Master of Cats

Bessarias carefully held the calengalad balanced a half-hand above his palm, studying it closely as the delicate structure rotated slowly widdershins, its blue-green lattice of light sparkling like a precious jewel. The tiny giloi were flowing rapidly in, around, and through the dark center of the structure, and occasionally he could see a glowing red streak as the sequence he’d marked happened to flash past his eyes.

He whispered a word, and the rotation slowed, almost imperceptibly. He frowned, still unable to properly track the tiny ruby-red lights that whirled about inside the luminescent spider’s web. Then he found them, but infuriatingly, not where they should be. In fact, if his eyes did not lie, they were precisely somewhere they could not possibly be. It was hopeless! The temptation to hurl the damnable construction from his high window overlooking the river was almost overwhelming, but he resisted the urge despite his great frustration. A mere physical smashing couldn’t harm the calengalad itself, but any force inadvertantly released from it could endanger anyone passing by. Furthermore, such an incident would attract far too much unwanted attention.

“Darro, be gone!”

The calengalad disappeared, safely banished into the aether from whence it had been summoned. Arilon, his legendary master, dead these past two hundred years, taught that everything in the material plane was constructed of miniature grains, far too small for the eye to see, and yet large enough to contain all the secrets of the universe just as the seed of an animal carries within itself the secret of life. Grains upon grains, bound together by a magic beyond magic, everything was made of it; the stone walls surrounding the great keep, the dancing flames ensconced in the stairwells, even the flesh that had long ago rotted from the bones of an elven archmage.

“They are like the dots of the Ponschule,” Arilon explained to him once, referring to an artistic style which had reached the height of its brief popularity when Bessarias was still a young apprentice. “One dot, in itself, is nothing. But thousands upon thousands of dots, placed in a particular order by the hand of a creative adept, can be a truly meaningful construction indeed.”

“And who is the creative adept, in this case?”

The archmage had frowned at his impertinence, properly recognizing it as such.

“This silliness does not become you, Bessarias. If you would amuse yourself with debates of gods and origins and forms, there are masters who will be delighted to indulge you. I am not one of them.”

So chastened, the great one’s student had ducked his head in apologetic submission. And now, centuries later, Bessarias found himself smiling at the thought that his question, however silly at the time, had perhaps not been so far adrift.

In twelve hundred years, the Collegium Occludum had never known a mind so great as Arilon’s. Less accomplished masters of magic had left behind legacies of greater fame in the outside world, but although demon lords, masters of the Deep, and vauderistes cast terrible magics that annihilated armies, sank mighty fleets, and otherwise decided the fate of nations, there was not a one that did more than make skilled use of the Who, the What and the Where. Arilon had been the first to plumb the secret depths of the Why and the How.

Even so, his fantastic conception had been an errant one. Seventy-six years ago, Bessarias proved it false, beyond any shadow of a doubt. It was not entirely wrong, for the calengalad, as his master had named his hypothetical grain, was real enough. The problem was that it was more truly a seed than Arilon had ever imagined, for it was not so much an object in its own right as a little world containing worlds of its own. It was an accumulation of other, smaller elements, ethereal sparks of light that danced and whirled like maddened fairies intoxicated on the bacchanal blood of a toadstool. It could even be broken, as Bessarias learned to his horror when he accidentally created the Glass Desert.

It was a dreadful mistake, but a significant one. In more ways than one. Indeed, the ghastly cataclysm brought about by his experiments marked only the third time in recorded history that Elebrion’s High King had dared to intervene in the affairs of the Collegium. But on this occasion, there were no protests from the proudly independent college of magicians, indeed, open relief was expressed throughout the college. A royal decree was made - there would be no more experiments involving the shattering of the sphere - as was Bessarias’ fame. Or perhaps infamy would be a more accurate term. His name was known throughout all Selenoth now, and feared, as if he had meant to call up devils from that unknown plane of unthinkable power and knowingly penetrated the veil that should have at all costs remained inviolate.

But fear had brought him more than fame, it brought him power too. Now he was of the Seven, a member of the college’s ruling council. He was only the fifty-third archmage to hold mastery in two of the eight formal disciplines of the Octovium, and the fifth to do so in three. Arilon had been the fourth. He lacked for nothing. And yet, at this very moment, would he not trade everything for a simple answer that would tell him why the cursed giloi were behaving so strangely?

He had tried everything, drawn upon every single one of the Collegium’s vast resources. He had lashed demons with whips of celestial fire, mercilessly ripped speech from the lips of the dead, sent scores of apprentices digging through the college’s most ancient archives, and still he had learned nothing. The truth, whatever it was, would have to be found some other way.

There was a soft knock on the door. He waved a hand, and the door opened in obedience to his will.

“Greetings, Magistras.” The hooded elf bowed respectfully as a large grey cat leaped out from his arms. “Mastema suggested you might be finishing soon. I trust I do not disturb you?”

“Ah, Kilios. Come in, come in. I am already disturbed, though not by you.” He sighed heavily. “I wrestle with the pillars of the universe, and they are less forthcoming than your visions.”

“Such is the burden of greatness, Bessarias.” The cat’s yellow eyes were mocking. “Pillars aren’t generally known for their elocution, perhaps that’s your problem.”

“Silence, Mastema,” Kilios rebuked his friend’s familiar. He was a gaunt wizard of great height, with eerie pupilless eyes set deeply in their sockets. He was a seer, a powerful one, and not all of his visions were pleasant. The knowledge of evil yet to come is perhaps the hardest wisdom of all, and over the years it had left its bitter mark on his haggard face. Blind, but not without sight, he walked the winding corridors of the great tower as easily as any other mage possessing more conventional vision.

“He tells me you have been holed up in here for three days. Will you eat?”

“Soon, I think. I am not yet hungry.”

“Of course. It is always hard to return to the world of carnate concerns.”

“It is indeed. Now tell me of the latest gossip. I remember there were rumors of an incipient battle in Nordfall.”

“Were there? I did not know. I was meditating alone yesterday, until Mastema did me the honor of paying his respects.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, seer.” The cat looked up from the paw it was washing. “There was a rat on your corridor.”

Bessarias smiled affectionately at the large feline. The demon had been with him for nearly two centuries, always inhabiting the body of a grey cat with black markings. How he managed to find them on such a regular basis, Bessarias didn’t know and was not inclined to ask.

“He is too proud to admit it, but I suspect he gets rather lonely when I’m occupied with my studies.”

The cat snorted loudly. “I wasn’t lonely, I was hungry because you hadn’t fed me for two days. And in answer to your question, yes, there was a battle yesterday, and the Red Prince’s knights crushed the wolfbreed. Ethaleas set his students to scrying it as an exercise and I watched them. I imagine the wolves had never seen cavalry before, because the Savondese rode them down like unarmed peasants.”

“It is said they are of unnatural origin,” Kilios commented.

“The wolfbreed?” Bessarias scoffed. “I’ve heard the rumors, but I find them hard to credit. If no one in this tower has created a viable form of being in more than a millennia, who else could hope to succeed? Those pathetic bunglers in Savondir? They flatter us, to be sure, but they do not even dream approaching our skills. If nothing else, their lives are too short.”

“I say it was the Witchkings,” hissed Mastema.

“Perhaps,” Bessarias admitted the possibility. “Who can know the bounds of their perversions? But again, they were human. Fifty or even sixty years is too short a span for proper mastery.”

“Of course,” Kilios agreed. “I myself am glad to hear of the Savondese triumph. They may envy us, even hate us at times, but they are civilized. To a degree, you understand.”

“To a degree, yes. Is there anything else of interest?”

“Not particularly. Mmm perhaps there is one thing. We have the dubious honor of hosting a human visitor, an Amorran, if you can believe it.”

“Really? How did that come to pass?”

The seer shrugged and glanced at Mastema, who appeared to have lost interest in the conversation and was carefully licking his left paw. “I don’t know. I heard that he arrived two days ago under the aegis of the High King, but he doesn’t seem to be a messenger. Some sort of religious, I recall.”

“How very curious!”

