The fifth sorceress, p.9
The Fifth Sorceress, page 9
The old wizard sighed. ‘And as for why she came with me …well, it is because she loves you so much. They all do. Your entire family and Directorate of Wizards itself would go to the ends of the world for you.’ He paused. ‘Although sometimes I don’t know why. Not with the way you’ve been behaving lately.’ He looked directly into the prince’s dark blue eyes. ‘We were almost killed this afternoon while trying to find you.’ Wigg turned his gaze back out to the valley.
Tristan drew a sharp breath, but before he could speak, Wigg had begun to tell him about the encounter with the blood stalker, being careful to reveal only what he had told Shailiha. Any more was for the ears of his Directorate only, and his king. Wigg pointed to a tree at the side of the clearing, up against which he laid the stalker’s battle ax.
‘I kept his calling card.’
Seeing the ax, Tristan felt truly ashamed. But working against that emotion were other emotions of equal, if not greater, energy. Ever since he had left the stone pool of the falls, two desires had struck his heart as surely as he knew the sun would rise the next morning. First was the need to return there as soon as possible. Second was the overpowering hunger to learn, a thirst to drink in all the knowledge of the craft he could find. And the feeling had been steadily increasing ever since he had left the cavern.
He needed the knowledge of magic.
He turned toward Wigg, waiting for the old one to face him. Unafraid, he wanted to look directly into the wizard’s eyes when he asked him.
As if he knew what Tristan’s sudden desires were, yet also chose not to fulfill them, the old one continued to gaze out at the distance. But in his heart the wizard knew what was coming.
Tristan drew a breath. Somehow, inside of him, he knew that once he asked, there would be no retreat. No going back.
‘Wigg, tell me, please. I need to know about your craft.’
The old wizard’s mind was racing. And so it begins. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
Wigg turned to look at the prince. The azure aura that emanated from Tristan’s head and body had, impossibly, become even more luminescent. Silently, Wigg gave thanks to the fact that he would be the only one in the kingdom to see it. Only those of endowed blood – and then only one who was as highly trained as himself – could recognize the aura. Even the other wizards of the Directorate would not see it. Wigg looked at Tristan with suddenly sad and tired eyes. The young prince had no idea what he had done, and the old one knew he must choose his words with care. He looked imperiously down his nose at the young man, determined to remain in control of the conversation.
‘Until this moment, my prince, you’ve never expressed anything but disdain for the throne, and rather rude requests for the teaching of the magic that may follow the king’s reign. Even your previous questions about the craft have, upon occasion, seemed ingenuine to us.’ He knew the second part was not true, but he kept his eyes on Tristan and schooled his face to show no emotion. ‘What is the reason for this apparent change of heart?’
Tristan drew both knees up under his chin and joined his hands in front of him, not knowing how to answer the question without revealing his discovery of the falls. Finally, in a less commanding voice he said, ‘I suppose it is the story of the blood stalker that has aroused my interest. I have never heard of one before.’
Wigg sniffed. ‘I see.’
The wizard was sure now that Tristan would not reveal his secret visit to the falls unless it was literally dragged out of him. And deep down the old one knew why. But he considered Tristan’s request and decided to give the prince some rudimentary explanations – no more.
He changed his position so that he was sitting facing Tristan, and beckoned the prince to do the same. As they sat face-to-face, Wigg felt almost blinded by the azure aura around Tristan, and also by the need, the hunger, that was in the younger man’s eyes. From this day on, the wizard knew, the man before him would never be the same.
‘Magic begins with blood, Tristan,’ he began slowly. ‘It has always been this way, even before the Sorceresses’ War, and before the commencement of written history and the organized recording of births.’ He gathered his robes closer around him to ward off the chill of the coming night.
