Bloodless

by Roberto Vecchi

  Intellos meant to answer, but was prevented by an unseen and unfelt power. His lips would not form the complex motions allowing his voice to be heard as coherent statements. His lungs would not even obey his mind's intentional directive of speaking and could do nothing more than maintain its even and level breathing. Is this what it felt like to be under a compulsion spell? Unable to do anything but what the wielder had bid and to feel no tangible reason for it? Because that is what he felt, or in this case, did not feel. There was no trace of power, no signature and seemingly no genesis for his frozen posture. There was absolutely no noticeable cause, yet he was completely at Esthinor's mercy. But mercy was not in his future.

  Even though he was being forced to walk under the compulsion of another, he need not require it to reach his destination. He remembered it well. Having been the Grand Wizard, he was well versed in all aspects of this horrid ritual. From the most minute details, to the location of the specially enchanted room, one forgets nothing concerning The Severing. So, while his feet were being directed by Esthinor, or whoever he was, even if they were not, he would have had no difficulty finding the room. Though he knew entering it would bring with it a certain amount of emotional clarity, he was not prepared for the flood gates of his emotion induced memories to be opened so quickly and so thoroughly. The moment he crossed the threshold into the medium sized, circular room, he was hit with a cascading deluge of recollections laced with all the raw emotions as if he was actually in their moments. Never, never had he thought he would ever be separated from what had become the defining nature of his identity. And never, did he anticipate the need to relive the awfulness of the only other time it was performed.

  Ages ago, while Eborune was still the Grand Wizard and Intellos just an Ascendant, the rogue wizard, Jhundis de' Hundarin, known for his contempt of The University as well as his raw power, had delved so deeply into his knowledge of life and death, that he broke though. That is to say he was able to animate certain creatures whose lives had expired. He did not create life, because there is no knowledge for that, but rather, he created a link into the dead carcasses and allowed them to live without living. He argued that the potential benefits for this was endless. But The University, specifically the High Council, did not agree with him insomuch as they believed the potential problems certain to result, clearly out balanced the benefits.

  As both sides were pitted against each other with unreconcilable differences, through written correspondence, The High Council of Wizards decided to escalate the stalemate by sending an emissary to negotiate with Jhundis, and that emissary was Intellos. While some thought him underqualified for the task, Eborune felt his uncanny ability to maintain composure, even in the most dire situations, would prove more useful than sheer depth of knowledge. True, Intellos did possess the largest reservoir of magical talent in the land, but the basic knowledge possessed by Ascendants raised concerns for the other twelve members of The Council. Nevertheless, he was still selected.

  And it was probably a good thing too, because his status as an Ascendant carried no inherent threat; as such, he was readily received into Jhundis's abode without delay. The rogue wizard was a stoic man, but his stoicism did not subvert his naturally pleasant nature. Rather, it emphasized it. However, his pleasantness did not circumvent his convictions, which, by the end of their rather lengthy conversation, Intellos had discovered were unshakeable. He was cemented to the potential benefits his research could have for Avendia and would not hear any suggestions to the contrary.

  After he finished his report to the whole council, an inquisition that lasted several hours, some of which were spent under spells of recall deemed necessary to adequately describe the conversation in its entirety, he was dismissed while they deliberated their next actions. Through Intellos, it had been made clear that Jhundis de' Hundarin's convictions and intent could not be dissuaded by reason. Therefore, the only path left open for them was that of force. So, amidst no pomp and ceremony, and in the early hours of the morning, before even the roosters crowed, all thirteen members of The Council departed for Jhundis's tower. Thirteen departed, and thirteen returned. However, one was Jhundis. As one might expect, when an immoveable magical object meets an unstoppable magical force, the resulting collision defies all laws of nature suggesting that only an equal and opposite reaction results. All laws of nature, whether discovered by the wizards or some outside entity, never take into account the unnatural collisions of magic. And in one of those unnatural collisions, one of the High Council members was killed.

  His death was quite untimely, and not just because he was relatively young, but because he represented one of the thirteen necessary participants to perform what The Council had decided was its only course of action after their deadly encounter with Jhundis - to perform The Severing. Unanimously, it was decided that Intellos would replace the dead council member because of his large reserves of power, but only for the purpose of performing the ceremony. He was told to be inside the circular room behind the main library when the sun set below the horizon. He did as he was instructed and took his place on one of the glyph-marked marble tiles.

  There were fourteen tiles similarly marked in total, thirteen for the performing wizards and one for the target of the magic. Each glyph was subtly different, but clearly from the same language, though Intellos had no previous knowledge of it. As the other participants entered the room, they all stepped silently and took their places, all but two, that is. Eborune had not entered yet, nor had Jhundis. Intellos wondered how wise it was to have only one member of the council, even though he was the current Grand Wizard, escort the prisoner. Apparently, his worry was without actual cause as Jhundis, for whatever reason, had abandoned his passionate fervor and replaced it with a calm and obedient complacency, almost contentment. Both final participants entered the room and took their respective places without incident. The young Ascendant did find it somewhat silly that Jhundis was shackled around the wrists, but perhaps they were an essential part of the ceremony.