Bessarias was intrigued. A human, an Amorran no less, hailing from the Court of Elebrion? Humans had a very different view of magic than his own people, they tended to view it mistrustfully at best, but those of the Empire were downright fanatics in their distaste for anything that smacked of the metaphysical. No, not anything, he corrected himself, for they were rigid monotheists who worshipped a slain god who was somehow not dead. Dead or not dead, though, this god had favored them, for their armies were strong and their rich empire now encompassed nearly a third of the land of Selenoth. It was an altogether curious thing.

He made an impromptu decision to seek out this strange human. If nothing else, the Amorran promised to be an interesting distraction from his recent failures. In a lifespan that was now approaching its fourth century, Bessarias had learned to appreciate the pleasure of the unexpected, and to seek out the unusual. It refreshed the mind, which otherwise grew stagnant and eventually decayed. And this visit qualified on both counts, as the Amorran empire was less than a hundred years old, but in that time not one of its citizens had ever requested a single audience with the members of the Collegium, for any reason.

“Has anyone spoken with him yet?”

“Other than welcoming him for the ten-day, I can’t imagine anyone was interested.” Kilios raised his pale eyebrows. “You want to speak with him?”

“Yes, strangely enough, I do.”

Bessarias laughed suddenly. “I think I’d sit down for a nice chat with a sun-stoned troll if I thought it might take my mind off those cursed giloi. Let me ask you, what do you do when the impossible happens before your very eyes?”

A faint smile flickered past the blind seer’s lips.

“I hold my silence and hope I was mistaken, until events prove otherwise. Which they inevitably do. Thus am I thought a poor visionary, but a sane one. It is better that way.”

“Ah, your mind is sharper than the proverbial razor of Ockham, old friend.” Bessarias clapped his colleague on the shoulder. “Now come, walk with me and we shall go in search of our exotic guest. Mastema, will you join us?”

“To see a human?” The cat’s rasping voice was scornful. “Why would I want to do that?”

The Amorran had been installed in a small, elegant guest building which was separated from the great tower by a splendid garden, the centerpiece of which was a cunningly constructed maze. Bessarias, not in the mood for puzzle games, easily made his way through the tortuous hedgerows by the simple virtue of a navigational spell. Left… right… left… left… right… he followed the little crimson spark as it leaped inerrantly from one nexus to the next.

“I will leave you here, Magistras” Kilios told him as they reached the intricately carved doors of the building. “I feel a vision descending upon me, and I think it would be best if I did not risk polluting my sight with the presence of the human. I must go now, and meditate.”

“Very well. But if what you see has anything to do with the calengalad, anything at all, you must let me know at once.”

“I will do so,” the seer promised, but for a moment, his unearthly eyes seemed to glow with amusement. “Nevertheless, I fear the likelihood is small. Be well, Magistras.”

“Be well, my friend.”

Bessarias raised his hand, and the two doors swung open silently. The entryway was grandiose, for all that the guest building was small in comparison with the great tower of sorcery, it was palatial and literally fit for a king. It had to be, for it was often occupied by visiting royalty hailing from one land or another, who came to pay their respects, or, more usually, to beg for favors.

“Magistras.”

Two elven guards bowed respectfully to him. He did not know them, but they had the look of Kir Donas. That breezy maritime kingdom lacked both the regal tradition of Elebrion as well as the martial prowess of Merithaim, but was wealthier than either, and was even said to be richer than mighty Amorr itself.

“Take me to the human, the Amorran,” he ordered.

The guards led him up the grand marble stairway to a small apartment on the second floor. It was small compared to the other apartments here, and was usually used to lodge a minor courtier or a squadron of royal bodyguards. For a single religious, though, it was ludicrously spacious, especially if their guest happened to be a member of one of the more ascetic orders and was accustomed to a simple cell.

Bessarias nodded his thanks to the guards, and politely refrained from opening the door with his magic, instead choosing to knock softly with his fist. He waited patiently until the door opened inwards and revealed the lined face of an aged human monk, with closely cropped grey hair and a bland, harmless expression. He was short, even by human standards, as the top of his tonsured head did not quite reach Bessarias’ chest, and he was wearing the orange robe of a third-day guest with the cowl thrown back upon his shoulders.

“I greet you, good sir, in the name of whatever god you worship. My name is Bessarias. May I enter this room in peace?”

The left side of the Amorran’s mouth twitched in what might have been a grin.

“In peace, you may enter. In the name of my lord Immanuel, you may enter and be welcome. My name is Herwaldus.”

“I thank you, Herwaldus.”

Bessarias inclined his head briefly and entered the apartment. It was richly decorated with thick carpets and gossamer-thin silk wall hangings, in a green-and-yellow springtime theme of new life.

“May I offer you any refreshments?” Herwaldus offered. “My kind hosts have provided me with every kind of luxury here, three different kinds of wine, many fruits and vegetables, and enough cakes and bread to feed an army.”

“I shall have a glass of wine, thank you.”

Bessarias lifted his hand, and one of the wine decanters began to pour itself into a nearby glass of crystal. Herwaldus, to his credit, did not flinch, or even appear to notice. Bessarias also saw that with the exception of a half-empty carafe of spring water, the well-stocked table appeared untouched. The monk must be from one of the ascetic orders after all, he decided. No ordinary human would have passed up the opportunity to sample the exquisite delights of elven fare, so much more delicate and sophisticated than the cruder foods upon which humans normally subsided.

“May I ask what brings you here?” he asked the monk, after sipping delicately at the Savondese red. It was an acceptable vintage, if not a particularly good one.

“The truth. I come to share it with your people.”

“How interesting.” Bessarias smiled inwardly. Now he understood why the High King had foisted this man off on the Collegium. Mondrythen would have no wish to have the pleasure-seeking chaos of his court interrupted by what he could only see as dreary human moralising. The surprise was that the king hadn’t simply slain the man outright, or at least sent him back to Amorr with stripes upon his back. “As I, like many of my colleagues here, flatter myself in aspiring to be a seeker after truth, I shall be most interested to hear what you have to share with us. You are a monk, I see. Of what order?”

“Tertullian.”

“I am not familiar with it. What distinguishes your brotherhood from the others of which I have heard, the Alessians, for example?”

Herwaldus nodded.

“A good question. We all serve the Lord Immanuel, of course, but whereas our Alessian brothers seek to withdraw from the world, to further their pursuit of righteous holiness and purity, we are charged with embracing it in all its foulness.”

Bessarias lifted an eyebrow. “Ah, foulness. That would be my people, yes? If my memory serves me correctly, ‘children of demons’ is the specific appellation favored by your priest-king, is it not?”

“Amorr knows no king,” Herwaldus answered, unperturbed. “The Sanctiff is only the head of the Church, the first among equals, and he is not infallible, though some wish to believe him so. Please understand that I do not consider any of the elven folk to be foul in their essence, I only refer to the state of sin in which your people, like every other race on this fallen world, are imprisoned by the foe.”

“The foe? Ah, yes, your Lord Sathanas. I have never had the honor of speaking with him directly, but I am acquainted with a few of his lesser servitors.”

The human looked confused. Bessarias smiled again, but this time, he allowed a touch of cruelty to enter his voice.

“I am not a child of demons, but among other things, human, I am a master of them. If I should so desire, I could summon one here and command it to burn the skin from your body without harming the robe you wear. Or I could have you borne through the air to a deserted isle, and leave you there to contemplate your so-called truth until you died of thirst.”

“If you wish,” the monk acceded politely.

“You do not believe me?”

“I believe that you have the knowledge, yes. The power, certainly. Beneath your beauty and your courteous manner, I see great arrogance, the terrible pride that comes only from the possession of great power. I think that if Raphaelus were to paint an image of Lucifer before the fall, he could do no better than to use you as his model. But I also know that you will not harm me, because it is not permitted at this time. My mission is not yet finished.”

“Permitted? By whom?”

“My Lord Immanuel, of course.”

Bessarias studied the human. The elderly monk did not seem to be afraid of him, but his eyes held no hint of madness either, only calm determination and, just possibly, a small spark of defiance. The magician decided that he rather liked this little old man, who was undaunted in the face of one whose very name was enough to cause kings and warlords alike to shake with fear.

