by P. S. Power
The Crystals of Memory: Book One
Fletcher
P.S. Power
Orange Cat Publishing
Copyright 2018
Chapter one
The cool stone, a red gem about the size of the nail on his right thumb, pressed against his forehead. The man holding the rock was familiar to him, being his old apprentice. Ganges. Except that the man had left his service over thirty years before, leaving the path of the historian, to seek magic as his way through the world.
The boy, who truly wasn’t such any longer and had barely been that when Farad had tutored him on the old histories of their people, teaching him the ways of walking the memories from long ago, smiled at him.
“My old teacher. I have been asked to preserve your thoughts and learning. This should…” He hesitated. A thing done in order to collect his thoughts, perhaps. It may well have been for other, darker reasons.
Mainly due to the fact that, while Farad Ibn Istel was not afraid of magic on its face, there had been no asking as to if he wanted to be stored as a living crystal for all time. It was a heady thing being done there, the old man knew. It meant, for one thing that the pain he was feeling in his chest, the tightness that his mental disciplines were not easing much, was simply expected to end his days.
A thing that he was ready for.
Rather than fight, slapping the small gem away from his head as it collected his thoughts, experience and some texts suggested life essence into itself, he sighed. Gently. Breathing wasn’t pleasant any longer. In fact, it was a thing that he’d grown well tired of over the last days. A sign, he supposed, that his life was at its end.
Weakly, he spoke. It was a rasping and dark thing. Heard only due to the younger man, who was strong and sturdy for one who practiced magic, to lean in. Close enough to seem oddly intimate. The sort of thing that one did only with family. Not that Farad had any of that left.
“Is it not enough that I have measured my days in meditation and reflection on the past? Perhaps it serves well enough for me to end in this place. My life has been long and well enough spent for me to accept that I should rest now.” The room was the same tiny cell that he’d lived in for most of his life. Not a prison, exactly, since he was a free man, able to come and go at his whim.
Except that his disciplines had caused him to forego the way of the husband or beloved. The walls were stone and mud, packed tight against the heat and cold that the seasons would bring. A cave with a sturdy structure meant to last through the ages tucked inside. The floor was made of the same tan stone, having been swept clean constantly for so long that there was little to no dust gathering in the space.
It was night out, and Ganges had rather snuck into the room to see him. The moves had been quiet and his words mere whispers. Giving the lie to having been ordered to do anything like preserving his old and forsaken master at all.
If there had been a command from the High Lord, or even the Master of Histories, this act would have been done during the light of day. Not by a man in a dark cloak, furtively entering the stone room in secret, as if to meet him for illicit purpose.
No one would stop Ganges the Wizard from seeing his old friend, after all. Not as he lay dying as he was. Not even during the full light of day. So, this act was something different. Something that Ganges figured would be frowned upon.
Mustering a smile, a thing which took more effort than anything similar had in his entire life, Farad managed a gentle shake of the head.
Before he could call his old apprentice on his actions, taking him to task for what he had planned, Ganges smiled back. There was mirth in his eyes. Something that spoke of love and kindness.
“You are too wise to be fooled easily, old one. Still, we don’t have much time and it would be a loss to the world to allow all you have accomplished to fade. There is no other that has walked the path of time as you have. Not in all of history. I cannot bear to see you go without…” Again he stopped, the smile fading from his lips. “It was a mistake, not finishing my studies with you. I selfishly sought power and riches, instead of seeking to enrich others with learning. I failed you.”
There was pain in the center of his chest, as Farad tried to snort. The thin blanket, a tan thing that was rougher than it needed to be, so that comfort wouldn’t distract him from his tasks, resting over his middle. It was too warm, even if thin in the moment. That was the way of his death, no doubt. Too hot at some points and no doubt too cold in others. The day had been cool for the region, being in the middle of winter as it was. No fire raged in the small hearth, either. No, the heat he felt was just the last gasp of his ancient and frail body, trying to hold to life.
He tried to snort, which came out as a weak gasp. The cool crystal on his head warming as well as a soft nimbus of power left the right hand of his old student.
“You followed your heart. That is no bad thing. You started on a path that was not for you in this life, that was all. I merely hope that my teachings aided you in some small way?”
As the darkness moved across his eyes, his old apprentice nodded. It was, he was certainly the last thing that he would see. The kindly face of a man, who, in the end, was as close to a son as he’d ever had.
“More than you will know. It was you, and the skills of history that you imparted to me, as much as my instructors in magic that allowed me to become what I am now. Your tricks of memory have allowed me to consume vast tomes and commit them to my inner being in mere moments. That is perhaps the greatest power one can have, in the world of magic. In part, this is why I seek to do this now. You are too learned to let fade from the world. We might need you again. This stone will allow that, after a fashion.” This time he paused only for a moment, taking a deep breath, as pain flared through Farad’s head.
When he spoke again, tears flowed freely down Ganges’ cheeks.
