Moon Dreams (The Jeremy Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by Brad Strickland

  Barach nodded. “Not an unpleasant language, though one unknown to me. Devalo's understand spell, beyond a doubt. A high-level spell would have erased your old language from your memory. But I find it intriguing that even such a common enchantment worked. May I try another?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Barach's enchantments were not rhymed or sung, but rather stated in a quick, barely audible whisper. He ran through a longish sentence, then said, “Now look at the book.”

  Jeremy blinked. The compact little book, perhaps eight by five inches and half an inch thick, now bore a clear title in gilt on its blue cloth cover: conjurations: a book of beginnings. Jeremy opened it to the first page and began to read aloud: “The beginning student of magic must recall that his is a task of both ease and difficulty. Magic is everywhere; that is the easy part. The student must learn to harness it; that is the difficulty.”

  “I thought so,” Barach said. “A simple corollary to Devalo. Very minor, but once you know the language, the reading comes easy. I'll expect you to have finished that by tomorrow morning, now.”

  Tremien had given Jeremy the freedom of the palace and had moved him from his original guest room to quarters in the sunrise tower. His room here was half a circle, with an adjoining bathroom like a wedge of pie, and it had two narrow windows, loopholes almost, and its own fireplace. Otherwise, it was if anything a bit more spartan than the guest room. Cold baths, for example, proved the order of the day. Still, Jeremy enjoyed the view from the windows, and the added light.

  There was little enough of that as he lay on the bed and began to read his primer in magic. Before long a sound, an insistent, whispery tapping, drew his attention away from the book. He rose and looked out the window. Snow, huge, heavy flakes of it, was pelting down, flying so thick that the valley already was invisible behind the drifting curtains. Jeremy shivered a little, gave silent thanks that here at least he didn't have to worry about driving home in the stuff, and went back to the book.

  It was simple enough. Acts of magic, the text said, could be broken down into three stages (Jeremy, thinking back on other schoolbooks he had known, wondered what activity could not be broken down into three stages), each dependent on a separate act of will by the magician: first, formulation, second, visualization, and third, realization.

  Formulation seemed to be nothing more elaborate than the creation of a spell (a “word path” the writer termed it with neological smugness), unspoken at first but well-planned. This spell would be the trigger, as it were, to the completion of the magical act. It had to be personal, complete, and new, and the book had three subchapters under those headings.

  The second stage, visualization, meant the establishment of a clear, complete, and vivid mental apprehension of the effects the spell would have. A spell alone had no virtue in it, and no power. The mind responsible for the spell had to know exactly what effects were desired. Incomplete visualization meant uncontrolled magic, which could prove most unpleasant, judging from the cautionary notes abounding in the book's second chapter.

  The final stage, realization, really was the bringing together of the first two parts. In it the magician spoke the spell aloud while externalizing his or her apprehension of the spell's effects. This process somehow triggered the latent magic into sudden action. Jeremy thought of a sound setting off an avalanche: not the words themselves but their meanings, their intent, set off the flow of magic, and only when the loosed magic hardened again, set along the new lines of the visualized result, would the spell be complete, its ends accomplished.

  Some further notes on great spells interested Jeremy. These very often, the book told him, were deliberately left incomplete. For example, the travel spell (the book mentioned Melodia's father Walther with some deference) had been formulated to include all the billions upon billions of unborn citizens of Thaumia who someday would want to use it. Each pronunciation of a private cantrip helped the spell toward its completion and eventual exhaustion, and so each individual pronouncing his or her cantrip was rewarded by instantaneous travel. Walther and great magicians like him did not so much share the magic as spread speaking parts for its activation among thousands, perhaps even millions, of others; in the grand scheme of things, the spell was no more completed by a person's traveling across the world with it than the MARTA system was used up by Jeremy's occasional bus trip downtown. Eventually all the riders would wear out the bus, and eventually all the travelers would use up the potential magic (or mana as the book helpfully added) of the spell; so entropy and mundanity would finally hold sway.

