I think he was actually serious. “No, I’m afraid that would be too easy of a way to end the world.” Destroying the world, or at least cities, was probably something this sorcerer knew a great deal about. “How do you think the world will end?”
“Every man’s world ends in the blink of a young girl’s eye.”
I wonder if he knew Scammander’s mother. “And what do you think of Scammander?”
“He is the index of a mind forever voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.” There was immense respect in his voice. Almost reverence. He continued: “The first night of Scammander’s tutelage, he tried to steal my grimoire and flee,” he said chuckling and shifting his weight, looking down at the ground. “That is how I knew I finally had a pupil worthy of my powers as a mage.”
I stifled a sigh. Based on previous interactions with Scammander’s teachers, if the dark elf really was a former tutor, then there was definitely going to be murdering tonight. And I was going to be the one who had to do it all. “If you trained him, doesn’t that make you the better sorcerer?”
“Scammander is the greatest wizard of all time. But I trained him,” he said potently. “It is only proper that students excel their masters, otherwise the master would be unworthy of his title.” He was quiet again, lost in the sea of recollection. He gazed at the ground and slid his hand over a smirk. “How well I remember that night, when a young elf found me where I thought I could not be found.”
I knew so little about the dark elves, only that they were supposed to help us but never joined the war. I decided to learn what I could from this one before I had to kill him.
“How did you all manage to sit out the war, and yet still almost become extirpated?”
“You read history also?” he said, pulling another book from the shelf.
I snorted. “Philosophy is more spoudaios than history—”
The dark elf chuckled, slid a book off the shelf, and tucked the codex into his robes. Stealing books seemed more natural to wizards than the actual use of magic. “A learned minotaur. How very very dangerous; tell me, where did you come by all this learning?”
“Death is the abode of the greatest teachers,” I said. “Or books.”
“And you have visited the shadowy planes, o thanatonaught, and read what is forbidden to be read, which is written in the primordial ink upon the most eternal, most fresh leaves, and even returned with immortal spoils of this world beyond the world?”
“No, if I really had made the voyage and acquired immortal spoils I would have been wise enough not to return.”
“Many have decided not to return,” he nodded. “But do you not find it hard to return? Were you not tempted to stay? Your prodigious learning doesn’t make it harder for you to act? It doesn’t make your existence all the more questionable and uncertain and riddlesome? Would you not rather stay in books and tales amongst pithy penseurs, warm breezes, and virtuous knights, as a phantasm?”
“Well now, that is quite seductive,” I said leaning on the bookcase. “But if I could remain as a phantasm, if I could cheat death and return eternally as a phantom, I would certainly come back to cause as much horror, terror, and fright in this world as possible.”
“That has generally been the distinguished position of the philosophers.”
I laughed. “I’m Evander.”
“An uninitiated minotaur?” he said, drawing back a little. I winced, realizing I had forgotten the proper address already. “Floreat, floreat,” he said with a dark elegance. “I am Wynthrope.”
“Well Wynthrope, would you mind telling me how you all managed to sit out the war? We could have used your help, if not for your infamous predilection for uninvolvement.”
“And what else does common lore tell you about us?”
“That you are known for your arrogance and treachery.” Of course, I knew an elf like that too.
He nodded. “We believed such a war would be a…waste of our abilities. Dark elves have always been the greatest sorcerers. Our spells…” he trailed off into a ponderous silence. “Well, we never felt threatened from all the lesser races.”
“Ok, but why are there so few of you around?”
The wizard shuffled a few books around on the shelf, and then slid another few into his robes. I started to wonder if the Scammander I had come down with was not the real Scammander, and that the real Scammander was masquerading as his own teacher while attempting to pocket half the library in one evening. “A high priestess, Jocasta, fell in love with Brock Highkeep, but when he did not return her love she went mad and butchered her fellow priestesses; next, she enchanted one of the most illustrious sorcerers who had always been in love with her, though she had never loved him. Mayhem followed, old magic that had not ever been used was used to perversion, even by our standards.” He shrugged as though it was inevitable. “I can be more specific I suppose.
“One bright morning she took a group of young acolytes out from the House of Jentil Dedes to pick flowers. Brock’s company came upon them, and none had ever seen dark elves before; some captains urged Brock to cut them down since they would soon join the war on the side of the evil races, or beguile them all and turn them into slaves. Brock dismissed the captains, and said they would march on in peace. Jocasta was struck by his appearance, as all women were, but even more so by his hard valor. It is said that in him, she thought that she had found someone as austere as herself.
“That night she stole away from the city and slipped into his tent. She offered him a blue flower which he refused, along with her love. Brock begged her to stay and make a vow to him that she would not hurt herself, but she fled angrily into the night. The vow would not have mattered anyways, since she never took out her agony on herself. She left the flower which was enchanted with the breaths of the young acolytes, so that its possessor would remain eternally young, just as all the priestesses of the House of Jentil Dedes are. The soldier left the flower in the soil and when Jocasta found it later, she knew he had forsaken immortality, which drove her into a murderous fury.”
“I’ve never heard that story anywhere before.”