He fluttered the fingers of his left hand, and Herwaldus’s robe changed colors, from orange to spotless white. The monk looked down, startled, then up again at Bessarias.

“What’s this?”

“An invitation.” Bessarias made a circle with two fingers, and a sigil in red was magically stitched onto the robe’s left breast. “This will demonstrate to all that you are my guest, and you may stay beyond the ten-day for as long as you wish, or until I withdraw my invitation.”

“Thank you… I thank you, Bessarias. May I ask why?”

The magician smiled, and lifted a warning finger.

“Do not think I am inclined to accept your so-called truth. I am three hundred and twenty-two years old, and I have seen more of this world in all its foulness than you can possibly imagine. Before Fabian rejected the crown and founded your empire, I was numbered among the greatest masters here. But in my wisdom, such as it is, I have learned to always listen first, and to judge later. You shall have your chance to speak, and then you will leave, in peace.”

The monk nodded humbly. “That is all I seek. You are courteous indeed, and I thank you for your consideration, Bessarias.”

“We shall talk again soon,” Bessarias promised the little man, and after wishing him good health, walked from the chambers. Before he had even reached the bottom of the stairs, he was already filing away their conversation to a corner of his mind as a new approach occurred to him. “What about an impenetrable barrier?” he mused aloud. “If the giloi were forcibly reflected, then tracking their vector might provide some interesting information….”

Neither of the two guards betrayed any sign of anything but respect as the master walked past them, unnoticing.

“I hate it when they mumble,” the taller guard remarked to his companion as they watched Bessarias disappear into the maze.

“I know. I’m always afraid one will turn me into a newt or something, and not even notice.”

“He’s the one that made the Glass Desert, you know.”

“Did you really need to tell me that? Pox, but I cannot wait to get back to Kir Donas and away from these mad wizards!”

“Six months, sergeant, only six more months….”

Over the course of the next several weeks, Bessarias was pleased to make the discovery that the monk was not only possessed of a degree of intelligence, but a surprisingly literate education as well. In addition to any number of human philosophers, Herwaldus knew his Khonnus, his Tithanas, and, as became any sentient being with pretensions to intellectual distinction, his Lathas. The breadth of his knowledge was remarkable, considering his scanty years, and Bessarias found that he was forced to revise some of his less flattering opinions of humanity. It was a brisk autumn evening, but the fire in the hearth kept the chill at bay as the elven magician prepared another verbal sally at the human he was beginning to consider a friendly adversary.

“I cannot find logic in your wholesale condemnation of our magic. Diablerie, I will concede, could be considered evil by its own measure. Perhaps also some forms of blood magic, and from your monotheistic point of view, I will even concede the possibility of deep magic as well. But as for other disciplines, such as vauderie, for example, wherein the action springs solely from the exertion of the practitioner’s will, that I cannot accept. Surely in cases such as these, any good or evil to be found lies solely in the ends, not the means!”

“I am heartened to hear that you are, at last, willing to contemplate the possibility of such things!”

“Good and evil? Certainly, if only for the purpose of this particular discussion.”

The monk sighed. “As Stagirus writes, one is forced to wonder if it is possible to distinguish between you and a vegetable, if you yourself are incapable of distinguishing between the two. Good and evil, that is.”

“Ah, but I believe that Lathas had the right of it when he declared that there is only a better, and also a worse principle. When the better has the worse under control, then one is said to be master of himself; but when the better principle is overwhelmed by the worse, then he is a slave.”

“But you are speaking of slavery and mastery, not good and evil.”

“Exactly! What you call good and evil are only daimons, influences, outside factors which may help or hinder the proper development of the self. When one has mastered one’s self, by exerting control over one’s baser instincts, then one does what is right through the approach to a higher form of being. The nature of the self is not unlike the nature of magic; both are there to be conquered by the higher mind, through the exertion of the will. Some succeed, most cannot.”

“It is not hard to understand why you hold Lathas in high regard. Do you see yourselves as guardians, then, of your lessers?”

Bessarias spread his hands, as if to indicate all the world around them.

“Are we not? Without its masters, a community soon falls into ignominy and despair, as the meaner desires of the many must be held down by the virtuous desires and wisdom of the few. It is our responsibility to preserve and protect, not only the bodies, but also the minds of those we serve.”

“Hmmm…. You deny good and evil, but uphold virtue?”

“Virtue is service to the greater community. The truly virtuous individual, having mastered himself, makes careful use of his skills, not for the sake of his own momentary desires, but for the sake of being able to perform his duty to the community.”

“I do not understand. What is this duty?”

“For the master, to command. For the slave, to obey.”

“I see, I see.” Herwaldus stifled a smile. “Does it fall to the individual, then, this vital decision as to which group he rightfully belongs?”

“No, that is a task for the community, or rather, the wise in their midst, although the potential for mastery is not difficult to detect. There is such a thing as a will to power, which can seldom be concealed, either from the self or from others. Certainly it cannot be hidden from us here in the Collegium; indeed one of our primary purposes is to find and guide those individuals with the potential, those who possess the will to master not only themselves, but the world around them.”

The monk nodded, and a look of triumph brightened his eyes.

“And that, I fear, is where you fall into error, my friend, so wise and yet so foolish. Not my will, but thine, that is the essence of the good. It is not the act, but the motive alone that matters. That which is in accordance with God’s will is good. That which is not, is evil. It is a question of means, not ends.”

Bessarias chuckled, but he betrayed no hint of mockery when he replied dryly: “I imagine it falls to the individual then, to make this decision as to motive?”

“Yes, for who else can know the truth? Otherwise, there is only the truth of appearances. Still, it is written that by their fruits ye shall know them… and of course, God always knows the truth of the heart.”

“I cannot argue with you. You speak of things beyond reason, beyond rationality. Things I have not seen, not in more than three centuries. Nor, I imagine, has anyone else.”

The monk smiled at the magician. He looked almost complacent, as if they were playing at cards and he was holding an unbeatable hand. “I believe you will see, Bessarias, in the fullness of time. But for now, I will only say that in my humble opinion, your great college is well named. It is occluded indeed.”

The monk’s insufferable and judgemental certitude was often infuriating, but Bessarias also found it delightful. He had no doubt that he would win in the end, as all the human’s arguments held together only as long as their dialogue remained in the realm of the hypothetical. Eventually, the discussion would move from the ideal to the real, and in that realm, Bessarias knew he was a master without equal.

The game had been entertaining, but now, with the onset of winter only six weeks away, the time had come to bring the matter to a close. Bessarias had developed a certain affection for the stubborn human, and while he had no intention of allowing the man to remain and pose a distraction all winter, he also did not want to force the fragile old monk to return to his brethren amidst the throes of that harsh season. Thus he had invited Herwaldus to his own chambers tonight, and since he was vain enough to enjoy witnesses to his victories, he had also invited Kilios, as well as Lacellas and Amitlya, two of the Collegium’s greatest practitioners of vauderie and deep magic. Mastema, of course, was there as well.

The two archmages were seated on either side of the fire, studying the human with varying degrees of curiosity and disdain, when Bessarias gestured grandly and revealed a large crystal scryglass he had borrowed from one of the Collegium’s farspeakers. Inside the glass was the image of a hilly, wooded land, unmarked by signs of civilized habitation, but alive with the flutter of birds’ wings and the gentle rustling of green leaves in the wind.

“Fra Herwaldus, I have enjoyed our conversations. But I must tell you, for all your eloquence I remain unmoved. Your arguments are learned and internally consistent, for which you must be congratulated, but I have seen that they bear less relation to the world in which we live than do the idyllic reflections of Lathas on the perfect kingdom. That is why I have asked you here tonight, that you might see that my arguments are based, not on theory, but in the material, and to give you the opportunity to prove, in front of these reputable witnesses, the validity of your own.”

Bessarias gestured to the scryglass.

“Behold the land of Shimra, as it was. When I was new to my mastery of the fifth discipline, I was perhaps more reckless than wise. But I was pure in motive, seeking only the truth, when in pursuit of that knowledge I shattered one of the myriad spheres that serve as the invisible bricks in the mortar of the material world.”