  The first three chapters were easy enough. After that, the book began to relate magic and mathematics, and Jeremy soon found his attention wandering. He yawned, stretched, and put the book down on his bedside table. It was quite dark outside now, and the leaded panes of his windows had collected little ledges of snow. Jeremy swung out of bed, put his slippers on, and went out to see what was going on.

  The circular staircase of the tower led down to a passageway that in turn led to the Great Hall. As always, the people in it—a subdued group this evening of thirty or forty men and women—fell a little quieter as he passed through. Several spoke to him, for he was becoming a familiar face around the palace now, as well, he suspected, as an object of gossip. He returned their greetings, smiled, and passed on.

  Tremien's study door was ajar, sending a streak of firelight across the corridor floor and up the wall. Before Jeremy could knock, Barach's voice called, “Come in.”

  Tremien sat on one side of the fire, hands on knees, chin sunk on breast. On the other sat Barach, less bulky now that he had removed his winter cloak, but still wild of hair and whisker. Barach held an admonishing finger somewhere about the place where his mouth should be, and Jeremy came in quietly. “I told you he would respond to a summons,” Barach said. “You owe me one minor spell, Tremien.”

  The head came up slowly, firelight gleaming on the bare brown pate. “So I do, Barach. So, apprentice, you felt our call?”

  Still at the door, Jeremy said, “I don't know. I thought coming was my idea. I just felt—restless. I thought of you and wondered what you were doing.”

  Barach laughed. “One minor spell, Tremien.”

  “It seems so.” Tremien's manner was much more subdued than usual, less brusque and imperious. “Come in, young man, come in, and close the door behind you.” Jeremy did close the door, softly, and crossed to the two older men. Standing between them, he had the feeling that he was the subject of their scrutiny and evaluation. Tremien had his spectacles in his left hand. He put them on and squinted at Jeremy. “Some shading at the edges now,” he said. “Your aura is changing, I think. Have you tried any magic yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Hm. It will come.” Tremien took off the glasses, folded them, and tapped them against his cheek. “I fear that as you begin to use your talent, you will find yourself more and more susceptible to magical attack. Right now your immunity to great spells is almost as much a miracle as any I could create. I wonder if we do more harm than good in educating you.”

  When Barach didn't speak, Jeremy said, “I learn by my own choice, Mage Tremien.”

  “Very good answer, boy,” Barach murmured. “Very good indeed. Now, Tremien, if you're ready, I'd advise you to begin your display.” To Jeremy he added, “The old rascal intended this for later, for after dinner, but he's a lot more spry than he looks. He has the spell all ready to go, and frankly I'm eager to see it. That is, if you can forgo dining for a while.”

  “Certainly,” Jeremy said. “I would fast for a week to see one of Tremien's major magics.”

  “You are certainly becoming well-spoken.” Tremien's voice was dry as he dropped the spectacles into a pocket of his robe. “Very well, we shall have it. What I have been working on, Jeremy, is a means of looking into your world. It is a difficult thing to do, but proved easier than I anticipated. Sebastian, I think, has but little mana left. The mirror, however, is highly charged with it
. Having one magical item in your universe makes the connection easier.”

  “He also thinks,” Barach added, “that your universe may have a little magic in it.”

  “Oh, I'm quite sure it has some. Just a little,” Tremien said with a weary, indulgent smile. “Perhaps not enough to move a mountain. But a bit, lurking here and there. Perhaps that, too, helped me. At any rate, what I am going to do is to conjure up some visions of what your counterpart has been up to. They are shadows only; you will be able to see and hear, but not to converse.”

  Jeremy drew up a chair. “Good. I've been wondering about Sebastian. I hope the bastard hasn't had it easy.”

  The old wizard's eyes flashed. “Apprentice, you will control your anger. I do not work wonders for fools.”

  Clenching his jaw, Jeremy nodded. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. “I am sorry, but he has done me great wrong.”

  Tremien did not rise, but he gave the impression of drawing himself in and up. He began to chant words in a strange tongue, and the chant went on for quite a long while. Jeremy felt a prickle on his arms and along the back of his neck: something was happening. Finally Tremien grew silent, his breath shallow and rapid.