“Dark elves have always been the greatest sorcerers. Our spells…” he grinned.
“Evander! Stop talking to that bookshelf!” Johannes shouted at me from across the room. I turned and looked at him as he grabbed Scammander’s shoulder and doubled over laughing. A few dark elves gathered next to him smiled and Scammander tilted his head and frowned. When I turned back to the bookcase, Wynthrope was gone.
Wizards.
I walked around to where Wynthrope had been standing and looked at the books. Then I realized I could see Scammander and Johannes Dubitandum perfectly from behind this shelf, and there was no way either could see me.
Wizards.
I continued down the narrow alley of old books to the other side of the room. There were large, thick, mahogany desks in the middle of the grey and black tiled floor, and beyond them sat a giant, sinewy, ebony statue with his head tilted to the side, cheek resting on fist in a classic thinker’s pose. His lips were wet with riddles which he whispered to those standing near him. I began walking to the bar on the opposite side of the room, and when I passed the huge statue, it turned its head and spoke to me as I walked by: “Ahh, many-murdered minotaur, it is only when you are able to kill yourself that your yearning will have a chance to cease.”
I turned on my heel, taking a few backward strides and let my eyes linger challengingly on its face before turning back around and continuing on to the bar.
At the mahogany bar stood a pale, buxom, fair faced, raven-haired human woman with red pupils and intricate tattoos that wrapped all the way around her neck, across her chest, and down her arms. Sitting across from her plucking a slender onyx lute with glowing golden strings was a dark elf bard, skin as blue as the starless midnight sky, hair white as the full winter moon.
I took a closer look at the woman. The top of her arm had a profile view of two women kissing, but seen f
rom straight on it appeared as once face staring out; down her left bicep was the word “his time” in heavy, gothic letters, and on her left elbow was a large red pentagram. Also on her left arm was a spilling hourglass, with a sand trail that twisted and turned down the top of her forearm and underarm before it ended in a pile on the back of her hand, burying a man alive. Her right arm was covered in an elaborate sleeve: from the top of her arm to her elbow was a vehement wyvern’s neck, and at her elbow its fierce eyes squinted and its maw opened, spitting orange and red flame which engulfed her entire forearm. The long tongues of flame rolled down to her thumb and index finger, flickering across the back of her hand. Finally, she had lowercase dark gothic letters running across her fingers which spelled “sans fond” when read from left to right.
“Is it really going down, Aporia?” the poet said and leaned forward.
“Cixous said…” she looked up at me, froze, then straightened and continued wiping the bar. “Wow, a minotaur!”
“Wow, a human!” I said, equally surprised to see another one alive. Scammander and I had not killed as many as we thought. Stunt though, mostly.
“It’s true that humans are rare here, but so are minotaurs,” said the dark elf, turning in his seat to face me.
“Dark elves are rare, or at least I thought they were until I arrived here,” I replied.
“It is rare for me to speak to the uninitiated,” he said, barely containing his disgust.
I began the proper greeting. “Floreat, floreat—”
He waved his hand contemptuously.
“My name is Absinthe L’Autre. I was once quite eminent in logic, which I gave up for music. And other things.” He looked at the woman. “Perhaps my most impressive accomplishment was when I visited the Ice Giants and drank their winter mead; or stole the recipe for Kasgarden’s famous sweet pudding and a few of his golden apples, grown inside from the ancient trees at the bottom of the dwarvish mountain kingdom; or rode the giant turtle Galapagos through the wide, wine-dark sea; or tread tip-toe through goddom and sipped a frothing chocolate from a holiday urn.”
“Of all the ridiculous vaunts you just made, goddom makes the least sense. What is Goddom?”
“Yes, only myself and a few others, including the wizard behind you, have ever entered the deserted realm of the immortals.”
“Do you know Hammett Stringslayer?” I said, nodding to the bard’s lute and leaning on the counter of the bar.
“No, he did not attend the Academy,” he said, slightly annoyed. Scammander chuckled from behind me. He must have caught up to me after I talked with Wynthrope. Or an illusion.
Wizards.
“The greatest bard of all time?”
He sighed and Scammander laughed again.
“The thing with legends is that they do grow old and wither,” he stared into his cup and sighed. “I suppose just not fast enough for my tastes.”
“Hammett is immortal,” I said. Scammander snickered again.
“Well then, someone had better kill him,” he said sardonically as his eyes casually rolled away from me and landed on Scammander.
“He’s not family,” Scammander’s roguish grin flashed across his face. I was.
“Close though, isn’t he? He’s a bastard, you’re a bastard…” Absinthe let his voice trail off as he slowly, snidely raised his cup to his lips. When I didn’t hear any laughter, I turned and looked behind me and saw a small prick on Scammander’s neck with a thin red line racing down into his robes; it looked like someone had just nicked him with a blade.
Scammander let the blood run down his neck, unfazed. “Evander, has Absinthe been boring you with tales of his great deeds? I wonder why he can’t put any of them into a song; after all, he keeps claiming to be a minstrel.”
“All I want is my final string Scammander,” Absinthe snarled, rising from his chair and pointing at his lute. “Then I will be able to sing songs no one will ever forget.”