‘Children are born either “endowed,” or “common,” ’ the wizard continued. ‘As you know, both you and your sister are of endowed blood, as are both of your parents. The union of two parents of endowed blood always produces progeny of endowed blood. Only one in a thousand births from a mixed union – common and endowed – results in an endowed offspring.’ He raised both eyebrows. ‘Endowed blood is necessary to the mastery of magic. Trying to teach it to one of common blood is like trying to teach your stallion to play the harp.’
Tristan smiled at the image, but he was becoming impatient. This talk of Wigg’s was something that he already knew, that everyone in Eutracia knew.
Sensing the prince’s impatience, Wigg continued. ‘The craft is divided into two parts, or schools of thought, if you will. The first is called the Vigors. This is the beneficent side of the craft, and requires great selflessness and sacrifice. It is the school of magic to which each of the wizards of the Directorate have taken their vows. Simply put, the Vigors teach those facets of the craft that produce charity, kindness, and deeds for others. It is the only type of magic practiced by wizards.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts, watching the setting sun slowly drop into the horizon before he finally spoke again.
‘The other side of the craft is called the Vagaries. It is practiced only for power and greed, and the depravities of its execution know no bounds. It is said that complete mastery of the Vagaries always results in madness. During the war, the sorceresses practiced only the Vagaries, the wizards only the Vigors.’ He picked at the hem of his robe. ‘The Vagaries are the most dangerous of all aspects of the craft – not more powerful than the Vigors, but far more destructive. And destruction was the tool needed most by the sorceresses to accomplish their goals.’ A brief look of sorrow passed across the wizard’s face, and he sighed. ‘For you see, Tristan, it is always far more harmful to achieve one’s ends by taking, rather than by giving.’ His voice sounded sad and far away.
‘Did you ever know such a person, Wigg?’ Tristan asked. ‘A true master of the Vagaries?’
The old one raised himself up a little and looked straight into the prince’s eyes. ‘Unfortunately, Tristan, I have,’ he answered. ‘And it was clear that the beginnings of the Vagaries’ madness had begun to manifest themselves in its lead practitioner. She was the most purely evil person I have ever known – but she was also the most brilliant.’
Tristan found himself stymied for a moment. For as long as he could remember, he had been under the impression that endowed males were more naturally powerful than their female counterparts. Finally, he asked, ‘Can women therefore become as powerful as men in their use of the craft?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Wigg answered. ‘An endowed female who studied with equal intent could be just as dangerously powerful as any male, provided her blood was the quality of his. Before the war, both men and women of endowed blood were allowed to learn and practice the craft. The women called themselves sorceresses, and a collection of such sorceresses was called a coven. Males of endowed blood who practiced the craft called themselves wizards. The two names imply exactly the same thing, the only difference being gender. Most people do not realize that, because the training of women in the craft was outlawed, for better or for worse, at the end of the Sorceresses’ War.’
The wizard looked out at Tammerland. It was that wonderful time of twilight when the orange of the sun’s rays could still be seen, melting upward into the ever-darkening black of the night. The three red moons would soon be up, and the night creatures of the Hartwick Woods would begin to stir.
‘What makes one wizard or sorceress more powerful than another?’ Tristan asked.
‘In that, it is much like anything else. First, of course, ability is determined by the quality of one’s blood. Added to this is the pupil’s intelligence, and the quality and duration of training. But the overriding variable is blood purity. The stronger the blood, the better the pupil. The better the pupil, the more powerful the resulting wizard or sorceress.’
Tristan continued to press. ‘And how is it, Wigg, that you and the other members of the Directorate have never died? I know of people in Tammerland who say you and the other members have not aged one bit in their entire lifetime.’
‘We are protected by what are called time enchantments. But the public perception of this is misleading, Tristan. It is true that the enchantments keep us impervious to disease and old age, but time enchantments do not necessarily equate to immortality. If you and I both jumped off this cliff, at the bottom of it I would be just as dead as you. The time enchantments were developed to protect our land from those who practiced the Vagaries, who were also close to perfecting the same enchantments. Not for selfish reasons. The war seemed to be interminable, and we were losing so many wizards. If by chance we could win the war, we wanted to ensure that this sort of thing could never happen again. True, we granted ourselves seeming immortality, but in return we pledged the remainder of our lives to the Vigors only, and to ensuring Eutracian peace.’
