The first fragment of...something...I'm not quite sure right now.
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Summer, 1190, Year of the Drake
I grow old. This is the troubling truth I have come to behold. And for all my prodigious talents, my remarkable discoveries and untold experiences, there is nothing I can do about it.
Perhaps I will make progress yet. There is still time.
Word of the Capitol comes slow these days, if at all. Though I hate to admit it, occasionally, I grow lonely and no book, no history, no spell will be enough to hold back the tide of sorrow and regret. Still, this blissful seclusion is preferable to the considerable inanities of idiotic humans. I must hold to that.
I must.
- C
Ishmael swayed with the sea, floorboards creaking beneath him. Though the sky blazed with Illor’s blessing, the sea seemed to heave. Fresh, hefty winds battered through the waves, sending lesser men sprawling and cursing. Ishmael’s feet might have been wedded to the floor, for all they moved. His dark braids streamed behind him, the beads clacking furiously together.
He might have heard the crewmen’s suspicious slurs and makeshift signs of warding, might even have cared, were his eyes not fixated on the Edge. They couldn’t see it yet, but they would soon enough. A wizard’s farsight was just another of the benefits humans lacked. Although, in this instance, Ishmael found he didn’t care too much for his gift.
The Edge glittered. It called.
He sighed. ‘Captain?’ The man’s huge footsteps could not be mistaken, though he could be surprisingly graceful for one his size.
‘Aye, Councillor?’
‘At this rate, we shall be there by nightfall.’ He shot a glance at the big, bearded brute. Captain Alsike was scratching his beard, a frown on his face.
‘Thought that was my line,’ he offered, weakly. There seemed a sudden pallor about the man. He and his men were terrified; it was plain to see, though the Captain did a better job of hiding it. As well they should be.
Summer, 1194, Year of the Drake
Whenever I grow doubtful, I need only climb to the heights of this tower, sit at this desk and look out over the Edge of the World. The fields covered in lavender jasmine flowers, the sea of clouds in the sky; stately islands of white gracefully passing by. Over the trees and the plains I look, to the distant yet painfully bright glitter of the Edge.
Yet I stay in my tower.
I write and I read and I philosophise…but for what? I cannot recall. All too often I find my mind wondering. Wondering back to my childhood and the day I first saw the Others, the spirits and the fox-gods laughing and dancing – I remember calling out.
‘Look! Fairies, there are fairies here.’
The surprised looks on the other children’s faces, quickly followed by condescension and ridicule, and them so young. It mattered not. Long after the children were gone, the Others remained, thoughtful and silent.
Even they are gone now.
Ah, how my mind wonders…
-C
Ishmael stared at the giant island.
It should not exist. That much was plain. It had risen up quite suddenly in their view. The sky bled lurid colours as Illor’s blessing faded. The stark white cut off ahead – the Edge – seemed to bulge around it obscenely and Ishmael could only shake his head at this testimony to one man’s power and extraordinary arrogance. It reared out into the nothingness, chin jutted in defiance.
Captain Alsike roared instructions and his men scurried to obey. They were weighing anchor. These men would go no further, not for any man, or wizard for that matter. Once they were done, Ishmael calmly surveyed them, wondering idly if they’d dare tell him to leave. As a wizard of the 26th Order, he was by no means the most powerful, but he was strong enough to whip these dogs and they should know that. The surly crew gathered about their giant Captain, fingering their crude weapons.
‘Much thanks for your hospitality, Captain,’ Ishmael said, saving the man from having to humiliate himself.
He turned and casually stepped over the railing. There were gasps from above and Ishmael chuckled. A touch theatrical, no doubt, but all the more pleasing for its effect. He landed on the surface of the water, which bent, then held. Smiling, he began the walk to the island. Of course, he’d been hoarding his power for the entirety of the trip for just such a moment, but they needn’t know that, or just how much it taxed him. He kept only the thinnest of paths before him, solidifying the top few inches of the water.
He kept his path calm and steady, sweat seeping down his forehead, until he was sure he was lost in the gloom. Casting aside his dignity at that point, he flat out ran for the island – he didn’t have long before he would be swimming the rest of the way.
