...Hic toti mortalis hospes est...strangers alien to the element of magic that, kin to fire and water, infuses this Realm. Human bodies and human wills may master this element, but do suffer greatly the consequence. Those born with such gifts of mastery are rare, and are tested gravely by the trials of melding the alien and the mortal. The Wise call these trials the tests of magic.
The Commoners do name the first test 'Witchfever', for it comes as a fever most severe. The stilling of breath and heart, visions and mad ramblings oft accompany the fever, which cometh to gifted children soon after the age of ten years. There is no cure for this sickness, for it is caused by the element of magic melding into the mortal element, and most children who suffer it do die. There is little to be done that one would not do for a plain fever, other than earnest prayer, and it may last a fortnight or more. `Tis wise to be careful, however, for fearful illusions, mysterious fires, the movement of objects, and similar magical effects may accompany the illness as the beleaguered child uses the power to seek aid and comfort.
The learning of magical power comes swifter after the Witchfever for those that survive the illness, and t'is a good age to take apprentices.
Apprentices must oft be protected from Commoners, for many of them know, but do not understand, the second test. They call it a madness, and fear it greatly, when in truth it is a sudden growth in power among those apprentices strong enough to experience it. The growth and learning in the power is an irregular process, and never more dangerous and fickle as when an apprentice is already undergoing the changes that make them man and woman. The power will be tapped with strong emotion, and that power itself will cause greater emotion, until, inevitably, it will be released. For young men of the age, this emotion oft is anger, which will lash out at those around the young magus in injurious ways, and many towns and villages have been destroyed by a boy's frustration. More oft for young women, such magics are turned inward, causing them to kill or maim themselves as doubt and shame move their emotions. Each outburst is unique, but the Commoners are fearful and will seek to either remove the apprentice as quickly as possible, or destroy them, indeed, before they can cause them harm. Oft the magics released will harm or kill the apprentice...I have lost three fine young lads to my teaching in this way.
Most who survive the second test have some bar that they have placed upon their power. Their mind has reached some resolution to control the forces at their beck and call, to stop them from doing greater harm. I myself, for all my power, find myself unable to cast without my trusty spellbook before me. I do not know why this is, save that for some it is a source of great frustration, and for others, a great blessing. Perhaps it is my own fear that I will unleash the forces that I did in my anger. The bar is a blessing. Many who survive the second test go insane.
About the third test, I can say nothing. To this day, I cannot say if my decisions were right or wrong. They were the best choices that I could make for myself. Perhaps, if I had chosen differently, this age would be different, a better, more peaceful time. I do not know. Instead, young magician, I can offer only this riddle: If life is a game, and we are the pieces, we can still choose not to play.
Presto sighed as he pushed the heavy tome away. It's not that he didn't find Merlin's tresties fascinating...he did! He wished he had had them a year ago, on the Battlefield near Wending Forest. But the sun was shining long, narrow, shafts of dusty light through the arrowslits of Melchior's library. And his riddles were worse than Dungeon Masters'! And she had promised...
The motes of dust in one of the sunbeams began to swirl and gather. Presto's eyes brightened and hurried over, with a gesture of his hand stilling all other breezes within the room. In tiny golden specks and sparkles, the figure of a young woman coalesced. He whispered, "Hello, Varla," and held his breath.
"Dear Presto," the golden figure glanced around and smiled sweetly. "I hope you are well when you get this message. I am doing very well. Father just bought two new cows. He's so proud. Mother said if he doesn't stop talking about them to everyone he meets, he's going to find himself in the pasture sleeping with them. She's only teasing him though. She is glad to see him so happy.
"I was wondering when you might be able to come visit us. I would come visit you...of course I would...but it's such a terribly long way and I'm frightened of leaving the village that long. My illusions have kept us safe from the lizardmen and bolly wogs of the swamp, but I feel like something terrible is about to happen.