Tristan was beginning to see the wizard in a new light, despite the fact that he had known him for almost thirty years. The old one had lived over ten times that long, and almost all of it in the service of his country.
‘The various aspects of the craft are infinite, Tristan. For both the Vigors and the Vagaries. Spells, enchantments, incantations, transformations, potions, divinations, symbols – the list goes on and on. And each thing in nature has its own place in the craft. Thus, the study of the craft is infinite and, for those of us with endowed blood, irresistibly compelling.’
‘Are the Vagaries still practiced?’ Tristan asked, looking genuinely concerned.
‘No. Its practitioners were all either killed or banished, and the volumes and scrolls containing their teachings were burned.’ The need to lie to the prince sent a stabbing pain through Wigg’s heart, but in this, too, the old one had no choice. There was so much he would have liked to tell him. The prince’s situation was so unique – the first ever such case in the recorded history of Eutracia, and, as such, to be handled with the greatest of care, lest they risk the destruction of the entire kingdom. Tristan had been carefully, very carefully, watched from the moment of his birth, as had his sister. In truth Wigg knew that Tristan had good reason to feel like a specimen in some bottle, despite the fact that he was a fully grown man.
Tristan dropped his knees to the ground to sit cross-legged. For a moment he hesitated, unsure. Finally, he asked, ‘Wigg, may I ask you a personal question?’
The wizard’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nothing precludes you from asking, just as nothing precludes me from remaining silent.’
‘Are you the most powerful of all the wizards?’ The words seemed to hang in the air between them like a sudden, cold breeze.
Wigg sighed. ‘To answer your question, I don’t really know. I am considered to be the most powerful and learned of the Directorate, but there are other wizards, including rural wizards, within the population of Eutracia. We do not follow the progress of such wizards – the task would be too great. Besides, it is not our job. There was, however, during the war, a wizard who was as powerful as me . . .’ His voice trailed off, and his eyes seemed far away again. He lowered his voice farther still. ‘As I said before, it was also believed that the mastery of the Vagaries would eventually lead the practitioner to madness. And although the Vagaries are no longer being practiced, they still exist, nonetheless.’
‘I’m still not sure that I understand,’ Tristan said, mulling over the wizard’s words.
Indeed, Wigg thought, looking compassionately into the prince’s dark eyes. How could you be expected even to begin to understand that which has taken the finest wizards of the realm over three centuries to unravel? Perhaps a demonstration would be the best way in which to instruct you now.
‘Magic is everywhere, Tristan,’ the wizard continued. ‘Even though it cannot be seen. In this aspect it is much like the air we breathe, constantly surrounding us yet invisible, making us blissfully unaware of its presence and usually quite unable to see it. Magic indeed has substance and shape, as does the air. But do not be misled. I’m not talking about the effects of the craft, or the result of its use. I’m speaking of the craft itself, of what it really is. There is a true, interwoven consistency to its energy and its existence, and it can be literally seen, each of the two sides, both the Vigors and the Vagaries.’ He pursed his lips for a moment, finally making up his mind. ‘Allow me to demonstrate.’
Wigg once again turned toward the valley. The three red moons had finally risen, and the lights from the city and the palace could be seen. Darkness was falling quickly. To the prince’s great curiosity, the wizard suddenly stood and apparently began collecting his thoughts, the hem of the gray robe of his office slowly waving back and forth gently in the evening breeze. He closed his eyes and raised his arms to the sky as if in supplication, bowing his head.
The effect was mesmerizing.