  “Well?” Barach asked, putting one hand on the arm of the older wizard.

  “It is done. You may look, Jeremy.”

  Jeremy blinked. “Ah—shouldn't there be a crystal ball or something?”

  “At my age? Nonsense. Just look.”

  “Excuse me, Mage—but look where?”

  “Anywhere you wish. Think of Sebastian and your world and look!”

  Jeremy thought, for some reason, of the elevator at Taplan and Taplan. The fireplace became a vision of the elevator doors, closed, startling him so much that he blinked. The vision was gone.

  “You must concentrate,” Barach said. “A man once asked a rufflebird why the bird looked so hard at the ground—”

  “Barach!” Tremien did not sound angry, exactly, but definitely peevish. “Apprentice, clear your mind and concentrate. Don't try to look too closely at details—just think of what you want to see.”

  Without a process of clouding or shimmering, the fireplace again became a screen, and on it Jeremy saw Cassandra in the act of getting into her car. She shivered. A voice—Jeremy's voice—no, Sebastian's—said, “What is it?”

  “Goose walked over my grave,” Cassie said, and she slid behind the wheel. “Gonna invite me in for drinks after we get to your place?”

  “If you like.” Sebastian for sure, clean-shaven and wearing Jeremy's raincoat, but Sebastian for all that. Jeremy could see him too slipping into the passenger seat of Cassie's car.

  “How much longer before your Civic's fixed?” Cassie asked as she started the engine.

  “Don't know.” Sebastian grinned at her. “Does it matter? It's nicer riding with you anyway.”

  “Hm. People are beginning to talk.”

  Sebastian slid back in the seat. Jeremy now saw both of them in profile. The magician grinned again and said, “Let them.”

  “You've changed since Christmas,” Cassie said. “Since you were out with that bug. Did it do something to you?”

  “Changed how?”

  “I don't know. You've got a temper now, for one thing.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Oh, hell, no. It was high time you told Escher off. I like seeing you stand up for yourself. Frankly, I'd started to wonder a little about you. And then all that stuff about your brother—what's wrong?”

  “Same goose.” The face turned toward him. Jeremy shivered. No doubt Sebastian was really just looking out the passenger window, really seeing only the traffic down on the Buford Highway interchange—but he seemed to be glaring at Jeremy. The picture abruptly died.

  “You cannot allow yourself to be distracted! Try again,” Tremien said.

  Barach broke in, sounding worried: “Mage, are you certain that—”

  “It's all right. I'll let both of you and Jeremy know when I've grown tired.”

  Alone, Jeremy thought. Let me see the son of a bitch alone.

  There he was, behind the wheel of a car—an unfamiliar car. From his vantage point, which seemed to be the rear seat, Jeremy could tell that Sebastian was driving, badly, near Stone Mountain east of the city. But the car—he had it: a mad, red Porsche, one that he recalled Cassie coveting. How had the magician come by it? Jeremy could think of only one explanation, and it involved Sebastian's rifling of Jeremy Sebastian Moon's account at the C&S Bank.

  Sebastian, intent on the expressway ahead, pottered along at forty and evidently had some difficulty in steering: the hood wavered uneasily between the center line and the shoulder. With some little pleasure—but with greater apprehension for his savings account—Jeremy recalled the difficulty he had encountered on his first day of horseback riding, and with mordant spite he hoped Sebastian got carsick. That wasn't as good as saddle sores, not by a long shot, but it would help. The day outside the car was dull and overcast, a typical day for late February or early March, and from the sparse traffic Jeremy guessed it would be a Sunday. He concentrated on Sebastian, willing to see him.

  Sebastian's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then back to the road. “Tremien?” Sebastian asked softly. “Someone's there, I feel it. Tremien? There's something you may not know, but you ought to. Take a close look in the Between. The person who's there isn't the one you think.”

  The picture vanished, leaving only the fire. Jeremy got up, stood before the hearth, glaring into the flames. “He's taken my place. Everyone believes he's me.”

  “Do you want to try again?” Tremien asked, his voice faint.