The image changed abruptly, revealing a vast and lifeless desert, flat, and devoid of form. The unnaturally smooth ground had a glossy sheen, as if it was made of glass, which it was. It was the Glass Desert, the site of his most notorious and yet glorious accomplishment. Or was it a failure? He still wasn’t sure.

“God have mercy!” he heard Herwaldus mutter.

“You have seen me use my powers on a number of occasions, but without seeing this you could not possibly understand the extent of them. Only now are you capable of understanding that I tell you truly when I say that those of us here who are known by the name Magistras are not only beyond your concepts of good and evil, we may well exceed the very concept of your god!”

The monk seemed shaken, almost as much by his words as by the terrible display of his power, still reflected in the glass. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes away from the terrible image. Bessarias, noticing this, waved his left hand and the utter desolation disappeared. He didn’t particularly enjoy looking at it it himself.

“I trust that is an adequate demonstration?”

“More than adequate! My sweet Savior, how we must grieve you!” Herwaldus shook his head and looked up at Bessarias in disbelief. “And that was a virtuous act, by your reckoning?”

“Virtuous, yes. Unfortunate, costly, and misguided, also. I would undo it if I could, but the act was a worthy end to justify an unlucky and regrettable means. The calamity was integral to my understanding of the calengalad.”

“Don’t break it, that’s the main thing,” Lacellas whispered across the hearth to Amityla, and the golden-haired sorceress laughed as she held Mastema in her lap and stroked his thick gray fur.

The human’s face wrinkled even more than usual as he peered at the beautiful elf. Her presence seemed to discomfit him a little. Or was he staring at the familiar? It seemed there was something about the cat which fascinated the elderly human.

“My own demonstration must needs be less dramatic, I’m afraid,” he said finally. “But I can think of one that would be fitting, under the circumstances. There are no sick here, but my Lord was ever one for warring against the demons that pollute this fallen world.”

He turned back to face Mastema, and the cat, sensing his hostility, hissed angrily. Unperturbed, Herwaldus pointed a knobby-knuckled finger at the cat and rebuked him.

“You are a creature of filth and shadow, feeding off the souls of the mortals you despise! Name yourself, demon!”

“I am Mastema, you wretchedly stupid human, as any here might have told you if you’d troubled to ask!” retorted the cat. “Now leave me alone and -”

“Begone, Mastema, in the most holy and sacred name of my Lord Immanuel!”

The gathered magicians gasped as one, for when the monk shouted the name of his god, Mastema suddenly slumped, apparently lifeless, in Amityla’s arms.

“You killed him,” she cried. “What have you done?”

Herwaldus stared at the dead cat, his jaw agape and his horror apparent to all. He reached out a hand, slowly, to touch the cat’s throat and confirm Amityla’s fateful pronouncement.

“I am so very sorry, Bessarias,” he began to apologize. “I only meant to banish the demon from your dear pet, I did not think to kill it.”

Bessarias shouted with laughter.

“Oh, the blood that stains your hands, Herwaldus! Will you ever wash them clean?”

He chuckled at the shock on the old human’s face, and waved away his attempts to express his regrets.

“This is not the first, nor the fortieth body Mastema has shed. I fear you misunderstand the nature of my pet, my friend. The demon does not possess my pet, he is the pet.”

The monk stared at the magician for a long moment, clearly at a complete loss for words, until he finally shook his head. “If the Son of Man rebuked his own followers as a perverse and unbelieving race, what must he think of you elves? Making pets of demons? Faugh! But then, my Lord did not come to bring justice, he came that all might know mercy and grace. And since he was known for helping the blind to see, then perhaps there is a more apt exhibition of his power.”

He turned towards Kilios, and met the seer’s blind eyes unflinchingly.

Bessarias frowned. Healing was one of the most difficult disciplines, and one of the most notoriously unsuccessful. Even at the Collegium, no one had ever attempted to restore the seer’s natural sight, since he had obviously been blind since birth. He wondered at the monk’s daring in attempting a demonstration so fraught with peril.

“With your permission?” Herwaldus approached Kilios.

The blind seer nodded his acquiescence, and the human gently placed his small hands over the strange, sightless eyes.

“Heavenly Father, Almighty God, in the name of thy son Immanuel, who lives and reigns with thee, I pray thee heal the eyes of this, thy child, that these others might bear witness to thy power and honor thy great name. Amen.”

He withdrew his age-spotted hands from the seer, and Bessarias gasped, incredulous at the sight. Nor was he alone in his astonishment. Amityla was sitting in stunned consternation, while Lacellas had leaped to his feet, his mouth working in awed silence. Kilios, meanwhile, was staring levelly at the human, and in the center of his formerly empty whites were black pupils surrounded by a ring of green.

“Amazing,” the seer whispered. “Your power is great indeed!”

“The power is not mine, but him I serve.”

Kilios nodded, then smiled sadly. “I must warn you that you have struck a spark here which may set alight your own pyre.”

“I am prepared.”

Bessarias found himself entirely confounded, confused not only by the human’s tremendous working, but his friend’s strange comments too. The monk and the seer seemed to be communing in a language untelligible to the rest of them.

“What is this, I don’t understand!” Lacellas protested.

“Explain yourself, Kilios,” urged Amitlya.

The seer glanced at Bessarias, and for the first time in an acquaintance that spanned centuries, their eyes met knowingly. It was strange, like being struck with a powerful jolt of static, but it was wonderful too. Until Kilios opened his mouth, and Bessarias suddenly realized that in welcoming the seemingly harmless old human inside the Collegium’s high walls, he had made a bad mistake, one that could have deadly ramifications for the magicians of the College, if not the entire elven race.

“I can see, but my vision is gone,” the seer declared, in a soft voice full of wonder. “My second sight. I cannot feel it; it has been taken away!”

Bessarias was displeased to receive the Council’s summons, but not surprised. In the three days since Herwaldus had ‘healed’ Kilios, wild rumors had been circulating through the entire Collegium, to such an extent that some of them had even reached him despite his self-imposed seclusion. Elves were little prone to panic, least of all the powerful magicians of this college, but the incident was a disturbing one, especially due to the human element. The magic of the elves, after all, was the protective shield that preserved their three small kingdoms, caught as they were between the hammer of Savondir and the anvil of Amorr. And in keeping with the metaphor, there was always the unpredictable danger posed by the raging furnace of the savage orc tribes and their terrible Ogre kings.

“I’m glad you could join us, Magistras.”

Bessarias bowed respectfully to the only magician who outranked him here, the Custodas Occulti, Grandmaster of the College. The other five masters sitting around the semi-circular stone table were his equals, for all that some were glaring at him as if he were a prisoner and they the jury. Gilthalon, particularly, looked as if he would like to play the part of the executioner; the Magistras Daimonae was a handsome, but cold-mannered diableriste with golden eyes that burned like coals.

He took the last remaining chair, its back carved with the sigil of the unblinking eye which indicated his own position, Magistras Gnossi. As Arilon had been before him, Bessarias was the Master of Hidden Knowledge.

“I understand my guest has created somewhat of a stir.”

“A stir? You might say that!” Alisiassa was the only female Master, and the most hot-tempered of the Seven. “Do you know what is being whispered among the acolytes? They are terrified, they think that the Malfermathas has come, that the death of magic approaches and the End of Ages is at hand!”

“The End of Ages is always at hand,” wheezed the ancient Magistras Vitae.

“This is ridiculous,” Bessarias laughed aloud. “The human is an old religious, nothing more. He serves a god of which we know little, one possibly of greater power than I had first considered. But the discovery of a new god is hardly cause for a commotion, much less this meeting!”

“It amuses you?” Gilthalon spoke for the first time, in a voice that was deceptively soft. “Not since the days of the Witchkings has the gift been stilled in another. When this new human empire arose, I thought it would be harmless, not only harmless, but helpless, fearing magic as they do. Now Amorr is rich, their legions many. And with the power of this god at their disposal, what is to stop them from becoming another Vingaara?”