So much for no killing this evening. I stepped in front of him, looming over the arrogant dark elf. I reached into my robes for a second time, ready to draw but Scammander placed his thin hand on my shoulder. I slowly stepped to the side as Scammander slithered around in front of me.
“You said you would find Stunt again and get the last string. You maleficent cheat! I strode the world because of your riddles! And that was just to find the lute! And now the strings! More riddles and delays while I helped you earnestly—you even tricked me into giving strings back to you!” Some floating imps that were passing by grabbed their bellies and laughed and pointed at Absinthe.
Scammander raised his hand and sighed. “I know Absinthe, I know. I know you love music, and I know you have helped me a great deal.” Scammander reached into his robe and pulled out a slender, ivory unicorn horn. I wondered if it used to belong to Quillian. Absinthe’s eyes bulged with greedy surprise; he stretched out both hands, and Scammander gently placed it across his palms.
“Can it be?” he whispered in awe.
“Just like all the others,” Scammander said. Absinthe eyed Scammander suspiciously and then pulled another unicorn horn from his pockets, just to be sure.
I looked over at Aporia, who was already looking at me. I studied her tattoos for a moment. “You know, I thought of getting a tattoo before.”
She tossed the rag into the sink behind her. “Yea? What would it say?”
I paused for a moment and gazed down at the floor. I sank so far into the silence that I almost didn’t speak. But then I did. I spoke with the deep tones of eternity and astrological rhythms of sinking planets: “I’ve got one written across my diamond soul in the hot celestial dust of fallen stars, and ever shimmering it cries, How much longer?”
“Quite a phrase,” she said. “Where did you hear that from?”
“Something I read in a book recently,” I said, a little bit more quietly.
“Now that that’s settled, I will be requiring Scammander and his guest. Absinthe, Aporia,” Johannes nodded to each of them as he clasped Scammander on the shoulder. He beckoned to me as he led Scammander away. “To my study,” he said. “By the way, how did you get past Skepsis?” he asked as I caught up to them.
“Who’s that?”
“The large onyx statue with the most perplexing and alluring riddles,” Johannes replied. “Skepsis enjoys baffling and perplexing and he has a brother, Eidos, who enjoys telling equally bold truths. Once a select few discovered that the answers to the riddles of Skepsis were voiced by beautiful Eidos and his golden truths, Skepsis became a little more dreary.”
Scammander leaned in close to me. “To the point that he hired out a couple of wizards to kill his brother.” Scammander turned away from me and looked at Johannes. “Do you have my book?”
“I’ve got both of them,” he replied. His eyes swept over the room, checking to make sure no one might have heard that.
We began walking along the wall covered with looming mahogany book shelves which were stuffed with books, large and small. Johannes was scratching his head, muttering to himself, stifling random chuckles, and looking all around, eyes darting here then there. He seemed more comfortable in the shadows than in the light. He stopped abruptly then wheeled around and started walking back in the direction we had come from. We followed him back a ways until he stopped in front of a bookcase filled with volumes on sadness and despair.
“If you try to listen in or look at what I’m doing I will kill you both,” he growled.
Scammander sighed and turned around and I did the same. They say there is honor among thieves, but there is no honor among wizards.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the mad warlock pull on a book titled “The Unhappy Consciousness” by G. W. F. Cemetery. He let the tome slide back into place before pulling it a second time. He waited and frowned. He waited a few more moments then picked it up, opened it, and read something in a whisper. The bookshelf swung inward at which point Scammander and I turned around and walked in after Johannes.
Then I saw it.
There, in the corner of the room, was a stuffed pegasus, pure, regal, and rare. I wanted to weep and kill Johannes Dubitandum for murdering a creature so noble and magical, but instead I stifled a snarl and clenched my fists within Coffin’s robe.
“One of my more precise assassinations,” the maniac wizard said, looking from me to the winged pony. “Usually there is nothing left—aside from some blood and skin on my jacket—and the fading scream as I throw them from the house of existence.”
“So where is the other one?” I asked.
“I believe he already answered your question,” Scammander said. “But where were you going with them?”
“Oh I just wanted a tour of the clouds,” Johannes said blithely. “I wanted to see what it was like to be you, always looking down on the world,” he said in reply to Scammander’s wry, dubious silence.
“Pay no attention to this directionless cynic Evander. I’m not convinced he’s capable of wielding magic potent enough to have killed either of them,” Scammander pried.
Johannes’s eyes narrowed. “Deteriorated moonbeams,” he said. “But it’s really what you weave in between the strands of decayed light.”
“That’s a bit more believable, but I’m still not convinced,” Scammander said, slyly mocking the other wizard again.
Johannes looked at Scammander like he was going to murder him, and was imagining all the different ways he was going to do it, but then gave a peaceful, though disturbing, reply. “They kept flying in opposite directions, so I thought if I killed one the other would abandon whatever trick the two of them were playing. Instead, it began weeping and could no longer fly.”
Splatterism: The Disquieting Recollections of a Minotaur Assailant: An Upbuilding Edifying Discourse Page 10