  “No. I want to go there and send the bastard back. Maybe not even in one piece.”

  “I shall end the spell.” Tremien muttered a phrase or two, and Jeremy felt something pass from the room, a sense of presence, as if someone there had left. But the three of them remained before the fire, Tremien with his head down, Barach with his eyes on his friend, Jeremy standing before the fire.

  At length Barach spoke: “That was a great wonder, Mage Tremien. I have never heard or dreamed of looking into other realities before. Had you worked no other magic, that alone would gain you immortality.”

  “It cost enough,” Tremien said, lifting an unsteady hand to shade his eyes. “Did you read his aura?”

  “Pale,” Barach said. “Weak. He must have carried some mana with him, but it is not being replenished.”

  “I anticipated that,” Tremien said. “He is calling upon his dwindling magic to learn about your world, Jeremy, to carry on his deception. That will make your task easier, when it comes.”

  “How?”

  “He will not be able to oppose you with sorcery. I believe the mirror is beyond him in a way; he created it, but even if he unmade it, he would gain no advantage, find no mana left over to use in other forms. I sensed no protection spell about him. I think if he had put one on the mirror, some trace would remain; it was certainly strong with Melodia's. No, breaking the mirror should prove easy. If you survive the passage, of course.” Tremien settled back in his chair. “Barach, how goes Jeremy's training?”

  “I think we are ready to begin, Mage.”

  “Good, good. There is much to do. Tomorrow, Jeremy, you begin in earnest.”

  “I'm ready.”

  “I hope you are.”

  First ona began at sunrise, but each day Jeremy was up before that, for half an ona of calisthenics, then another of running. He then had a few minutes to bathe, a few more to eat, and two hona of instruction in theoretical and applied sorcery. After that, specialized instruction in the crossbow ("I'd make a real archer of you if I had five years,” Captain Fallon told him, “but in three months you should be a pretty fair crossbowman") and in swordsmanship; a short rest and luncheon, then one ona for reading; two hona of other instruction (Jeremy thought of it as history, literature, geography, and current events, all rolled together), an ona for horseback riding, supper after t
he sun had set, and then conversation with Barach, one or two members of the court, and, rarely, Tremien. Reading and study then followed until bedtime. Barach insisted that he be in bed by fifteenth ona, which gave him, he estimated, about six hours of sleep. Jeremy rarely found it difficult to follow Barach's wishes.

  This was his routine for six days of the week. The seventh day was a holy day (Jeremy wondered if God had rested at the same interval in all the created universes), which he usually spent in more reading. He did attend morning services in the chapel, partly out of curiosity, partly because he liked the chaplain, Brother Thomas, a wispy little man quick of tongue and dry of humor. Thomas had once told him that the Faith (for it appeared Thaumia had only one religion, though that one did indeed have numerous sects) held sacred certain ancient scriptures, all of which were written on one page, the Holy Commandments. These consisted of “Learn. Grow. Seek truth. Find Me,” and nothing else.

  “No ‘thou shalt nots'?” Jeremy asked with a smile.

  “Plenty of them,” the cleric said. “Probably hundreds of thousands by now.”

  “And who came up with them, if God didn't?”

  “Ah, well,” Brother Thomas had replied easily, “God wanted us priests to have something to do, you see.”

  Despite this, Brother Thomas's sermons were more directed toward what to do than what not to do, and the choir sang lovely hymns, most of them celebrating the goodness of creation, a few recalling the deeds of good men and women of the past. The service was usually over by the end of second ona, and it put Jeremy into a good mood for improving his knowledge.

  But despite his application and industry, for several weeks Jeremy was not allowed to undertake a spell, even a minor one, of his own. He learned about protections and hedges, about diversion and redirection; he studied mental shields and physical ones, insulation and removal. Still, Barach insisted that his theoretical knowledge simply was not strong enough to deal with such magic as he had latent within him.

  Late one night toward the end of winter, when the valley below the castle had turned into a bog, brown with mud and silver with standing water, on the rare days when it could be seen at all through the low rain clouds that hung over it, Jeremy decided to try a spell on his own.