next to his Master, spell book in hand.

  “First things first. Open your book to the first page.” Isidor said.

  Tartum obeyed without question. He opened his book to the first page and looked up at Isidor. He handed Tartum the scroll he had just finished writing today.

  “Now, place the left edge against the inside binding of your spell book, open yourself to the source, and let it flow into the parchment. Once the parchment is infused, flow the magic through it, into your spell book. Just like with the quill, when you were writing the scroll.” Isidor instructed.

  Tartum opened himself to the magic and did as he was told. The magic flowed through him and into the parchment. The words on the paper flared to life, and when the magic completely infused the scroll, the whole parchment began to glow with the same blue light the words did. Doing as he was instructed, Tartum then concentrated his focus on shifting the magic from the infused scroll, to his spell book. The reaction was incredible. Tartum felt his book come alive and was lost in the ecstasy that came with successful magic. He felt like he had found his long lost soul mate or something he had been missing his whole life. It was the most amazing experience of his life, everytime it happened.

  On the outskirts of his reason, Tartum could faintly hear someone familiar yelling. He looked at the man yelling at him and did not recognize him. Beyond the ecstasy, he felt almost nothing, yet something inside him told him to listen to the stranger. He didn’t want to, the sensation was completely wonderful. The nagging “voice-thing” inside him wouldn’t be ignored, however and the conflicting feelings disturbed the ecstasy of the sensation. The man did look familiar, and the desire to obey him was strong. He was saying something to him. Tartum couldn’t hear him over the rush of the magic coursing through him, but he could make out the words by concentrating on the stranger’s mouth.

  Kak-Gereta...Krak-kereta...Korack-Jeeta. Korack-Jeeta. “Korack-Jeeta?” Tartum said, more of a question then a statement. The magic left him, the sensation flowing out of him as fast as the magic was. He was himself again, the magic’s hold over him had vanished with the words, and Tartum collapsed. He was gasping for air, he felt like he had just ran for ten miles, uphill, with a pack of starving wolves hot on his heels. Isidor was shaking him, telling him to stay awake, to stay with him. He seemed close to tears. Tartum held up his hand to indicate to his master, he was ok and just needed some time to recover. He had no idea what had happened, but it was exilerating! The sensation was fantastic! He couldn’t wait to do it again.

  While he was catching his breath and waiting for his heart to stop trying to beat through his ribcage, Tartum wondered at why Isidor had him invoke that spell without warning him. The only two conclusions he could come up with, as he laid on the ground, breathing like a dog suffering from heat stroke, were that, one, Isidor had no idea that was going to happen; or two, Isidor was testing him. He was hoping it wasn’t the latter. Tartum enjoyed the sensation, but hated the aftermath of his most recent experience. After putting more thought into it, Tartum decided Isidor had no idea it was going to happen. He had been about to cry when Tartum came out of it, and he had never seen Isidor cry. What the hell was going on?!

  “Isidor...what...happened?” Tartum said between breaths. It had been almost ten minutes, before he was finally able to wheeze out the words.

  Isidor roused at Tartum’s question. He composed himself while Tartum was recovering, and if he had been emotional, he showed no sign of it. Tartum questioned whether or not he had really seen him about to cry or if it was all in his head.

  “How do you feel?” Isidor said.

  “Fine...just feeling...like...I’ve been running...for miles.” Tartum gasped.

  “I swear to you Tartum, that wasn’t supposed to happen. The incantation was a simple, binding spell that was supposed to bind your magic, your scroll, and your book through magic. After all three of you were infused, you were supposed to recite the words, “Korack-Jeeta”. Once you spoke those words, the magic would flow out of you, into the scroll and bind it into your spell book. It was suppose to just fuse the scroll and book, so that you could own the spell. It’s a technique used by novice casters, like youself all the time. It helps add to your spell repertoire. I’m so sorry, Tartum, I have no idea why it almost burned you out.” Tears formed in Isidor’s eyes as he relived the moment. He turned away to hide them. Once he was in control again, he continued.

  “Can you still open yourself to the magic?” he asked.

  Tartum was shocked by the question. He felt fine. Winded to be sure, but his body felt more like it did after an intense workout with his staff, rather than as if the life was almost burned out of him. Opening himself up to the magic, its sweet blissful pain swarmed into him like it always had. No, that wasn’t quite right, it was flowing into him still, but in a greater quantity. He drew in more and felt it surge through him. It was exquisit! He had more magic swimming inside him than he ever had before. The feeling was...perfect. He craved more, he almost drew in, almost opened himself up completely to the flow, just to get a stronger sensation, then he saw Isidor’s face. The look of concern and worry was tempered with something new. Tartum knew the look, he had worn it many times in his life. The look on his master’s face, was envy. Tartum shut himself off from the source.

  “I can still draw upon the source master. I am fine. Whatever happened, I am sure it wasn’t as bad as it must have looked. Maybe it wasn’t burn out. Maybe it was just the reaction of my spellbook or something. I don’t know. I thank you for the new spell though. Can we please continue with the lesson?” he said, tring to change the subject to something less intrusive. He didn’t like the way Isidor was scrutinizing him.

  “Yes...yes...We can continue your lesson. Um, can you stand up?” Isidor was very off balance, at the moment, and was having trouble recovering. Tartum had been glowing a minute ago. His entire body was alive with the energy of magic. How he didn’t burn out and die a horrible death, Isidor wasn’t sure. He didn’t understand alot about how Tartum was interacting with the magic, lately. He was breaking all the rules. He was re-writing what he had always thought were the fundamentals of magic. He should have burned out, the sheer magnitude of the magic inside him a minute ago, would have burned almost any other caster Isidor had ever met into a smouldering cinder. Hells, Isidor knew he would have been nothing but ash and memories had the same happened to him. What was it about Tartum that made him so special? Why did the magic not act with him, the same way it acted with everyone else? The knowledge made Isidor fearful for his pupil’s future. It also made him intensely jealous.

  Isidor thought about not continuing Tartum’s lesson. He thought about banishing him from his sight and refusing to ever speak to him again. He considered this, not only for
Tartum’s sake, but because Tartum was beginning to scare the hells out of him. What would happen if Tartum got too powerful? As it was now, Isidor began questioning whether or not he could defeat him if he needed to. He was better than him with the staff, now that Tartum knew how he was staying ahead of him, and his ability with magic was quickly out shining his own.

  Isidor couldn’t bring himself to do it though. As much as he feared and worried about Tartum, he loved him too much. Loved him like the son he no longer had. He had guided Tartum through magic since he was five, and the idea of abandoning him now hurt him to his soul. No, he decided. He would stay with Tartum until he couldn’t stand to be around him any longer. Or until Tartum finally killed himself with his wild abandon with magic...or until Tartum got him killed, whichever came first.

  His mind made up, Isidor was once again in control. Picking out another of Tartum’s scrolls, Isidor unrolled it and handed it to him. He walked over to where he had laid down the scroll made from his own blood ink and motioned for Tartum to stand next to him.

  Moving to join his master, Tartum mimicked Isidor’s stance and waited for his instructions. The moment’s brush with certain death, seemingly forgotten between them. Both were focused on their scrolls.