by Greg Curtis
No one answered. Not even the griffins. He even cast another spell of light, though by then he was at the end of his strength. Even his eyes were tired and concentrating on what the spell showed him was an effort.
Thankfully he couldn't spot anyone among the wreckage. Neither alive nor dead. Though he knew he could well have missed them. Maybe the others had got away through the gate before the end? He had to hope so. Because he didn't want to have to start burying people.
Edrick continued to look as closely as he could, even when his strength was beginning to fail. But he didn't leave the spot where he was standing. Something told him that walking wasn't going to be easy. He could barely stand as it was. There was no chance he could begin a search.
In time he gave up on the search. If there were others still alive out there, they would just have to survive on their own. At least until the morning. And if they were dead there was nothing he could do anyway. No wizard could bring the dead back to life. In the morning if he was able, he would do a more thorough search. He would also take a closer look at the damage to his home. But all of that would have to wait.
For the moment his focus had to remain on recovering. That meant getting something to eat and drink and then going to sleep. He suspected he would need a lot of sleep. The healing spells he'd used would greatly accelerate his healing, but they wouldn’t fix his broken and torn flesh instantly. There were limits to all magic. Given time he could fully recover from just about anything. But he still needed time, rest, fluids and food like everyone else.
After taking one final look around and then calling out once more just to make absolutely sure that there wasn’t anyone injured lying around nearby, he hobbled back to his home, trying to suppress his moans as every step reopened wounds and tore at barely healing flesh. It seemed his spells hadn’t been as effective as he'd hoped.
Damn Wilberton! Edrick cursed him silently as he hobbled. Why did the man hate him so? What was wrong with him? He understood that the man was mad. But this went far beyond the simple madness of a dotard. This was complete raving insanity!
And yet as the pain ripped through him with every step, he suddenly had a memory of the ancient wizard standing in the gate, struggling with the others. Or rather, of something else standing there in his place. Something that looked inhuman. Had it been real? Or had it been the hallucination of a mind in pain? He didn't know. But it had scared him. The memory of it still did.
Edrick put that thought aside too as he finally reached the front porch of his house and clambered up the two small steps to the door. Beyond it was the promise of food and drink and somewhere to lie down. And the pull those things had on him was strong. So he didn't turn around to take one last look at the ruin of his home.
All he could think as he finally turned the handle and pushed the heavy wooden door open, was that he needed to sleep. Eat, drink and sleep. Maybe not even in that order.
Really, he decided as he walked into his home and tried to keep from collapsing on the rug, this meeting hadn’t gone well. The Argani were not going to be pleased with him.
Chapter Nine
Three days after having a shed fall on him, Edrick had largely recovered. His ribs still hurt when he breathed too deeply. His leg ached. There was a hell of a partially healed scar on his back which hurt every time he bent or twisted. And he was nowhere near as fit as he should be. But he could walk, hurry after a fashion if he absolutely had to, and do all the other things he needed to. The huge burn that ran from his hip to his ribs, was slowly healing too. It wasn't as angry as it had been. And the scar would fade in time. Still, he needed to keep casting healing spells on himself until he was back to full health.
A lot of hard work and a lot more casting had restored much of Edrick's home to its proper shape. The roof had been patched, the remains of the shed, broken tables, chairs and benches had been turned into kindling for his fires. The broken crockery had been buried. Even the griffins had played their part in demolishing every scrap of food that had been left out for the guests that they could find. He was somewhat surprised that they could still fly after having eaten so much, but not surprised that they were happy. At least that was what he assumed all the roaring was about.
But though the trappings of his life might be slowly returning to normal, he was still trapped in the realm of the Faeries. His home had become a prison. Now he either had to find another gate or work out some way to repair what was left of this one. Unfortunately he had no idea where another gate might be found, or how to repair one. The gates had been created by ancient magic. No one knew the spells to create them. For that matter, no one truly understood the magic it was based on. So-called Faerie magic. But then again no one really knew that the gates had been built by the Faerie. Or if the language of magic was truly theirs either. Maybe all of it was even older than them? He didn't know.
What he did know was that he presently had a giant crater where there had once been a gate, no standing stones and no way of repairing them. Moreover, the only way he would find another gate would be by exploring the world. He had to hope it wouldn't be the whole world.
There was another option of course. He could create a portal – the wizard's version of gate, albeit vastly inferior. Portals were neither so large nor so stable as gates. They were not permanent and they were also generally only one way. No spell any wizard cast was permanent. But the biggest problem he had was that he'd never studied the magic of portals. Why would he when he had a gate?
It was because of that that he was sitting outside under the remains of a plum tree, reading one of Wilberton's books. And for the moment reading was about as much as he could do. Casting was far too much effort. After the days he'd spent doing nothing but casting, his magical strength was seriously depleted.