"Please be careful, Presto. I think my heart would break into a million pieces if anything ever happened to you. I think about you every day.
"Love always...Varla."
Presto grinned, a little regretfully, as he stretched his fingers out to touch the swiftly disappearing illusion. Sometimes, if everything went just right, he could still feel her in the motes of light and shadow.
Not today, though. It was too far, really, anyway. He sighed bent over the book again, translating the difficult text as best he could. What will I write back to her?
In the middle of a landscape so rocky and desolate, only living things with spikes and thorns as sharp as their environment eek out an existence on poison mists, there sits a tiny house, still standing despite the devastation around it. Inside the house is a wooden trestle table, etched with the idle graffiti of a lazy pen. On the table lay a dusty book, its cover cut and torn.
A cold wind blew across the cratered land, sending the door of the house banging loudly against the doorframe. It turned the leaves of the book, which rattled as the pages flipped to fall open on the last written page of the book, where it came to rest.
This will be my last entry. What I had feared would happen has come to pass. My apprentice, King Stephan and Queen Darshiva's son Corwin, had the power. I think it is my fault. I tried to hold him back, keep the knowledge of his potential from him, show him how to use his power in smaller, subtler ways that would not attract the attention of the Greatest Powers, but that was not to be. He chafed under my teaching, disagreed with my methods. But rather than go, he stayed. I thought I was reaching him. I thought he understood.
I was wrong.
His power drew the attention of...one that may not be named. Would that I could spell out in detail the truth, to warn all other young magicians of power, but that would risk drawing the One back each time the words were read. I understand now why no others wrote of this, just hinted...gave riddles, like the riddles of Merlin. I wish that hero were here now. But that is not to be.
Corwin has made his decision. He calls himself Venger now.
I feel the offer inside me again, renewed stronger than before. I will give myself to the Powers, who barely worried themselves with me before. At least I know it will be for goodness that I will be used. There is no doubt in the choice, now. Someone must stop him. I can. I will not allow him to destroy everything in the name of the One. Though I cannot kill him, I will become a barrier...a cage to bind his power in, until such time as I, or time, finds a way to defeat him forever. I will use every warrior I can muster, crack the world if need be, but, I will contain him. I will make this realm a prison, so the power of the One cannot be spread.
I will be the Dungeon Master.
Perhaps some celestial force, for good or for evil, had sent the cold wind as an omen, a message or a prophesy of things to come. But no one was in the empty cottage to read the words scrawled upon the page. And outside, the bones clawing their way out of the scorched earth had other priorities in mind.
A single lamp illuminated the large mahogany desk, reflecting off the polished surface with a reddish glow. It cast into stark lines and shadows the narrow, stern face of Steven Montgomery. The ridges of his features carved his face into a perpetual frown, and his dark eyes were tight with weariness and a stubborn determination.
Besides a few gold paperweights, tokens of appreciation from his board of trustees, all that lay on the desk was a pile of correspondence. It had become a ritual for the man over the last five years. Every evening, he would come to his formal office to review everything sent to him about the case. Phone messages sent to his reward line. Letters. Newspaper articles. Every shred of evidence found or discovery made. Each evening, he would file it all carefully away, to be read and re-read. Some days, there was nothing, and he would go through the old files instead. Some days, like today, there was plenty. His long, elegant hands picked up a gold letter opener, and sliced through the first envelope...an expense report from one of the private investigators.
Steven never let the O'Brian's or the Curry's know about this ritual; he merely reported to them any developments of interest. They should not have to wade through this detritus of human greed and foolishness. They should not have to be the rigid face that coldly arranged the press-conferences and publicity events to draw attention to their children's case, nor should they have to deal with criminals and thugs. He was determined to protect them. He would be the strong face for them. And if they, or Detective Peterson, or anyone else, thought him cold, so be it. He needed that strength to do what he had to do. A telephone message from the tip-line. "Sheila has been seen in Graceland, pregnant with Elvis's baby." Of course.
