Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  He lowered the book and looked about in consternation. “What the bloody bones is that supposed to mean?”

  “That’s the Retconomicon,” said Jynn. “A book of forbidden chronomancy. Or it would have been, if it hadn’t written itself out of reality.”

  “A book that unwrote itself?” Gorm gave a small chuckle. “That don’t sound so powerful.”

  The omnimancer shrugged. “It changed the fabric of the universe. It could have unmade and remade lives, brought the dead back en masse, or destroyed Arth outright. It might have done all of those things multiple times before redacting itself, and nobody on Arth, now or ever before, would know it.”

  Gorm carefully set the book down.

  “What do they keep in this one?” asked Kaitha, pointing to a wooden case near the back of the room. It was covered in glowing runes, chalk circles, and other arcane symbols that were individually indecipherable, but collectively conveyed a clear warning.

  “That’s the Ordo Diluculum. An ancient book outlining the functions and teachings of the Twilight Order before it fell. It was written by omnimancers in the Third Age.”

  “That one must be fairly tempting for ye,” said Gorm.

  “Not in the least,” said Jynn. “I came here to study the same runes and rituals my father did, and to do that I need… darker texts. The notes Aya of Blades gave me indicate that Father and his colleagues were combining demonology and low magic.”

  “Bones,” gasped Kaitha.

  Gorm felt his blood run cold. Demonology was among the darkest of dark sorceries, considered worse than necromancy in many circles. After all, everything summoned by the necromantic arts had at least had business on Arth at one point, but demons were never meant to be in the mortal realms. Low magic might have been even worse. It was the magic of the Sten, the rituals and rites that changed fate and bound the gods.

  “What could drive a wizard to that?” Gorm wondered aloud. “No, wait, never mind. It’s—”

  “Immortality,” said Jynn and Kaitha at the same time.

  “Aye, of course it’s bloody wizards and their thrice-cursed immortality,” said Gorm. “Whenever there’s some terrible darkness anywhere on Arth, it’s a good bet an old mage decided that he shouldn’t have to shuffle off this mortal coil—even if it means shovin’ everyone else off it instead.”

  “We’re all familiar with the lengths my father would go to for the sake of avoiding death,” said Jynn. “But you’ll recall that the Leviathan Project was commissioned by the Freedlands and Ruskan.”

  “Fair enough,” said Gorm. “I don’t see how any of this relates to demonic pigs and dogs.”

  “It’s the story of the Leviathan,” said Jynn. “When the gods vanquished the great darkness Mannon, he bound himself to a fish. In time, the fish became the Leviathan.”

  “And you believe that the ultimate evil possessed a fish?” said Kaitha.

  “Not possessed,” said Jynn. “Possession is when a supernatural entity forces a mortal to act against its own will.”

  “So it was more like an incarnation,” said Kaitha.

  “No, that’s when a supernatural being is born into a mortal form,” said Jynn. “There’s no original mortal bound up in that process.”

  “I thought that was an avatar,” said Gorm.

  The mage shook his head. “An avatar is a supernatural being lending its power to a mortal to achieve a mutual purpose.”

  “I think I fought some cultists like that back when I was running with Crimson Justice,” said Kaitha. “When we killed the strongest of them, Ysether-soth the Frog Demon burst out and attacked.”

  “That sounds more like a dark pact,” said Jynn. “That’s when an evil force inhabits a willing mortal to gain access to our reality. It’s set free on Arth when the mortal dies.”

  “I thought that’s what happened with Mannon and the Leviathan,” said Kaitha.

  “And it all sounds like possession to me,” said Gorm.

  “There are similarities, but there are important differences,” Jynn explained. “My father and his colleagues believed Mannon and the great fish were tied together in death by prophecy and fate. Aya of Blades called the resulting creature ‘soul-bound’ in her notes, which is the term Father used for Patches and the pig. I believe soul-binding requires both the mortal and the supernatural to occupy parallel threads in the weave’s matrix with a concurrent termination point.”

  “Beg pardon?” said Gorm.

