Okay, so I am really, really struggling with this. I know where the story goes but I'm...a little confused about how to make it happen.
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Winter, 1200, Year of the Boar,
You know, it’s strange, this memory of mine…It’s like a restless ocean, a body of water that seems so full at times that it could drown me, until the tide recedes and I’m left clutching at the skeletons that remain, revealed in the sand.
I used to be somebody important. I remember that. People used to listen to me. People used to know me. Now I live on the Edge of the World, playing with power and magic and mysteries – a constant delight, to be sure. But something is missing.
And then there’s Balthor. Such a strange little demon – he won’t tell me from whence he came, the world there, the hierarchies, or anything of remote importance. He insists he is bound to silence. Sometimes I catch him staring at me, when he thinks I’m not looking, golden eyes glittering in the dark.
He knows something.
He’s put me up to this scheme, now. Just a bit of fun, he said. Something to liven the atmosphere. There’s more to it than that, I think, but I let it go. His company over the past few years has awoken in me a hunger, for conversation and humour, for intelligence and just the pleasure of being in another’s company. Perhaps this was the first step.
My wards have been ringing for some time, since then. The spells of illusion and misdirection layered about this place have been busy, indeed, turning away unworthy emissary after unworthy emissary. There has been some silence for a time now.
Whether that is good or bad, I do not know.
I wait to see, just as you do.
-C
The door was barred.
Ishmael couldn’t say he was surprised. Should he knock? He wasn’t sure. What was he to do - tap politely on the door of the most powerful sorcerer in existence and say, ‘Good day, your Eminence, might I have all your money please?’
He sighed.
The rest of the Island seemed peaceful enough. Indeed, it seemed positively heavenly. The beauty of it washed over him all at once. He felt his tired muscles ease, as a sense of relaxation he hadn’t known in years poured through him. His feet were leading him away from the door, he realised. Over grassy, well-manicured lawns, past a babbling brook and up a slight hill he went, arriving at the trunk of a giant weeping willow. He bent beneath its trailing fingers, casting himself into cooling shadow.
A part of him wondered at this honeyed peace, and if he was not under some enchantment but a larger part decided he didn’t care. He tried to remember the last time he hadn’t felt tense, hadn’t felt under some pressure or scrutiny. Sorrowfully, he concluded it had been a very long time indeed. Not since his grandfather had vanished, in fact – he was but a boy at the time, but he still remembered sitting by the fireplace, his grandfather’s rich voice rolling over him in a multitude of hues. So many stories, he’d learned then. So many wonderful stories.
He took out the letter from his breast pocket again, smoothing out the crinkles. His Absent Majesty… He’d been gone much too long. As just one of many royal sons, in an extremely healthy Ruling House, he hadn’t received much deferential treatment. He’d moved away from court at the earliest convenience, taking a more solitary, scholarly path.
He could still remember Brahn’s reaction to the news that he was to go.
‘We’re sending him?' he’d sneered. 'We must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel.’
A little tension came creeping back into Ishmael, at that.
‘You seem worried. Odd, that. The spells of peace and calm should have affected you by now.’
The messenger dwarf was standing before him.
Ishmael blinked, startled. He quickly regathered his composure. ‘Not everything can be soothed away by a balm, no matter how powerful or effective it is. But I imagine it is doing its work, otherwise I would not be so blithely chatting to a demon.’
Ishmael’s heart was racing. The realisation had been sudden as a lightning. This creature was not human. Its hands were bloated, swollen things, more claw than anything else. Its golden eyes were penetrating and currently, twinkling with merriment.
‘O-ho! So you noticed that, eh? Good for you. You’ll have to forgive the errant welcome, Master’s will…well, you’ll see soon enough.' He turned and waddled off, stopping a few metres away when he realised Ishmael wasn’t following.
A frown settled on his squashed features. ‘Come on, come on, we haven’t got all day. Trust me, you don’t want to miss this.’
Curiosity piqued, Ishmael got up and followed the dwarf to the tower.
Spring, 1202, Year of the Hatchling
I can’t ignore it anymore. It calls to me, sings in delirious notes and waves of joys, pickmeuppickmeuppickmeup. I’ve blocked it out for as long as I could but no longer will it be ignored. It demands to be used.
It does seem a shame to let it go to waste…but every time such a thought enters my mind, I get dizzy with fear, such is it’s strength. I suspect my memory lapse has long been tied to such thoughts – every time I thought of the Staff, my mind was blanked with spells, all until now. I age. My spells weaken. And it grows ever stronger. Or so it seems.
I cannot even recall why I crafted it. Cannot think of what force was so terrifying in this world that it would prompt me to delve so deep into the mysteries. How many laws did I break? What kind of horror have I unleashed on the world? My eyes wonder to the Edge and my skin gets cold and clammy. Was the Staff the cause of that? Was I?