  There was a moment of pause, after which Intellos expected some form of verbal instruction, but instead he felt a slight, almost imperceptible flowing of his talent. However, unlike each and every time he previously engaged it, including the very first time, the movement was not initially directed within him, but toward the center of the marble, glyph-marked tile he was standing upon. Was Eborune responsible for delving into another's magical reservoir and manipulating the link to utilize it for his own purpose? That was essentially impossible, or at least he had been led to believe it was.

  The more his reservoir was being directed downward to the tile, the more he became aware that he was unable to feel any signature of any of the other wizards; something he should have been able to sense if indeed another had gained access to his talent. But, as more magic was being draw out of him, the more he realized it was the result of no other wizard, but the glyphs themselves. Almost in unison with his revelation, his began to glow a deep red, as did the other glyphs. All except the one Jhundis was standing on. His remained dormant.

  In the next few moments, he felt the drawing of his magic accelerate. Replacing the subtle and slow drawing, was an increasing sensation of it being drained the way water is drained down the rudimentary plumbing of a king's bathtub, forever lost and assimilated into the ground below. He looked to the faces of the other wizards and all but Eborune held the very same expression of combined wonderment and alarm. However, the Grand Wizard's face was set with a calm determination allowing Intellos to gain some assurance that his magic would be returned upon the completion of the task.

  Once he felt as if no more could be taken, there was a subtle change to the direction of its flow. Instead of beginning within him and ending within the glyph covered tiles, he sensed thirteen new and distinctly different beginning points, each centered in the glyphs. The magic they had been gathering from the wizards was now aimed directly toward Jhundis. As Intellos’s eyes focused on the rogue wizard’s, he saw a very
different expression than that worn by Eborune. There was no calm determination, nor was there any reassurance and confidence. There was only horror, basal and primal horror. Not the kind related to facing an opponent far surpassing one's own ability thus ensuring defeat, but that the inevitable defeat was the end. And not just a simple end promising a second beginning into something different, but an end with nothing else left. The horror Intellos saw in Jhundis’s eyes spoke more loudly and more memorably than any other experience he had, or would have. There was no doubt, the man Jhundis de' Hundarin, who was solid enough to stand against the whole might of the High Council of Wizards, had just been broken.

  As Esthinor's marionette strings finished their dance and Intellos crossed the threshold of the familiar, circular room, he readily saw the familiar glyphs immortally imprinted into his mind. He still did not recognize the writing, but there was a familiarity about it beyond what resulted from his inclusion into its magic years and years ago, as if the swirls and patterns were trying to call out to him, and if his subconscious turned its awareness far enough toward them, their origin would become clear. However, his subconscious was far from his concern. Much more prevalent, encompassing the totality of who he was and might never be again, was the inevitability that he was going to lose his longest and most trusted friend, his gift, his magic, his purpose, himself. And for the first time in a time lasting longer than anyone's memory, mortal or otherwise, Intellos was afraid.

  When he was able to remove his eyes from the mesmerizing glyphs and their haunting, memory inducing provocations, he saw, just like with Jhundis, he and the current Grand Wizard were the last two to enter and take their positions. He recognized eleven of those present, each with hard set eyes fixed upon his betrayal of their trust. The two he did not recognize must have been members of the wizarding community, but how they would have remained unknown to him was a concern. Who were they and how had they come to be included in such a severe and important ritual when not even he, the former Grand Wizard, recognized them was an inquiry he would have to attend to later.

  But now to the point. There was no use delaying the inevitable, and since the shackles he wore around his wrists prevented any such plans from bearing hope, he decided to confidently stride toward the central glyph bearing tile. Much like when he was a participant, the outer thirteen glyphs began to faintly glow a deep red. Slowly he watched the expressions on each of the wizards occupying the glowing glyph's tile change from calm patience to harried wonder. Clearly, they were experiencing everything he had. But when he found Esthinor's eyes, there was no such worry or stoic calmness reflected in them. Instead, all color from them faded and they seemed to dissolve into an utter blackness portraying nothing except emptiness.

  An endless emptiness stretching farther than his mind was capable of understanding soon dominated all that he was able to attend to; and from this emptiness stretched all that was lacking in Avendia and within himself. It was as if every unforgiving act of selfishness, all the deeds done from his own faulted logic, came crashing down on him to reside inside his magical center, the center that began to waste away. He looked down and saw his glyph begin to radiate the horrible indication that his talent was being siphoned. The deep, indigo glow grew in its intensity with every passing moment. He looked again to the eyes of those present and found only a reflected horror in their stares as they were all unable to look away from the tragedy befalling one who used to be their own. All except Esthinor and the two unknown wizards. Set upon their faces was a mask of agony and revelry. Agony at not being able to directly participate at causing a mortal this much pain, and revelry that a mortal was feeling such a high degree of hopelessness. For that is exactly what Intellos was beginning to feel. Hopelessness. Utter hopelessness. As the indigo glow from his nightmares began engulfing his whole being, blinding his eyes from seeing anything apart from its all-encompassing sphere, his talent was being drained at such an alarming rate, he nearly lunged forward onto his hands.