The demonlord’s point was a sobering one, Bessarias was forced to acknowledge, if only to himself. Since the dawn of history, only the magic of the ancient Vingaaran Witchkings, the long-dead fathers of diablerie, had ever exceeded that of the Collegium. They were long gone, but more than a trace of their evil legacy remained, and it was in this very chamber that the last Witchking had died, boiled in his own blood eight centuries ago.

“I do not see the Amorrans as a threat to us. This particular human seeks only to help us, in his strange, misguided way. We don’t need his help, of course, nor that of his god, but his sentiments are genuine, if misplaced, I assure you.”

“So you say,” Gilthalon sneered rudely. “Your familiar says otherwise. He says if we do not stamp out this new human abomination, they will seek to destroy us.”

“I did not know my fellow councillors were in the habit of consulting with my pets. Do not put too much credence in Mastema’s words, Magistras. He is a demon, after all, and they are a prideful, touchy lot. Mastema, I’m afraid, is rather pettier than most and this religious has offended him.”

“As he should! Amorr’s very religion is offensive! Do they not dare to call us the children of demons?”

“That is a lie, and far from the truth, as you know better than most,” Bessarias chided Gilthalon. “Like all humans, the Amorrans fear what they do not know. What is done is done. Kilios has lost his vision for the nonce, perhaps it will return, perhaps it will not. But what would you have us do? The human has broken no law, neither of Elebrion nor this college. Do you forget that he has done what none of us, despite our great powers, could do, in restoring sight to the blind? He and his god must be cherished and studied, not castigated and feared!”

“So speaks the Master of Cats,” muttered the Magistras Vitae, sparking an amused grunt from the Keeper.

“If his curiosity gets him killed, so much the better,” Alisiassa, uncharacteristically, took Gilthalon’s part. “The problem is that Bessarias thinks nothing of sacrificing us all on the altar of his vanity. Not only us of the Collegium, but the Three Kingdoms besides!”

“One almost hesitates to remind this Council of the origins of a certain well-known desert,” agreed Magistras Vitae, with a disagreeable smile.

There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence, which Bessarias, despite his irritation, did not dare to break. Finally, the Custodas Occulti spoke.

“There is too little information on which to proceed. We must know more. Bessarias, I do not question your judgement of this man’s character, but if he may call upon the power of this unknown god, then others may do so as well, others who seek to do us harm. Now, I hope that we of this council are all agreed that in this case we must seek justice beyond the mere interest of the stronger, namely, ourselves, but at the same time, it must be said that we simply cannot allow this man to depart and leave us ignorant of what might be a potential danger.”

“Give him to me,” Gilthalon requested politely, but his voice held a dangerous edge. “He will hold nothing back from me.”

“Indeed, I think your arts may indeed be useful in this matter, Magistras.” The Grandmaster shook his head and irritatedly waved off Bessarias’ outraged protest. “Silence, Bessarias, I have no intention of allowing your guest to come to needless harm. I have in mind a test, wherein the human shall set the power of his god against the arts of one of our own.”

“Custodas, I beg - ”

“Yes, yes, Gilthalon, I can think of none better to uphold the honor of the Collegium. Unless of course, there are any objections….” The Grandmaster glanced about the table. “With one caveat, of course. You will take the proper precautions so that our guest shall come to no harm if he cannot, as we must expect, stand against your spirits.”

Gilthalon growled under his breath, but he nodded reluctantly. Bessarias had no concerns on that score, as the fiery Magistras was most vain about his honor. He did have another consideration, though, which he brought to the Grandmaster’s attention.

“Galamiras, what if the impossible occurs? What if, by some strange chance, the illustrious Magistras Daemonae is defeated?”

Gilthalon made an incredulous face, and Alisiassa laughed outright. The remainder of the Seven looked amused; only the Grandmaster’s expression did not change.

“In that case,” he said solemnly, “we will kill him. Assuming, of course, that we can.”

As soon as the council meeting was closed, Bessarias stormed out of the tower and towards the guest palace. He had been outvoted, five to one, with his only support being the abstention of the Magistras Morte. Furious and in no mood for mindgames, he summoned a vortex of negation to surround him and blasted an elf-sized path through the magical greenery of the maze. The startled guards were barely able to get out of his way as he banished the vortex just in time to spare the marble steps, and marched upstairs to the room that Herwaldus had first occupied as a guest, which now served as his jail.

The young guard standing outside the chamber started to raise his spear to block the entryway, but he reconsidered quickly and adroitly stepped aside upon catching sight of the thunderous expression on the Magistras’ face. Dereliction of duty was a serious offense in the High King’s army, but the punishment, harsh though it might be, paled in comparison with provoking the wrath of an already irritated master.

The table laden with delicacies was gone, he saw, but the room was otherwise exactly the same as he had last seen it. Herwaldus looked none the worse for wear as he rose quickly to his feet, alarmed by Bessarias’ precipitous entrance. Kilios was there too, seated by the fire, and his eyes, so recently restored, were troubled.

“You come from the Seven,” the former seer stated. “What have they decided?”

“To put him to the test. The loss of your vision has frightened them, like children hearing their first tales of the Witchkings. My blasted cat must have his revenge, and Gilthalon has fallen for his wheedling manipulations with no more thought than a lovelorn elfling promised a witch’s philtre.”

“The witchkings?” asked Herwaldus, sounding more curious than concerned.

“Never mind them,” Bessarias snapped. “Tomorrow, before the full Assembly, the Council has decided, in its wisdom, to set Herwaldus against one of our own. The objective is to learn the extent of this strange god’s power, so that we may determine if it might pose a threat to us.”

“Wonderful,” Herwaldus exclaimed.

“Who will it be?” asked Kilios.

“Gilthalon, of course.”

The seer whistled, and shook his head. Herwaldus noticed his reaction, and looked curiously at Bessarias, who tried to explain. “Like myself, he is one of the Seven. He is a master of demons, supremely skilled, and he is not well-disposed towards your kind. Fortunately, Galamiras has ordered him to ensure your safety, so you will not be harmed.”

“I have no fear of that.” The little monk smiled. “He is a master of demons, you say? So too am I, through the authority of my savior. Though this magician raise a thousand against me, the power of my lord’s name shall send them fleeing in every direction!”

“You don’t understand. That’s absolutely the last thing you must do. If you somehow manage to defeat Gilthalon, it will be your doom. The problem is almost certainly academic, since I don’t believe you can beat him, but at all costs, you must lose. You don’t want to die, do you?”

“I am prepared. I do not seek death, but neither do I fear it.”

“But what about your god, surely he wouldn’t want you dead.”

“He said, ‘follow me’, and he was not one to despise a criminal’s death. And is it not written, ‘then shall they deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you, and ye shall be hated of all nations for my name's sake’?”

“I am really beginning to suspect that you are senile,” Bessarias snapped. He turned to Kilios. “What if we get him out of here instead? Tonight!”

“You would defy the Council?”

“I am the Council! And I’m not defying anything. He’s my guest, isn’t he? If I revoke his guesting, then he’s not allowed to stay the night. We can escort him to the Amorran border, and from there, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I won’t go.” Herwaldus shook his head.

“You have to! Gilthalon won’t kill you, but the experience will not be a pleasant one, I guarantee it. Do you have any idea what even a fairly minor demon can do to you?”

He snapped his fingers and the flames in the hearth were suddenly filled with horrific images.

“Please, make them go away,” Herwaldus begged, obviously upset by the fiery scenes of pain and torment.

“You see? And that’s what could happen to you if things go well! We elves are civilized, yes, but we can be cruel, you must understand that. If the Custodas Occulti decides you must die, it is quite possible that he may not grant you the kindness of an easy death.”

The human swallowed hard. His eyes closed, he took a deep breath, and then shook his head.

“No. I am not ashamed of him, and I will not have him be ashamed of me. I will not go. And if you force me, I shall return.”

“Can’t you talk some sense into him?” Bessarias asked Kilios.

“I doubt it. Nor would I, even if I could.”

Bessarias scowled suspiciously at the seer.