I don’t know anymore. But I am done wondering, done sitting and watching.
It is time.
- C
Ishmael followed the dwarf, Balthor as he named himself, into the Tower. The heavy door swung open at his touch, silent and efficient. Warm light spilled out on a wave of incense. The walls were panelled in wood and the floor richly carpeted. A staircase spiralled upward to the right. All in all, it was horribly familiar. The sights and smells brought on a tidal wave of nostalgia.
It was home.
Ishmael remembered running up those stairs, short chubby legs pumping. He could see Brahn, waiting at the top, habitual sneer already in place even as a child. ‘Get lost, brat,’ he’d spit. ‘You’re not wanted here.’ Brahn was closer to the throne in the line of succession, perpetually paranoid that his younger cousins and siblings were trying to climb above him. Ishmael would stop and wait for the rich laughter, the gentle dismissal of Brahn’s cruel words and welcome from His Royal Majesty.
One day that laughter never came and triumph reigned in Brahn’s eyes. Ishmael stood at the top of those stairs even now, the ascent barely registering in his mind, waiting. Daring to hope. From behind him came short, huffing breaths, quickly followed by a hoarse voice.
‘Come on, come on already. Reflect some other time, would ya?’
Trepidation filling him, Ishmael stepped forward, half expecting to see Brahn’s lanky frame to appear and block him. The door to the study ahead hung slightly ajar. One dusky hand reached out and gently pushed it open.
The room was sparse and white. It had barely any furniture or ornamentation bar the large desk set against the wall. A huge double window dominated the space, beckoning the idle spectator with a fantastic view. A figure stood before it, long dark hair stirred by the wind.
It was him.
Ishmael could feel it in his gut, raw feelings held back over decades of absence.
‘Grandfather!’ his voice cracked.
Something was off, Ishmael realised. This figure was too tall, the hair too dark. But the face that turned to meet his was his grandfather’s, nonetheless. Age had vanished from the man, whipped off like a cloak. There was no mistaking those eyes, or that expression however.
‘Ishmael, we have a lot to talk about,’ Cornelius said.
Winter, 1210, Year of the Brood,
I remember things. More and more, they come; in fragments, whole scenes, a veritable deluge of times long ago. Thoughts that meandered off once, come full circle. And none too soon – I can’t say how many times I returned to research I’d begun and forgotten, only to realise the species I’d been studying were now extinct or the empire long since faded, rendering the study meaningless. The spirits, the fox-gods – I remember them most of all. I remember my purpose here and my exile.
Sometime after I first spotted the spirits from the Other Side, I do not recall exactly when – those days are a blur, but the loneliness and pain remain fresh – the fox-boy approached me. He was of a height with me, but had fiery orange hair, green eyes that danced with mischief, and a brushy tail that flitted about his legs.
‘Would you like to see something wonderful? Something grand?’ he said.
I stared at him sullenly. ‘You made all my friends hate me. They think I’m crazy.’
The fox-boy grinned. ‘And so you are! You’re talking to a fox-god, after all. But who needs them anyway? Silly, fat little nobodies. You, on the other hand, are something special.' His sharp canines glinted in the sun.
Curiosity washed over me. And how could it not? He was a good salesman, this cheeky fox and oh, how I wish I had refused him that day. I was not completely unaware of potential danger, however, in the all the tales, spirits were tricky things that made dubious bargains.
‘What for?’ I said. ‘How do I know this isn’t a trick?’
His tongue lolled. ‘It’s just a bit of fun, a quick trip into the Other Side – you’ll be the first boy to ever see it. I promise no harm will come to you.’
With that direct an assurance, I knew I’d be safe. So I went with the bright eyed fox, who seemed to be laughing all the time, as he bounded ahead with energy. The plains around my small village melted away, replaced with enormous trees, each one easily bigger and wider than my entire village. The air was sweet and heavy; I could feel the strange atmosphere pouring into me like thick honey, moulding itself around my skin.
Golden light streamed through the leaves one minute and was gone the next; huge banks of clouds rolled across the skies faster than ever I’d seen it before, lashed on by lightning lords that thundered across the heavens. Time itself flowed differently. There were no constants there. One moment the boy was a fox, the next a human, and so on – laughing all the while. I felt like I was out of breath, starving for air – like this place was drinking me in, sucking me away or was it the other way around? Senses whirled.
In an instant, it was over. I was home. As near to it as I’d been when I left, dazed in the long metre tall grass. My legs wobbled, muscles jellied by the experience – Was it real? Was it not? How could I know? But I very quickly discovered just how real it was and my new found power.
- C