  The years of training his ability to focus on the interruption of expected patterns was something paramount in the serious cultivation of the wizard, and certainly one of his prowess. And even in the midst of all he was losing, when nothing he could consciously call upon would allow him to attend to anything else except the awful draining of him, something inside still understood that inherent within the indigo glow resided a presence beyond his expectation. But there it was, making itself known to his conscious attention nagging him from the fringe of everything he thought was happening. And if he did not know any better, he would have believed he sensed a gate through which his energy was flowing. Interrupting this beginning awareness was a final surge of energy accompanied by a final flash of an indigo explosion that harmlessly dissipated against the walls of the circular room. And then, it was done.

  He felt nothing. That is not to say he did not feel the hard stone against his hands and knees. Nor is it to say that he did not feel the thick air filling his lungs as he inhaled and exhaled deeply and laboriously. Indeed, he still felt all of the physical sensations associated with the continuance of his body, but next to the magically enhanced intensity he felt when his talent was flowing freely, it was as if he possessed no body at all, no sensation at all.

  "What shall we do with him now?" asked one of the participating wizards whose voice he did not recognize.

  "What shall we do? Nothing," answered Esthinor as he walked over to the fallen Intellos.

  "What do you mean?" asked the voice again, this time Intellos identified it as female.

  "My Dear, I mean that we will allow him to choose to do with his life what he wishes to do with his life. Let us see if he will maintain his silly notions of God and Christ when he has nothing left," he said as he squatted down in front of the still laboring Intellos.

  "But will that not be dangerous?" she asked again.

  Before answering her, Esthinor found that which drew his attention, a little, neatly folded paper lying on the ground just beneath Intellos's hand. As he pulled it from underneath the former grand wizard, he looked up to her and said, "Little one, he has no more power than the scribbles of a little girl anymore. No, we will let him go free to stand witness to all those who dare to follow Him. This entire realm will know the depth of our resolve and the consequences of standing against us." As he stood up and unfolded the little girl's writings, he looked down to Intellos, "Take him back to the dungeon until he is well enough to walk, then set him loose."

  "Yes, My Lord," said the female wizard.

  Esthinor paused to look over the writings on the little paper one more time and then threw it back down to rest just underneath Intellos's forehead. As the Grand Wizard turned to walk out of the circular room, he was followed by the other members of the high council. After they had left, Intellos looked up to the doorway and inhaled deeply. When he exhaled, he reached for Anaria's paper. Just as he grabbed it, he felt himself being lifted by two sets of small but strong hands easily lifting him off the ground, his toes barely touching. He would not remember, but he was half carried and half dragged through the halls of the university until he was deposited in one of its cells again. In his weakened state, he fell to the ground hitting his nose on the dirt floor. Empowered by the jolt of pain, he pushed up and rose to just his knees. With shaking hands, he tried to unfold the piece of paper but dropped it, the shaking preventing any coordinated movement. He clenched his hands and cursed himself and his weakness.

  So engrossed was he in this simple task that he did not hear Anaria come through the cell door. She knelt down in front of him and gently rested her hands on his. He looked up at her with tears streaking down his face as she gently picked up the piece of paper, opened it, and placed it in his quivering fingers. Her simple act of kindness broke him further than any ritual ever could. He bent forward resting his forehead the small girls lap and wept greater than anyone had ever wept in the history of weeping. He wept for everything he had given up, everything he had once had, and everything h
e would never have again. But most of all, he wept over the memory of her.

  When he woke, he instinctively rubbed where his wrists were made sore because of his shackles; however, he felt no metal beneath his fingers, only the raw remnants of healing skin. A single day after the successful performance of The Severing was not nearly enough time to break his natural instinct to use magic as the means to inventory his physical well-being; and it was even less time to remit the internal pain of having nothing respond.

  What was it all for? Measuring the worth of his newly given purpose against the all-encompassing void now present within him, he found the scales tipping in favor of the latter. It was ironic to him, because never before would he have believed that nothing was a greater burden than something. It was easy to believe in a greater purpose, a greater mission, when he believed he was equipped to see it completed; but he was finding it an altogether different endeavor entirely to believe in something when that very belief had led him into the misery he was now feeling.

  What did it all mean? He had been so sure of everything in the cavern of the Dragon King. In His presence, inside the vision of Jesus and what He had done for the whole of humanity, he had swelled with confidence; a confidence that lead him successfully through a series of three impossible trials to show him the truth of himself. And when he knew it, when he had found it, he was given a quest, a mission to fulfill. And even though he had no evidence of this quest, no true direction to follow, he still mounted his ever-faithful horse, Ethdios, and embarked on what he would never have embarked on before.