Amanda knew he was there. A single mother, with nothing and no one else to go to, she had turned to him on a few occasions. He would receive her phone call at this desk late at night, while he read over the day's scraps. He would read to her each letter. It comforted her, knowing that he was there, doing this duty. And that was good enough for him.
The last letter was unusual. The envelope was old and battered, addressed to him directly rather than his call center. No return address, but the postal stamp was from Pandora, Wyoming. The blade in his hands slid neatly under the seal and tore it open. Inside was an equally-battered piece of paper, lined like something torn from a child's three-ring binder, written across in a neat, curling hand.
Of course, it was not signed. TransAtlantic Tunnel? Steven Montgomery steepled his fingers. This note deserved some thought.
Please help us, honorable Lord Ramoud.
Stone River Pass has long been our best trade route to carry silks and spices to your lands. Many wars and much blood has been shed keeping that passage open, and now none doubt your claim to the area. But that legacy of bloodshed seems now to have caught up to your people. The dead have begun to rise from their shallow graves, and our caravan traders can no longer move freely through the pass. Everyone who travels there at night is attacked. There are few now, and a small unit can defeat them. But their numbers grow with each passing day. Soon, I fear the passage will be closed forever.
I know you have powerful allies. Please aid us in fighting back this threat before we are cut off completely. Once the dead have filled the pass, who knows what they will turn upon next.
King Ramoud angrily crushed the parchment in his fist. Eleven. Eleven such requests, from his allies, from his own people, even from his ambassadors. Some evil was afoot in the boundaries of his lands. And perhaps beyond.
"Sir! A message from North Fork village." The young man gave a crisp salute and set a folded letter on the table. After a nod, he turned neatly and stroked out, the tent flaps beating the air behind him.
Eric glanced ruefully at Diana, who shrugged. 'Young man? What is happening to me?' the Cavalier thought. The soldier who had delivered the message had to be three years older than him, at least. The responsibility Eric now held aged him. He went to re-tie the tent flaps.
"What does it say?" Captain Durnst asked. He was seated at the table, and brushed his hand across the surface, sweeping up the letter and holding it out.
Diana gently took it from him. "I'll read it.
"To the Commander of the Red Blades, Our village of North Fork has been attacked five times in the last two weeks by zombies, risen from their graves. Normally we would turn to Prince Kirsan and Coulone for aid, but word has reached us that the armies of Coulone are broken and the Red Blades are serving temporarily in their stead. Please help us!
A single look was exchanged between the two commanders of the Blades, and Captain Dunst nodded once. Eric yanked the flap back open again and bellowed, “Saddle the horses! We ride today!”
An early dancing pair of leaves were tossed on a playful breeze. They carried with them the scent of autumn, and the hint of a summer just past. They drifted above the canopy of leaves that surrounded the bald hilltop before settling somewhere in the changing woods. The sitting Ranger watched them fall and closed his eyes.
His lungs expanded slowly, nose and mouth tasting the air, the dust blown from the rich woodland soils below him. A beautiful day of autumn, but the young man’s face twisted in revulsion.
‘Corruption’ said the wind.
‘Corruption’ said the earth.
On the edge of a cliff many miles to the north, another Ranger crouched above the sea of pines veiled by a light mountain mist. The tiny campfire near him flickered in the breeze, heating a copper cup of water. The Ranger breathed deep, the taste of mists and smoke brushing against his lips.
‘Corruption’ said the fire.
‘Corruption’ said the waters.
The aging man straightened, and swept up the cup. He crushed the fire out with his boot, and made his way down the cliff-face.
Dear Varla,
Thank you for your letter! Things here are great. Well, mostly great. Eric and Diana are with the Blades, so I’ve not seen them in a while. Hank has been off and about too. I don’t think he likes it in the keep. But other than that things have been great! I can’t wait to tell you what I’ve been studying....