“Don’t tell me you’ve embraced this human lunacy! Herwaldus has been wronged, yes, and he does not deserve what the Council has in store for him, but this… this discipline of his - and I admit, there appear to be some aspects of it that may deserve closer inspection - but it is only a very, very small part of the pattern in its totality!”

“I have seen more than you know, Bessarias. For eighty-five years, I have borne witness to many things which were not, and were yet to be. Never once was my vision errant, but now, only now and in the light of this man’s truth, do I see clearly.”

The two elves locked gazes, and Bessarias had to look away from the passionate intensity in the other’s frighteningly normal eyes.

“Fine, fine. Hold your tongue, if you must. I am disappointed, though. You must know what Gilthalon has in mind. He doesn’t like humans at the best of times. So be it. But Herwaldus, if you can, will you please do me the favor of explaining why you are so determined to go through with this?”

The monk nodded. He was smiling, although he was still pale from the terrible sights Bessarias had shown him in the fire.

“There is no mystery. When I was young, newly sworn to my vows, I read of a man who was convinced that every being of every race was, in fact, a child of God. Now, you must understand that this view is not held universally by all who worship our Lord, in fact, it is espoused by only a few and in the Church’s considered opinion, the belief treads perilously near to heresy. Nevertheless, this man held firmly to this belief, as did his friend Tertullis, the founder of the order to which I belong.

“His name was Diaspelian, and it was his heart’s desire to go forth unto the nations, preaching to all who would listen the good news of the Lord Immanuel’s death and resurrection, urging repentance from sin and telling of the life beyond death that awaits us all. He traveled throughout the barbaric lands that were eventually to become the kingdom of Savondir, and many came to know the Lord Immanuel and were baptized as a result of his efforts. He founded as many as thirty churches, and still he knew his work was incomplete. Then, ten years after Diaspelian’s departure, his friend Tertullis received a letter.”

Bessarias watched as Herwaldus opened the precious brass-bound book that was, aside from his staff and robe, the monk’s only apparent possession. The human withdrew a single unbound piece of paper and handed it to him. The elven mage scanned it, and saw that it was lovingly scripted in a primitive human language.

The strang people called here Orkks are a cruell and unlovlie people, near unto the hyghte of a manne, but of stature broade and myghtie. Theyre skin is of a greenish colour, and upon theyre faces is set a countenanse most bestial. Theyre black haire is long and coarse, like unto the maine of a horse. They weare it tyed into a brade, encircled bye a ring carved from the bone of an enemye slane. They know no kinge, nor do they fear noght but theyre savage demon-gods,whome they worshippe with rytes too terrible and bloodee to record herein.

The stoute people of Albysse war most bravlee against thes savages, who do not subsist uponne the lande, but instaed are content to rob and plunder the fields of theyre naebors. They eat the flesh of manne, and I have been tolde of how they will dessend upon a village in greate number, seeking to devourre all they fynd therein. Whether they be demonspawn or not, I cannot saye, for they know noght of theyre historie, lacking alle knoweledge of wryting excepting onlie the groteske rune-scratches of theyre magickians.

And stille I believe it maye well be that they too are childrenne of the Living God. Are not we not allso fallen short of the grace Devyne and the glorie of Heavens Son? Soon I goe to humblee preach His Truthe to the chiefs of the great clanne of Grimwalde….

Bessarias shook his head, and a faint smile crossed his lips. “I can’t imagine the orcs were particularly receptive to his message.”

“No, it is said that he was killed and eaten less than a week after he entered the Grimwalde.”

“And this is your inspiration? You truly are insane!”

Herwaldus smiled tightly, shaking his head.

“Twenty-five years ago, a traveller came to our chapter house in Bruscato. He asked for permission to take holy vows and join our number, and after some discussion, he was welcomed into our brotherhood with thanksgiving and much praise for the name of our Lord Immanuel.”

Bessarias nodded, impressed with the tale’s conclusion despite himself.

“I take it his skin was a greenish color, with a countenance most bestial?”

“Exactly. Brother Grimfang was an orc, from a small body of believers who are descended from the three individuals baptized in the name of our Lord by Saint Diaspelian before his death. I came to know the brother well before he died, and despite his fearsome appearance he was a gentle spirit of uncommmon wisdom and faith. So you see, if Diaspelian did not fear to go and speak the truth before that terrible people, how then should I despise the opportunity to do the same before yours?”

Bessarias sighed, both saddened and confused. Somewhere, there was truth in all of this, but the gist of it eluded him. He had no idea if Herwaldus was truly a madman, a masochist, or a wise and holy prophet. But he was sure of one thing. Events had moved far beyond his ability to control them. He glanced at Kilios and shrugged.

“As you will, Herwaldus. I admire your bravery, if not your judgement. May your god be with you tomorrow.”

The aged monk smiled, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Bessarias. You have been a gracious host, and I am grateful. But my fate will be as it will. Do not trouble yourself over it.”

“Very well, I will not. Besides, I have a cat to hunt down. And may the seven hundred bastard spawn of Belial curse me if I don’t beat another nine lives out of him!”

The Great Hall was more crowded than Bessarias had ever seen it. Acolytes rubbed elbows with stooped, creaking adepts, all eager to witness what promised to be an epochal duel. Not since Moldar the Dire’s infamous challenge of Ulandir Brighthand had the whole assembly shown such interest in a challenge, although the crowd of spectators was much larger today. Only four witless acolytes had shown up on that occasion to watch the celebrated necromancer extinguish his brilliant young rival; three, accidentally caught up in Moldar’s evil working, shared Ulandir’s untimely doom, while the fourth, his reason shattered by the terrible cries of his companions, wandered outside the following winter and froze to death.

Mastema, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be found. Bessarias, had only made a half-hearted search for the little beast, knowing full well that his pet knew him well enough to lie low until the first flush of his anger had passed. Still, he kept his eyes open for a glimpse of grey fur, or a pair of supercilious yellow eyes.

At the Grandmaster’s gesture, Bessarias reluctantly joined the other Magistres on the central dais. Together, the Seven formed a loose circle around the human, who looked tiny, frail, and ugly in the midst of all these elves. Galamiras had already prepared the working which would protect them and the crowd should anything go awry with Gilthalon’s summonings; it was something he had personally developed after the debacle of Moldar’s cruel victory.

“Shams!” cried the Custodas Occulti, and in response there was a faint shimmering in the air above the dais. It was barely visible, but it sparked an outburst of excitement in the watching crowd.

“Fakre!” shouted Alisiassa.

“Nasre!” “Sij!” “Eism!”

Bessarias sighed, fuming inwardly, but powerless to intervene. “Bakra,” he muttered dutifully.

The crowd buzzed at his obvious reluctance, but the working did not require enthusiasm, only proper form. The shimmering solidified into a transparent, but palpable shield of pure power forming a large cylinder that fit within the larger circle of the ringed Masters. Gilthalon, wearing a striking black robe edged with gold, stepped confidently into the magic shield and dramatically raised his hands to complete the spell.

“Kadir!”

The Assembly clapped and roared with approval as the handsome Magistras Daemonae deigned to acknowledge their cheers, then turned to face his opponent. The shimmering shield could only be broken by the Custodas Occulti in conjunction with at least three of the participating Masters, and if anything should happen to him, then both Gilthalon and Herwaldus would be trapped inside for the six days it would take for the powerful working to expire.

With elaborate courtesy, Gilthalon quickly sketched a protective circle around Herwaldus, then himself. Bessarias nodded, satisfied that the diableriste was content to obey the strictures laid out for him. It was not long before there was a popping sound, and a small imp, only knee-high to the human, appeared inside the shield. It had blue skin and tiny horns that were barely more than buds.

As the crowd of magicians exploded with laughter, Gilthalon gleefully gestured towards Herwaldus, inviting him to respond. The monk did not seem to know he was being mocked, for his face was grave as he dropped to one knee to examine the miniscule demon.

“What is your name?”

The imp glanced back at Gilthalon, who nodded.

“Bromphethskagsruinmela,” it answered in a high, piping voice.

“Well, Brom… Bromphim… whatever your name is. Begone, I say, in the name of my Lord Immanuel.”