  “For lack of better terms, they have to ‘die’ at the ‘same time.’” Jynn made little quotation marks with his fingers as he spoke. Gorm noticed that he still wore the long, black glove over his left hand. “Though it’s inaccurate to apply words like ‘die’ or ‘time’ to demons and the greater powers. But if you think of it that way, the story of the Leviathan makes more sense. If the lord of darkness could escape judgment by binding himself to any soul, why choose a fish? But if you narrow the candidates for soul-binding to mortals that died in a particular instant, a fish may have been the best choice available.”

  “Well, desperate times, I suppose,” Gorm said.

  Jynn nodded. “Regardless, my father’s associates never saw any soul-bound come from their experiments and assumed they had failed. But based on the writings in the Saura’Parymo and the Shadar Khaz Manuscript, I believe the type of low magic used in soul-binding creates meta-distortions in the weave. The resulting variable shift chronologically displaces the subjects at terminal events.”

  “Ye might as well skip the gibberish and just do the quote thing again,” said Gorm.

  “When a soul-bound is created, it’s shifted forward in time,” said Jynn. “It appears minutes, months, years, or centuries after the death of the bound souls.”

  “This is sounding less and less like immortality,” Kaitha said.

  “Agreed, but the bound souls may not be lost forever,” said Jynn. “There’s a shorter chronolateral move when a soul-bound is killed. Death restores both the mortal and the supernatural to… to their ‘rightful’ state. The legends say that within a day of the death of the Leviathan, Mannon reemerged in the heavens. Theoretically, a fish could have rematerialized back in the sea as well, though that detail failed to make history.”

  “Just like a demon and Patches came back after we killed the hellhound,” said Gorm.

  Jynn scratched the dog behind the ear. “Exactly.”

  “And ye solved all this in a few weeks?”

  “Oh, nothing’s been solved,” said Jynn. “It’s just a theory, and one with more questions than answers. Patches was a puppy when Father… performed his experiments. I don’t know why he’s a full-grown dog now. And why was he alive after the death of the soul-bound when the pig didn’t survive the same transition? What brought the dog back? How long did it take the hellhound to appear on Arth, and why was it less than a few decades? I could spend a lifetime studying this.”

  “I’ve a different proposition,” said Gorm.

  “I didn’t think this was a simple friendly visit,” sighed Jynn. “I’m guessing you’re attempting to reunite the party and stop my father.”

  “Aye,” said Gorm.

  “It’s a fool’s errand,” said Jynn. “Leave the liche to the guild and the bannermen. They’re better suited to the task.”

  “You don’t sound convinced,” said Kaitha.

  The wizard sighed. “Perhaps not, but I believe that if they can’t defeat him, we can’t either. What would we bring to the fight that the guild cannot?”

  “An omnimancer,” said Gorm.

  Jynn’s scowl drew deep trenches across his face. “Do not call me that. I may wear gray robes and reside with the Fane Amada, but I am still a noctomancer at heart.”

  “You wove solamancy,” said Kaitha.

  “Only once,” said Jynn. “And under what can only be described as extreme duress.”

  “But ye wove it,” said Gorm. “Ye saved Laruna with a cure spell—could a noctomancer do that? Could one of them
Fadin’ Tomatahs do it?”

  Jynn narrowed his eyes. “The principles of magics have enough similarities—”

  “And ye know them,” said Gorm. “Because you’re a thrice-cursed brilliant wizard, Jynn, trained by the Academy. Ye were the big poobah of the blue bird—”

  “High Councilor of the Circle of the Red Hawk,” Jynn interjected.

  “Even better,” said Gorm. “Your Faint Armada don’t have any of that. They ain’t wizards!”

  A wayward spell flew in through the window, bounced off the ceiling, and set one of Jynn’s papers alight. “Sorry!” someone shouted from the courtyard.

  “I’ll grant you that.” Jynn extinguished the smoldering note with a gust of wind.

  “Arth ain’t seen a wizard such as ye for ages,” said Gorm. “The sort of mage the Wyrmwood Staff was made for. The kind who can master all a wizard’s virtues.”