“This will imprint your mind inside of it. A mere copy. If you are needed, any who presses this stone against their own head will find that you live inside of them from that point on. A merging, instead of a possession. A joining, so that you may aid others in time of need, without fear of harm to those you give comfort and help to. It is perhaps cruel of me to do this to you. I cannot bear to lose you for all time though. You are as my own Father to me. Perhaps more than that. I would not lose you, if it were in my power to prevent… I love-”
Those were the last words Farad could make out. The pain inside of his chest grew worse as his breath stopped. Then, as a mercy, the world faded from view and there was nothing. Not even a thought that it was finally done and that he’d won. Having lived a full life, if an odd one. A thing spent doing things in a way that had allowed him to learn of many wonders, if at a remove. From books and ancient tomes, all of which had lived inside of him for almost seventy years.
Almost instantly, he felt his eyes open.
The faces in front of him were rather different, not being his old friend, Ganges, at all. Two men and a woman. Large ones, compared to those he was used to seeing. Pale, as well. People that he’d never met before, hovered over him. The lady touched him in a most familiar fashion, using a damp cloth on his fiery brow. The view was distorted, as if he had a fever. It was hard for him to focus his eyes. Nearly impossible. When he tried anyway, he felt so ill that he nearly couldn’t bear it.
What he could make out, feeling at least as bad as when he lay dying the moment before, was that they all had an odd and wraithlike cast to them. Instead of being dark of skin and hair, they were a lighter people. Like those from the far north, in legend. The man that touched his head, was old however. He mumbled in a strange language.
After a moment, Farad understood it, his mind catching up, if slowly, to the new happening. The words weren’t any of the dozen languages he spoke. At the same
time, he did now. It was as simple to understand as his own natural tongue. A flowing thing that reminded him of the language of Circes. Different enough that knowing that particular way of speaking wouldn’t have aided him, without this new knowledge being with him. Somehow.
The gray beard in front of him took the damned crystal off of his forehead, his face stern and sad seeming.
“I do not know if this is enough to save the boy. The red fever is upon him. Half of those that have fallen with it have died in the last months. The ancient texts that came with this bit of magic spoke of it being of great power, not healing, in particular. It is all I have to offer at this point.” He seemed reluctant to say the words. To tell these people that his trick with the magic rock was probably going to fail.
Ganges had told him that he was to help others. It was the reason he was there, placed in a stone that held a copy of himself. Now in a person. One who lay dying, as he just had. Only the cause was different. The feeling, interestingly enough, was similar. It was difficult to breathe, for instance.
Farad answered, or tried to, in the tongue of these people. It came out thick and accented, which would need to be fixed. Communicating clearly was important.
“I need to go into a trance state. To stop the swelling of my head, inside, before it kills me. Give me water and do not worry. I shall save your boy. That is the task I was assigned. What is needed is a skill I possess. Do not fear.” He had to speak the words twice, before the people there understood him. His tongue was physically thick.
This, then, as odd as it seemed, was his duty to Ganges. Not recalling the path of the historian or the tales from the halls of memory at all, simply using a few tricks of the mind to reduce swelling for long enough to save some little foreign boy. Looking up again, as the three with him stood there, shocked that he’d spoken at all, he recalled who they were.
His Mother, a lovely and not at all old woman called Lyse. The old healer, Master Franken. The other man was one that he’d seen before, even if they weren’t close. Prince Alpert. They, Alpert and Lyse, were young, being not out of their second decades. That probably meant that he wasn’t old at all, since it was clear to Farad that Anders Brolly, the boy who he was now, would be the child of the Prince. At least that had been whispered in the presence of him before.
Not taking time to inspect the stone walls and draperies of the cool room he was in, he closed his eyes.
Then spoke, his voice weak sounding.
“Water. I will handle the rest of this.”
They spoke then, in words that were far away from his mind, as he walked the path of focus. A hallway of the mind that contained the memories of concentration and what it felt like. Seeking to lessen the swelling inside of him. Particularly the back of his head. It was that which would kill him, if he failed. There was a trip into the tunnel of memory first. The place where he’d lived most of his life. Instead of reconstructing the tale of time, reciting it perfectly, as was his occupation, he moved to the side in his mind.
Following the tunnel into the body of the boy he lived in now.
Making the warmth and dryness turn cool and moist. Finding the places in his head that were filled with heaviness and feeling lightness in their place. He tried to drift off after a while, away from the world. Only into sleep. That was not allowed, since to do so courted death. His duty there, in the strange place he found himself, joined with Anders, was clear.
So was the dark payment for his aid.
These people, the doctor and his new parents, had sought extreme measures to save his life. In doing so they’d undone their child, Anders. He was now, at least in part, an old man from a rather different place. Causing them to lose the rest of what they had there due to laziness wasn’t a good thing.
It was not, he had to think, precisely the golden and splendid fate that Ganges had meant for him. Instead of aiding in his chosen task, the one of his old life, recalling the story of all time for those who would learn, he was basically being used as the last order medicine for a child. One who was not over old, from the feeling of it.