Strangely he felt guilty for doing even that. As if by reading the book, he was confessing to the theft of the senile old wizard's books. But if he was ever to escape this realm he didn't see himself having a lot of choice. His own books were far more simple affairs and few if any said much about portal magic. He simply hadn't needed those sorts of spells. And everyone knew that that particular type of magic was dangerous. The gods only knew what sort of monsters you might end up bringing across if your portal went the wrong way. Or where you might end up if you travelled and got the destination wrong. Besides, he'd always been more enamoured of practical magic. Of spells that did the things he needed to do. Healing spells, farming spells, construction spells and even weather spells.
Though it hurt to admit it, Edrick suspected that Master Thatchwell had been right about him. He hadn't studied hard enough. Maybe too he had spent too many nights in the alehouses and gardens. Often on the floors of them. Or in the beds of the ladies of the night. It had been expected of a noble born brat such as him. But had he really had to do what was expected of him? Suddenly it seemed to him that he could have done better.
Now he was paying the price for his indolent ways. Because it was the knowledge of portal magic that he now needed. And so guilty or not, he was working his way through Wilberton’s books, hunting for any spell that might help him find a new gate, repair one that had been almost completely destroyed, or create a portal back to his world. Spells that weren't in his own library.
Finding such a spell was going to take time. He had fifty-three new books to read as well as several hundred scrolls. Worst of all he had a dozen of the wizard's journals. Worst, because they were hand written in an almost illegible scrawl, often rambled, and regularly took long forays into the worlds of a senile old wizard's fantasies. It seemed Wilberton had used them less as a record of what he'd done, and more as a discourse of his theories and dreams of what he could one day achieve. Only occasionally had he used them as he should – as a notebook for copying down new spells he'd discovered. Unfortunately, his mind had clearly been slipping when he'd written them. So his theories ranged from some that were visionary and maybe even possible, to those that were clearly mad.
Mixed in with them were also his observations of the world around him. His thoughts about the people he saw – most of whom he seemed to think were plotting against him – and the general parlous state of the realm. If a spell failed or an experiment didn't work as he expected, it was always because someone had interfered with it. If someone disagreed with him, they were either too dim witted to understand what he was saying or were lying because they wanted to claim his theories for themselves. And if someone tried to stop him, they had to be plotting against him.
What Wilberton's journals revealed was the passing of a once great mind into madness, paranoia and delusion. They also revealed that Carrie had been hiding the true extent of her grandfather's fall. He couldn't blame her for that of course. She had a terrible path to walk when he was her only family. It was also possible that she hadn't realised the extent of it. Still, it would have been useful to know just how deeply Wilberton’s hatred for him had run. How adamant the old wizard had been in his beliefs that Edrick was plotting against him. Or stealing from him. Or casting spells on him. Wilberton had even imagined that Edrick was planning on killing him.
Edrick had given up reading the journals after a while. They were simply too awful. But he kept returning to them. He knew that if Carrie was right and her grandfather had somehow inflicted this madness upon himself, the only way he would be able to find out how to fix it would be by reading them. Besides, he reminded himself, she had asked him to look. Even if he could never get back to Riverlandia to tell her what she wanted to know, he would do as she asked. He would do everything he could for her.
For the moment though, he was concentrating on the books of portal magic. They were most likely to have the answers on how he could find his way back to Coldwater. Or at least possible answers. There could be no guarantees. To add to his troubles, the material Carrie had brought with her didn't include any advanced works on portal spells. They hadn't been Wilberton's passion either. All he had were more general texts. It looked like creating a portal home might turn out to be impossible just as rebuilding a gate was.
The sound of a horse nickering distracted him and Edrick looked up to see a grey mare nearby, possibly wanting a little attention. The Gate disaster had led to him inheriting a number of horses. Sixteen in total. They belonged to those who had run and hadn’t had time to take their horses with them. But what was he supposed to do with a herd of horses? The truth was he didn't know. He could build them some stables he supposed – when he was stronger. But why? He didn't want to keep them.
For now, he had simply removed their saddles and bridles and let them run free. He had thought it the right thing to do. Despite leaving them to roam, for the moment they had chosen to remain close to his home. Why he wasn’t sure. Maybe they felt lost without their owners?
“Go away,” he told the grey mare tiredly. “I have work to do.” The horse however, didn't seem interested in leaving. Instead she continued grazing contentedly at the grass nearby while keeping a wary eye on him.
“You know, I replaced your kind long ago. With that hunk of metal behind me. It's a much safer ride.”