  “No!” snapped Jynn, slamming his hands down on the table. “I can see what you’re getting at, Gorm, and even if I thought your mad errand might be possible, I wouldn’t go along with it. I will not be an omnimancer!”

  “But ye can cast both—”

  “I have been able to touch both sides of the weave since I was a boy, yet I have always been—and am still today—a noctomancer!” Jynn took a deep breath and composed himself. “If I focus on casting only noctomancy, my robes will eventually return to their true color. And once they do, I can take a new name and rejoin the Order of the Moon—”

  “Assuming your father hasn’t wiped ‘em out,” said Gorm. “Ye’d risk ‘em all for the sake of fancy robes and silly titles.”

  “For the sake of having a life worth living,” hissed Jynn. “I’d rather Father burn me to ashes than spend my years in the gutter as an omnimancer.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” said Gorm.

  “It’s worse. The common man mistrusts wizards and magic users, and wizards and magic users mistrust omnimancers. They are exiles among exiles.” Jynn shook his head and stared out the window. “The Twilight Order is nothing more than a stain left on history. So long as I wear these robes, all I can do is live like some sort of sorcerous leper among these untrained fools and hope I don’t die in one of their experiments.”

  A loud explosion and a flash of violet light somewhere outside the windows punctuated the last sentiment.

  “So don’t wear robes,” said Gorm. “Change your thrice-cursed clothes.”

  “Shave your beard off,” the wizard retorted.

  Gorm and Kaitha gasped in unison. “How dare ye?”

  “Exactly,” said Jynn. “I will not take off my robes, nor will I weave omnimancy. It isn’t who I am.”

  “You don’t know who you are,” said Kaitha softly.

  Jynn glared at her. “What?”

  “You don’t know who you are. You only know what will happen if you aren’t the person everyone expects.” The Elf ran a finger along the edge of her jade bracers. “Trust me, wizard, I’ve been more rich and famous than you’ve dreamt of, and all it ever made me feel was pain and fear of losing it. Success and status are a gilded cage. But when you let go of those things, or life takes them from you, the expectations don’t matter anymore. Strip it all away, and nothing can hurt you. You lose the fear.”

  She shook her head and looked at the wizard. “Except you haven’t. Your old status means nothing now, but you’re still hanging on to the idea of what you should be, hiding from what you could be. You’re still scared.”

  The wizard shook his head. “Y-y-you don’t k-know me,” he managed.

  “Then that makes two of us,” said Kaitha, turning to leave. “Come on, Gorm. You can’t help someone who won’t help himself.”

  Jynn Ur’Mayan watched the Elf and Dwarf leave the library with bleary eyes. He doubted he could have kept his voice level had he spoken to them again, and the gods knew he was embarrassed enough without his vocal cords cracking like a scared apprentice.

  Patches whimpered.

  “Don’t worry. I’m fine,” Jynn lied. For a time, he sat staring at the black glove on his left hand. He flexed it once or twice, wincing at the numbness of the appendage. He couldn’t feel his fingers moving, or the leather of the glove against their tips.

  Then again, he couldn’t feel any pain either. He could hear Kaitha’s words in his head. Strip it all away, and nothing can hurt you.

  He shoved away from the table, scattering papers and prompting Patches to leap up excitedly. The dog danced around his heels as he paced the length of the library.

  “No, Patches. It’s not time for walkies,” muttered the wizard. “I need to think. I need to clear my head. I need…” He trailed off as he realized that he had stopped in front of the rune-encrusted case containing the Ordo Diluculum, the book of the Twilight Order.

  He stood still, staring down at the case. In his mind’s eye, he could see the rows and rows of boxes where he had tucked away a lifetime of memories and emotions. One in particular drew his attention; a small spot in the back where he had tucked away his memories of experimenting with omnimancy. The knowledge that it was there, that he could touch both sides of magic, had haunted him for most of his life, but he hadn’t let himself touch the box or recall the memories within for years…

  With a deep breath, Jynn opened the box.