Autumn, 1196, Year of the Serpent
Yesterday, I summoned a demon.
It took no great effort on my part, in truth I was quite surprised it worked. I’d always imagined demons to be…well, imaginary, to say the least. No one had summoned one in my not inconsiderable lifetime, or even heard of a successful conjury – the popular belief was that it was all nonsense and those ancients who wrote of it, were no doubt addled at the time of their penmanship. Nonetheless, through sheer boredom, I decided to try.
Imagine my shock when Little Balthor popped into my circle with a sizzle and a crack. He made some quip, some crack about not being summoned in a thousand years and did I know what that did to his back? He made quite the show of stretching. I can’t help but smile in memory.
Gold eyes blinked up at me. ‘So, this is generally the part where I tell you what a big bad demon I am, how I’m going to rip the skin off your body when I’m free, blah blah blah, but I’m going to go ahead and skip all that.’
He waddled up to the edge of the chalk circle I’d drawn and gingerly pushed at the air there. There was an audible bulge, but nothing else.
‘You’re quite the Magus, my friend. I haven’t met one of your power in…well, it’s been some time.’ The small dwarf-like creature slapped his head in consternation. ‘But where are my manners? I, Balthor the third, am at your service.’
I stared at him in some confusion, still in shock that not only had the ancient spells and wards worked but that they had apparently conjured a small, babbling dwarf. I wrung my hands.
Balthor cocked an eyebrow. ‘What - can’t say it eh? A guessing game, is it? Most people summon a demon to assassinate a rival, perhaps a political one? Jilted lover? Hm? Well, what is it, man? I assure you, I’ve heard it all. Out with it.’
‘Ah. I wonder…would you like some tea?’ I smiled.
I’m still chuckling at the expression of disbelief that crossed the dwarf’s face. He swore in what seemed a hundred different tongues, some I even recognised – something about being surprised, and the indignity of it all for a creature of his power – etcetera, I tuned him out. I haven’t felt quite this invigorated in some time. It’s a wonder what companionship can do for a man. Even a wizard.
-C
Ishmael stared up at the monolithic tower. It tapered up into dizzying heights. A cool breeze blew through the leafy trees. Ishmael shivered as it played around his legs, still soaked through from his dunking earlier. On closer inspection, the craftsmanship on each huge ivory block was astounding – engraved around each were dancing figures, spirits, and animals. Ishmael blinked. He could swear they were actually moving, but it couldn’t be surely? Reaching into his coat pocket, Ishmael brought out his specially made lenses. Twisted copper wire braided sapphire shards; he slipped them over the bridge of his nose, making a little ‘ah’ of appreciation and a moment after that, of wonder.
Although not a powerful wizard by any stretch of the imagination, Ishmael specialised in the construction of magically imbued items. The blue lens were his favourite of all those, revealing all enchantments and spells to the naked eye. And what it showed him now…was breathtaking to say the least. The entire tower – every stone – blazed with power. The whole building was composed of sorcery, great arcing spell lines so convoluted and complex they dizzied him. Shaking, Ishmael took of the lenses, lest it blind him. He didn’t even know such power existed – not even the All-Wizard, surely…but that was treason, to even think. Somewhat disconcerted, he brought out the letter.
The Council of Illor, as representatives of His Absent Majesty, do so declare that the Ivory Tower exists on territory marked as theirs since the Fall of Devian the Black and that should the Ivory Tower and its occupants wish to continue unmolested, it must needs pay the tax and recognise the Council’s authority…
Of course, it was the same letter they’d been sending via pigeon for the past forty years, without response. Imagine the shock of the gathered nobles and Illuminaries of the Order when a small, horrible dwarf creature – all mottled skin and gold eyes, an unnaturally shaped body and teeth so sharp they gleamed – appeared within their council.
‘I am here at the behest of a friend,’ it had said, every word laden with reluctance. ‘With a message: I have been remiss these past few decades and should you wish to reclaim the unpaid taxes merely send along an appropriate emissary.’ With that, the dwarf had vanished.
Twenty seven had come before him and twenty seven had failed.
What chance did he have?
But you don’t have to agree with everything, of course!