The imp shrugged helplessly and with another brief pop, vanished from sight. Gilthalon’s eyebrows seemed to rise of their own accord, but he did salute the human’s achievement with applause that was not entirely derisive.

“Well done, human,” he called. “Now how about this?”

The Magistras summoned a much larger demon this time, with massive black wings and the head of a bull, armed with a pair of sharp tusks that jutted dangerously upwards from its lower jaw. Whereas the first spirit had appeared almost harmless, this brute looked anxious for violence.

“I am here…” it rumbled in a low voice that reeked of evil.

“Have a go at the gentleman in that circle there, will you? There’s a good fellow.”

Bessarias shot an angry look at Galamiras, but the Grandmaster only smiled and pointed to the circle of flames that sprang up around Herwaldus each time the bull-headed demon attempted to strike at him. Gilthalon was playing fair. The malignant spirit roared in anguish, then turned on its summoner, only to be driven back by a whip of silver fire that suddenly appeared in the Magistras’ hand.

“I wouldn’t recommend stepping out of that circle there,” the demon master told the monk as he lashed the howling spirit.” “Our friend is more than a little agitated, I’m afraid.”

“Begone, by the blood of the Lamb,” Herwaldus ignored the demonlord. “Begone, in the name of my Lord Immanuel I command you!”

Vast silence filled the hall as the angry spirit disappeared with a furious scream. Gilthalon dropped his whip, which lay crackling and hissing as his feet as consternation filled his face.

“You didn’t even know his name!”

“I don’t need it. My Lord is the Alpha and the Omega.”

Herwaldus bowed politely, but not before Bessarias saw his lips twitch with a small smile of satisfaction. Gilthalon saw it too, and it fanned the flames of his ire. His cheeks reddened, and the gold of his eyes darkened to a furious bronze as he began a third summoning.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” the Magistras Morte commented, as Gilthalon’s chanting continued for an ominously long time. “Think the shield will hold?”

“Nothing can break it,” Bessarias heard Galamiras answer confidently.

“I do hope you’re right.”

Bessarias hoped so too, as upon the cessation of the demonlord’s chant, a noxious golden fog began to coalesce and swirl inside the magic shield only ten feet in front of him. As it solidified, it became quickly apparent that there was something very large writhing and thrashing about inside of it, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw that some of the more cautious spectators in the back were beginning to slip quietly out of the Great Hall.

If Herwaldus was having second thoughts about this whole venture, Bessarias couldn’t blame him. Even from the safety of his position outside of the impenetrable shield, he felt as if his insides were turning to water. Next to him, he could feel Galamiras gathering his power. Swallowing hard, he did the same.

Gilthalon looked confident, though, and his expression was initially one of savage delight. But his composure was shaken, along with the Great Hall itself, when a vast thunderclap boomed and echoed repeatedly off the stone walls and he found himself on his knees before a terrible six-armed being, twice the height of an elf, all fire and metallic flesh, with a serrated sword in every hand except for the one pointing at the Magistras Daemonae. Its beautiful, androgynous face was distorted with affronted outrage.

“Who are you?” it demanded as four silver wings unfurled behind its back and almost touched the gilded timbers of the ceiling.

The diableriste pushed himself to his feet, and in anger found his courage as he stared up at the tall angelic creature. He gestured threateningly with the whip of arcane fire.

“What concern is that of yours? I have summoned you and you will obey me!”

For a moment, Bessarias thought the great archdemon might test the power of Gilthalon’s circle, but something in Gilthalon’s determined face must have dissuaded it, for its wings abruptly descended and its blazing radiance dimmed a little. The Magistras nodded slowly.

“You fear to try me? Then you are wise. But if you would test yourself, you may try him. He claims that he can master you, that you shall flee at his command.”

As the demon turned around, it shot a last, withering glare at Gilthalon, but saved its most scornful sneer for Herwaldus, who was eyeing the great being with an unreadable expression.

“Then come out of the circle, if you think yourself equal to the task, human.”

Slowly, deliberately, the old monk scuffed the protective chalk with his left foot. His eyes locked on the demon’s, he took a single step forward, accompanied by a chorus of gasps from the watching magicians. Bessarias looked away, not wishing to witness the human’s violent end. He was surprised when he heard nothing but the old monk’s high-pitched voice.

“You have no power over me,” Herwaldus announced. He folded his arms, and seemed to grow in stature, in authority. “Nor will you harm me. You know who I am, and you know the one I serve.”

The demon said nothing, it only growled low in its throat.

“What is your name?” the human demanded.

“Vashyash,” it answered in an imperious voice.

“Go then, Vashyash, leave here and return no more. In the name of my Lord Immanuel, who lives and reigns at the right hand of the Father, I command you!”

“I hear. I obey.”

Gilthalon shouted in protest, but to no avail. Swifter than it had come, the demon dissolved into the golden cloud, which rapidly disintegrated leaving only the bittersweet scent of myrrh behind. Then Herwaldus turned to face Bessarias, and with a sad smile, bowed respectfully.

“I trust the demonstration was satisfactory?”

Then he reached out, and to the great horror of every magician present, stuck his arm right through the magical shield. Its translucent shimmering immediately became opaque, then, with a blinding flash brighter than the noonday sun, exploded into a myriad of colors which rapidly faded into nothingness.

The little monk bowed his head humbly, and made the sign of the cross on his chest. But because all eyes were fixed upon him, no one saw a gray flash leap onto the pavilion and spring at the man’s spindly legs while he was still giving thanks to his god.

“Glory to your great name, Almighty Father….”

“I warned you, you idiots!” Bessarias started at the sound of his familiar’s voice. “Mmmph!”

Herwaldus shrieked and clutched at his leg, almost toppling over on top of his attacker. It was Mastema, and he had buried his sharp feline fangs into the soft muscle of the human’s calf.

“Bind him!” Gilthalon screamed furiously, taking advantage of the human’s distraction, and the Magistras Materiale was quick to obey. Herwaldus suddenly flew backward through the air, and smashed into the stone wall behind the dais. He hung there, stunned, suspended by invisible chains which the Magistras rapidly wove out of the air itself as Mastema smiled in bloody satisfaction.

“Pah!” he theatrically spat out a small chunk of withered manflesh. “I’d rather eat swamp goblin.”

“What are you doing?” Bessarias shouted at Gilthalon. “He has done no wrong!”

“No? You saw what he just did? We cannot permit him to live!”

“So what are you going to do, kill him now?” Bessarias appealed to the Grandmaster. “Look at him, Custodas, he’s helpless!”

“I hope so. If I thought he could escape those binds, I’d let Gilthalon kill him right now.” The Grandmaster’s eyes were dark with worry. “But we really must learn more about the source of his power. We must have it from him, one way or another.”

“What, you’re going to torture him?”

“If we must. Though I hope it won’t come to that.”

Gilthalon, however, was not interested in the source of the human’s power. Humiliated in front of his peers, the demonmaster was intent on revenge. Even as the two magistres spoke, he was approaching Herwaldus with his golden eyes filled with hate. Twirling his fiery whip in his left hand, the diableriste smiled cruelly as he came to a halt in front of the monk.

“I can’t say that I was not impressed. But you should have let Vashyash kill you. He can be untidy, but at least he is quick. I, on the other hand, am not so inclined to mercy.”

He flicked his wrist, and the magical whip slashed across the human’s face. Herwaldus did not cry out, but his eyes bulged out and five blistering burns appeared instantly on his left cheek. The watching crowd cheered, and shouted insults at the suspended human. One enthusiastic young mage hurled a fireball high over the monk’s head, sending sparks raining down upon his white robe when it splattered on the stone wall.

“Galamiras, stop them,” Bessarias said grimly. “You’ll learn nothing from a dead man.”

“I imagine there are a few necromancers here who might disagree with you, my dear Magistras.”

“Silence, Mastema!" Bessarias angrily kicked at his pet, but it easily avoided the blow.

“You came to tell us of your god?” Gilthalon was mocking the monk as he struck him a second time. “We, who are ourselves gods?”