To Tristan’s disbelief the sky began to lighten. A gigantic glow began to coalesce. As he watched, it gently started to spin and to turn on its axis. It was becoming a brilliant golden orb, with offshoots here and there of the palest white radiating outward from its center, bathing everything in radiance. From time to time golden droplets of energy would trickle from the slowly spinning orb and fall into the valley, dissipating into nothingness. The Vigors, Tristan’s mind exclaimed. It is too beautiful to be anything but the beneficent side of the craft.
Wigg turned back to face the prince and, as if reading his mind, said, ‘Yes, Tristan, the Vigors, gathering and materializing in their physical form. Magnificent, isn’t it?’
‘But how is such a thing possible?’ the prince whispered reverently.
Without answering, the wizard once more raised his arms, and a darker, more menacing form began to take form in the night sky. As the effect grew in size to match the Vigors, it too began to coalesce and spin, but the effect this time was far different – frightening, horrifying, in fact.
Now the same size and shape as the Vigors, the dark shape seemed to push the other orb aside, as if attempting to make room for itself in the night sky. Black and foreboding, it was as grotesque as the Vigors were beautiful. Droplets of dark, menacing energy dripped casually from its pitch-black, shining sides, and bright scratches of lightning shot through the ebony orb’s center, occasionally lighting up the interior of the sphere, showing the complexity of its macabre form. Instinctively the prince knew what it was, and also knew that it was to be feared.
The Vagaries, he thought, mesmerized, as it turned there ominously before him. The dark side of the craft. It has to be.
Completely entranced, Tristan watched as the two great orbs began to move about the night sky. They would slowly, repeatedly begin to attract one another, as if somehow needful of each other. But then, suddenly, just as they were about to touch, they would unexpectedly, violently, repel one another, and the process would continue. In some ways it was almost a pitiful thing to watch, the never-ending attempts to join and the always-failing struggles to stay together, only to be thrust apart, over and over again.
He stood there speechless, his blood calling out to him as never before.
He was finally able to find his voice and ask the question. ‘How is it that they seem to attract, only to eventually repel one another?’
‘Each thing in nature has its opposite,’ the wizard said calmly as he stood before the orbs. ‘Male and female, light and dark. And so it goes throughout the entire scheme of the world as we know it. The two sides of the craft are no different. But, unlike the other examples I just mentioned, the Vigors and the Vagaries cannot join. Indeed, if any aspect of either one is used in combination with the other, the result would be calamitous – a rent, or tear, if you will, in the fabric of each. For as long as we have known of their existence they have been in this perpetual state of similar, yet separate, permanence.’ He paused, the weight of his words seemingly heavy upon his heart. ‘If each, at the same time, had a tear large enough, it is said that it could release the powers of one to join with those of the other, and that such an uncontrolled occurrence would be the end of all we know. This is yet another reason why we wizards took the vows. To prevent any one of us from trying to combine the two schools.’
He turned to look at Tristan, and the prince could feel that the wizard was about to tell him something of great importance. ‘It is also said that there are invisible corridors that connect the two sides of the craft, that virtually join the orbs,’ Wigg continued. ‘And that until those corridors are traveled through by one of the endowed, neither side of the craft, no matter how powerful it seems to be individually, has even a smattering of the dynamism it would display if the two were joined. This, then, is the ultimate goal of the craft of magic, Tristan. That is, the harmonious joining of the Vigors and the Vagaries, and their control and proper use thereafter.’ And the Chosen One shall come, and through the use of his sanguine, perfect blood he shall one day traverse the corridors of the craft, and bring the two sides together without the breaching of their fabrics, he thought.
‘And therefore, when you think of the craft, it is proper to imagine it as these two opposites. Turning forever in time, waiting to be properly joined,’ Wigg said softly. ‘And, in addition, when you think of the Vigors, know that this is the craft of the wizards; and when you think of the Vagaries, know that this was the craft of the sorceresses, when they lived.’
‘But surely there were women who chose to practice the craft of the sake of good?’ Tristan asked.