In fact, safety was the main reason he'd bought the steam wagon. He wasn't much of a rider, and horses had never seemed to do what he wanted. With the wagon you simply turned the wheel and it turned. You hit the brake and it stopped. It also didn’t try to buck him off. He liked that. But he did have to wonder how much use the steam wagon would be when he started travelling across the magical realm, searching for a gate in a land without roads. He might end up having to ride after all. The wagon was alright on grassland if it was dry. But after that it had problems.
The mare responded with a contemptuous snort and continued grazing. Apparently she wasn't impressed by his claims.
“You know there's always the glue factory!” Naturally the horse ignored him. She was smart enough to know he didn't really want to hurt her. In that, she was smarter than Wilberton, he thought.
Edrick did his best to ignore the animal as he kept on reading. But it wasn't easy. Mostly because the book was so boring. Wizards might have the most wondrous gift imaginable in their magic, but that didn't make them good writers. And even though they got their books properly published so they could be displayed in their libraries – it was a point of pride for them – they still read like books of recipes sprinkled with partial explanations and obscure and usually accidental observations.
A simple spell might be written down as a series of words on a piece of paper with the accompanying gestures described in detail. But then there would be the variations. Change a finger movement here or a word there and the spell worked differently. Maybe it became stronger. Maybe it failed. Maybe it did something completely different.
The problem was that no one understood the magical tongue. Wizards were like talking birds; able to imitate the sounds people made, but never understanding what they were saying – only that it might bring them a reward.
“And I suppose you understand this pile of dung?” he asked the horse at one point. Naturally he didn't get an answer.
Half an hour later another visitor appeared, this time in the form of a silver tailed fox which leapt up onto the bench beside him. That was one of the strange things about this land of the ancient Faeries. The animals were so relaxed. Back in Coldwater a fox would never have approached him. This one though seemed to have come to say hello in the hope that he might have some food for it.
“Sorry girl, I've got nothing to eat.” He scratched the little animal under the chin, and then watched as she jumped down and wandered off, satisfied that he was telling the truth. But though she didn't fear him, she did worry about the griffins, and he spotted her checking the distant trees constantly as she scurried from tree to tree.
This was a very strange land. It operated by laws that were wholly its own. Perhaps, it suddenly occurred to him, that was also why no one understood the ancient Faerie tongue? If – as everyone assumed – they came from this land, then it came from a land where different rules of language applied. This language didn't have vowels or adjectives or any of those things that made a language intelligible. What it did have were a few hundred phrases. Little pieces of words and gestures that if included in a spell usually changed it in certain, predictable ways. That was as close as any wizard had come to understanding the tongue. But if the tongue had come from here, and this realm had its own rules for everything else, it would at least explain why the language of magic didn't make sense.
Not that the theory helped him understand it of course. Though it occurred to him that the grey mare might. She wasn't troubled by the griffins roaring in the trees. Nor by the unicorns in the distance. She instinctively understood the rules of this land and therefore was content to continue grazing.
Suddenly an odd question occurred to him – what if the language of magic wasn't meant to be understood? What if it wasn't a language at all? What if the words they spoke and the gestures they made, weren't actually words? They were instincts. After all, the language didn’t seem to use sentences. Nor did it follow any logic. The words had no meaning. There were just sounds and movements that corresponded to the magic.
Music and dance. Perhaps the words weren’t words at all but just sounds made to accompany gestures as the harmony was built? And that, he thought, might well be the language of the world that the horses instinctively understood, but which he didn't. Horses understood the language of the body. They knew when an enemy was poised to attack. They understood the sounds other horses might make. They didn't need to be told the words. What if this was the same?
The idea made him smile, not least because if it was true it would mean that every learned wizard who'd written a book of spells over the centuries had been completely wrong. And that included Wilberton. But it was also important because it meant that the success or failure of a spell had less to do with the words and gestures than with the intonations of the notes; the cadence and rhythm, the fluidity of the movements and the grace. And those
were all things he could work on without the books he needed.
Edrick seized on the idea. The spells he had in front of him were few and mostly not what he needed. Portal magic was a wide field of study and those who used the magic did so for a variety of purposes. They might travel between worlds or different places in the same world, or they might use the magic to bring creatures or riches to them from elsewhere. Some might use them to create doorways in featureless walls, or to light the darkness with the sunshine from somewhere else. He had even heard of it being used to help wizards speak with people from other realms. Spells for all of those tasks existed. And what he had in front of him were only a very few of those spells.
But if he was right, he didn't need any more books. What he had would be enough. He only needed to start using them correctly. He needed to cast them and then change the intonation or gesture slightly to see what happened.
In that moment he realised he wasn't looking for a spell in a book. He was instead going to have to create one. And that he could do. He might not have a laboratory for creating potions in. He didn't have a workshop for tinkering around with enchantments in either. But he had a few spells and a lot of wide open space. And more than that he had time. Lots and lots of time.