Herwaldus lifted his head and started to respond, but the words never left his mouth. Bessarias, sickened by the barbaric spectacle, had had enough. He lifted his hand. A blast of soulfire erupted from his open palm, burning through the monk’s heart and severing the mystic silver chain which linked every mortal soul to its body. There would be no necromancy here today.

Gilthalon whirled around, furious at being cheated of his victim, as a shocked silence descended upon the hall so fast one would have thought a mute spell had been cast. Galamiras, his face full of consternation, clutched at his sleeve, but Bessarias angrily pushed the Custodas away. Rage filled his heart, and it was all he could do to refrain from sending another blast or two at his erstwhile colleagues, not to mention Mastema. Lesser magicians scrambled to get out of his way as he stalked from the hall, in search of Kilios.

“I thought you might come. Is he dead yet?”

“Yes,” Bessarias nodded. “I killed him.”

Kilios raised his eyebrows, but did not rebuke him. He only frowned and looked off into the distance, before returning his gaze to Bessarias. “You seem perturbed,” the former seer said.

“I am. He was a good man, but they were angry, and afraid. I did not want to see him suffer.”

“I know. Do you think they will seek to chastise you?”

Bessarias scoffed at the thought.

“Over a human? Even if they cared, they wouldn’t dare. No, I am not troubled by my actions, but by what I saw today. It is as if my eyes have suddenly been opened, and what I see of the world no longer fits my previous understanding.”

The former seer nodded, a faint smile playing across his lips. “I understand.”

“Kilios, for my entire life, I have been seeking power, knowledge, wisdom. But to what end? Today, I saw the wisest, most powerful elves in all of Selenoth acting exactly like a barbarous gang of orcs! They saw something that they did not understand, they were forced to confront something they feared, and so they reacted in exactly the same manner as an illiterate, devil-worshipping, mud-rooting swamp goblin! But what is the point of all this painstakingly gathered knowledge if in the end we reap naught but a harvest of death? When I first began my studies, I sought nothing more than the truth behind all things. Today, I learned that I have found nothing of that truth here, nothing of beauty, nothing but a thousand thousand means of creating the utmost devastation and destruction!”

“I am sorry,” answered the seer. “What would you do?”

“If I cannot find the truth here, I must go elsewhere. I will follow in the footsteps of that orc of whom Herwaldus told us, and go to the brothers of the Tertullian Order. I don’t know if their truth is the one I seek, but I am certain that Herwaldus knew more of it than me.”

Kilios smiled, and he placed a hand on Bessarias’ shoulder.

“Then we shall travel together, my friend. And that your troubled heart may know some peace, let me tell you of the last vision I saw before my sight was taken from me. I saw a man with blood on his hands touch my eyes, and the dark cloud which surrounded me disappeared, replaced by a shining ray of brilliant light. I saw you striking down a white lamb with an iron dagger, then hurl the dagger from you, far beyond the horizon. And finally, I saw the two of us, standing side by side before the walls of a great city.”

“I will never give up my magic!” Bessarias growled at his friend. “If that is your interpretation, then your vision is a false one and it comforts me not at all.”

“Who can say what the future will bring?” Kilios spread his hands. “But Herwaldus is dead, is he not, and by your hand…. My friend, I do not tell you what you must do, I can only tell you what I have seen. For myself, I am glad to be freed of the prison of my visions.”

“I rejoice to hear it. But I will not give up my magic, I don’t care what you have seen.”

“The choice is always yours, Magistras. Shall we seek that great city together nevertheless?”

Bessarias nodded. “We will do that, Kilios, and we will leave immediately. First we travel to Amorr, and if what we seek cannot be found there, we shall go to lands and cities yet unknown.”

“You would leave today?”

“At once,” answered Bessarias without hesitation. “I have wasted three centuries here, I would not squander another night!”

Kilios nodded sagaciously.

“I expected as much, and I have already arranged for supplies and clothing to be prepared for both of us, as well as four horses for the journey. Go and fetch whatever else you would bring, and I will await you at the front gate.”

Bessarias laughed aloud. He was amazed at how his frothing anger had suddenly been transformed somehow into something approaching joy. Herwaldus had spoken often of dying that others might live, and for the first time, Bessarias felt some inkling of understanding what the little human might have meant by that.

It took him little time to gather those possessions he felt he could not do without. Where he was headed, he would have very little need of anything. He packed up a few of his most precious belongings, among them an old manuscript enscribed in the hand of his master, the scryglass, and a small gold-and-silver working of the calengalad. He took it for remembrance’s sake; as for the calengalad itself, it was a conundrum that would have to await some other inquisitor, he had other, more important riddles to solve. He took one last look back at the well-appointed room in which he had spent so many decades, then softly closed the door and began to make his way down the countless stairs of the broadly twisting staircase.

He had just turned the corner of the tower’s final landing when he heard someone call his name.

“Bessarias!”

It was the Custodas, Galamiras. The Grandmaster was waiting in the shadows at the bottom of the dark granite steps. “I heard that you were leaving. It’s true, then?”

“It is true,” Bessarias said, in a firm, but friendly manner. He held up a small bag of jewels, which held centuries-old Vingaaran rubies of such quality that they would do honor to the High King’s crown. “Kilios and I are going to Amorr. Do you think these will pay for a month’s worth of inns along the road?”

“Don’t use those. If they happen to be the stones I think they are, someone will burn down the inn around you in hopes of getting at them. Take the eastern route, and I’ll arrange for Mondrythen to provide you with a bag of Amorran coin before you reach the border. But Amorr? Why there, and why so suddenly? Because of your guest? I do not understand. What is a human to the likes of you and I?”

Bessarias stared at Galamiras for a long moment. He wasn’t sure he could properly explain himself, not in a manner the other elf would comprehend.

“It has little to do with the human. He was only the catalyst. I think the reason I must leave is that I’m beginning to suspect that the truth I’m seeking is one which cannot be found here.”

Galamiras frowned, but finally, he nodded in sympathy, if not understanding.

“I hope you find your truth, Bessarias. Will you return to the College?”

“Someday. I think so. But, Custodas, I must tell you, I do not think it will be the same Bessarias you see before you now.

The Grandmaster laughed. “I am not entirely sure I know the Bessarias who stands before me now. But you will always be numbered among us, old friend, whatever truth you find, and however far you travel. Be safe, and be well.”

Bessarias bowed deeply and respectfully. He raised a hand in farewell, and turned to leave. Then a thought occurred to him, and he lifted his head.

“Galamiras, will you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

Bessarias reached into his robes and drew out the intricate model of the calengalad. He studied the precious metal for a moment, almost wistfully, then sighed and handed it to Galamiras.

“I don’t need this anymore, but I suppose someone will, someday. Give this to him, with my regards, will you? And my sympathies.”

“I will do that,” the Custodas Occulti agreed, but he had a suspicious look on his face. “You’ve given up on that particular line of inquiry, then?”

“Do you know, I think I might have.”

Galamiras smiled wryly.

“So the door to that particular abyss shall remain locked for a while longer. I imagine that’s something that I really should regret, but somehow, I find that I cannot. Hark, is that the whole world I hear, breathing a deep sigh of relief? Fare you well, Bessarias.”

Bessarias only chuckled and raised his hand in benediction. He started to leave, then paused as he sensed someone watching him. He turned around, and saw that Mastema was staring at him, unblinking, from the shadows underneath the circular stairwell. The cat’s yellow eyes seemed to radiate contempt, but there was a hint of distress in its harsh voice as it called out to him.

“You leave without so much as a word for me, Magistras?”

Bessarias tried to think of something, anything, to say to his longtime companion, who had served him so faithlessly and well, but he found himself at a loss for words. As he stared back at the cat, a question Herwaldus had asked him once before entered his mind, unbidden. It was a question, but it was also an answer.

What fellowship can light have with darkness?

And so without a word, without even a final gesture of farewell, Bessarias turned his back on the demon that had once been his pet and it was as if a burdensome weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders. The great iron doors of the Collegium Occludum opened before him, spilling warm autumn sunlight onto the cold stone of the ancient hall, and he strode resolutely forward, out of the shadows and into the blinding embrace of the light.

Return to the Short Stories page