Someone gave him sips of water as he worked. His eyes opening finally as his head was mainly clear, the next day. It would take some small effort to hold to that now, but his fever was broken. The face in front of him, giving him a sip of water from a finely made, if plain silver cup, was the old doctor. Franken. A man that had tended to Anders before, several times. Mainly for minor scrapes and the wounds that an active and high-spirited boy might find himself with.
“Ah! There you are. The crystal did its job? That or time allowed you to live. Either way, I think we can call it well enough done, don’t you think, Anders?” There was a condescending pat on the head to go with the words.
The kind of thing that a kindly person did with small children, forgetting that they would one day be adults. There was no real harm in it. The only difficulty was that, of course, Anders was not all that tiny. In thinking about it, he knew that he’d seen twelve full years and recountings of his birth. Nearly a man, even for the people he was with now.
Those of the land of Istlan.
A place so far from his own land of Barquenna that he’d never even heard of it. Which could mean many things, he knew. The most likely was that his mind had slumbered for a truly long time inside the stone that Ganges had placed him in. So long that whole lands had come into being that were not even a dream in the mind of a sultan or tyrant when he’d passed.
That or the gem had journeyed so far from where it started as to likely mean the same thing as far as he was concerned.
Neither of which mattered in the moment, he decided. After all, he was not Farad Ibn Istel any longer. He couldn’t be allowed that. It would be a great wrong to force his old life to supplant that of young Anders Brolly. The issue was that his well-schooled and powerful mind, with its great store of memories had overwhelmed that of the child he’d been placed in. They had merged, truly. Only he was mixing with a blend of eight of his years for each one of the boy with him.
Diluting the poor child into being a strange thing, no longer truly fit for his world. Which given the lengths that these people had gone to in order to save him, seemed almost evil. If a thing that couldn’t be helped. To that end he smiled. Trying to give them their boy back, to the best of his skills.
The information was all in there, inside of his thoughts, after all.
“Master Franken! You saved me? That’s a marvel. I was certain that I’d died at a few points there.” His words were too strange for a boy, sounding aged, with the wrong choices being made as to what to speak about.
The gray beard smiled at him, patting his head again. This time groping the front of it, to test his temperature.
“So I’d feared, myself. Can you tell me what it was like, the crystal used on you? You mentioned a healing trance of some sort? No one in living memory has even tried to use this kind of thing. Not on a living person. They are incredibly rare. I wouldn’t have, except the Prince insisted I do something to save you.” He slowed his words then, looking away. “That… We should likely not speak of that. It’s a known thing, though dangerous to go over in public. That he’s your Father?”
That was the first time anyone had spoken that fact so obviously to Anders. It was still a thing that he’d picked up, even if Lyse, his Mother, had carefully never spoken of it. The woman wasn’t old and was often in the company of the man, even if he had a foreign wife that he should have been attending to. It would have been a scandal, if the man wasn’t the second son of the King there.
Given that, him having a bastard or two wasn’t considered that large of a concern. Not as long as no one admitted to it. That could be a problem, later, if anyone sought to overthrow the King and place another, perhaps more controllable, person on the throne of the land. So the secret was kept close, so that no one would think it real, if such a thing came up.
So, Anders Brolly, a mere boy in the land he was living now, took a slow breath.
“That isn’t truth, Master Franken… My Father died in the last war, before my birth. It was kind of the Prince to see to my needs, don’t you think? No one would have thought to do that, normally.” It was a lie. The good kind, which the old man understood, even if coming from a mere boy.
“Ah… I can see that. Yes. Very good, Anders. Now, do you recall what happened? With the gem I used, I mean to say.”
It was tempting to lie and say he didn’t. There was the chance that this man could have him put to death for being strange now, even if it had been done by his own hand. Then again, if that was the way of these people, the Master needed to know what had taken place, so that he wouldn’t do that again.
“You used the memory crystal on me. It, the one you have here, holds the mind of a historian of Barquenna. A man known in life as Farad Ibn Istel. We merged, my thoughts and being with his, which gave me access to certain mental skills of that old man. He… We, went into a learning trance, since that was in his abilities and used that talent to calm and reduce the swelling of my brain. That and time allowed me to live. It might be best not to do that too often. I’m… Not totally Anders any longer. Alive though, which I wouldn’t have been, otherwise.”
The admission was a large thing. One that might have had him ended if he were still among his own people. The Master of healing in front of him simply took a deep breath and nodded, slowly.
“I see. That is… Rather different than I was thinking. I acted in desperation, seeking to please Prince Alpert. Can you cope? You must be most disoriented. We could claim that you were left changed by the fever? If this is found you will be hunted and killed for it. Possibly, at least. Possession is frowned upon here in Istlan.”
That kind of damage to the mind could happen, Anders knew. Even in his own young life, he’d seen that kind of thing. Those left slow or crippled by fevers and blows to the head. Magic was said to also create problems that way, if more rarely.