  Memories swirled into his mind. He recalled a child, barely older than a toddler, pulling fire from the air as easily as he pulled shadow. He remembered the bruise that formed on his tiny hand as his attunement fell out of balance. He could still hear the way Mother screamed when she saw it; feel his relief when she told him that she was only upset about the wound, not the magic. But Father felt differently; he remembered Detarr correcting him, not harshly—he was never cold until after Mother died—but still firmly speaking to his son.

  Jynn, you must never cast solamancy, Detarr had said. When omnimancy tempts you, remember who you are. If you give in, you’ll shame our Order. You’ll shame the name of Ur’Mayan.

  “I’m not sure how that name could be shamed much more at this point,” the omnimancer muttered. He shut the mental box of memories and heard Kaitha’s voice again.

  Strip it all away, and nothing can hurt you.

  He waved his right hand, and the amateurish enchantments of the Fane Amada blew away like dust in the wind. Another gesture popped the glass lid open, exposing the Ordo Diluculum. It had a pebbled gray leather cover, with inlaid precious metals and stones weaving complex patterns across its ancient surface.

  You lose the fear.

  His father’s voice echoed from the depths of Jynn’s memory, refusing to be shut away entirely. When omnimancy tempts you, remember who you are.

  “How could I remember who I am?” he said to himself, picking up the tome. “I’m still finding out.”

  The text was in Pre-Imperial Daellish, but the Fane Amada kept a few translation glasses handy. The thick lens cast the book below in various shades of green and showed the ancient script in modern Imperial. Holding the glass over the book’s first page, he could see that it opened with a bold salutation.

  Welcome, Initiate, to the Greatest Order of Wizardry on Arth.

  “History might say otherwise,” the wizard murmured as he turned the page.

  He scanned through the pages of the book. The opening chapters were devoted to a lengthy treatise on the Order’s history at the point of writing, some mundane notes on the layout and living arrangements in the Tower of Dusk, an outline of the heraldry and functions of the various circles within the Order, and near the end of the opening section, a closing letter to new apprentices by the Archmage Livella. A paragraph near the bottom caught his attention.

  It has been my experience that some initiates are unhappy to discover that they will be counted among the omnimancers. They wish to join the larger Orders, where they believe there is more power to be gained. Such thinking is folly. You cannot reach your full potential using only half of your magic. If you reject who you are, you will neve
r become the person you could be.

  Jynn’s hands began to tremble. He turned the page as if to escape from the words, but that only brought him into the chapters on advanced spellweaving. The tremors in his limbs graduated into violent shaking.

  “Permanent illusions…” he muttered, flipping through page after page of complex spell diagrams. “Teleportation!… Short ranged displacements without a focal component… conjured metal… permanent conjurations… scrying at will… counterspells… counter weaving!”

  Jynn recalled old legends of omnimancers performing impossible feats with sorcery, spells that couldn’t be woven by collaborating solamancers and noctomancers. Those spells had been lost to time with the fall of the Order of Twilight. It was only now dawning on him that such secrets could be rediscovered. Power that no mage had dreamed of for ages was, quite literally, at his fingertips.

  He read for hours. Each page opened up entirely new disciplines of magic to him, spelling out techniques and secrets that he’d always presumed were legends. Diagrams of arcane devices and artifacts were littered among the spells and runes. He recognized a few types of attunement orbs, including a useful-looking variant set in a ring or amulet. There were scrying pools, reservoir gems, waygates with great crystals set atop their arches, and more than a few devices that Jynn couldn’t even identify. Near the back was a drawing of a long stave, inscribed with ancient languages, with a dragon’s claw clutching a glowing orb at one end. The Wyrmwood Staff.

  Jynn shook his head and turned the page again. He flipped past the technical diagrams and sections on advanced theory to a thin chapter on philosophy at the end of the book. These pages were more worn and fragile, likely because they were the only parts of the book that the untrained mages of the Fane Amada could comprehend. One passage in particular stood out.

  We do not police the other Orders; that is, we do not use our magic to impose our laws or will upon them. But the pursuit of balance often drives us to rebuke the noctomancer whose quest for mastery has gone too far, or to restrain the solamancer who lusts after too much power. Not necessarily because they are wrong, but because omnimancers can only thrive when we are in balance, and one cannot be in balance when the world has gone askew.