by Colin Sims
Then I felt a sudden burst of cold, and over the next few seconds, the writhing of countless legs gradually slowed until it came to a complete stop. Now, looking up with a Firelight, I saw that I was buried under a mountain of ice. I started flinging Firebolts two at a time. A few seconds later I was drenched head to toe when the bubble popped. The water was cold—definitely cold—but it was a hell of a lot better than the alternative.
I followed the sounds of fighting to catch up with Cassie in the next room. I was stunned to find every last one of the larva creatures reduced to a puddle. Or actually, there had been so many that the puddles had become an inch-deep flood across the entire floor. Now, Cassie was fighting against the main guy—our Larva Mage. He wore a wizard-like cloak of deep crimson with a large hood that hid his face. His hands were long, spindly and made entirely of worms, maggots and an assortment of crawlers. He held them a foot apart as he formed an Imago of his own—only his was dark green. Cassie, meanwhile, had a high tech-looking energy shield in one hand, and a flaming samurai sword in the other. When she saw me, she suddenly screeched for me to get down. My eyes flicked to the Larva Mage just in time to see him whip toward me and cast his spell.
I’m not sure where the rumor started, but a lot people say that right before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. What happens after that, no one knows. But the “flashing before your eyes” thing gets mentioned all the time. I always thought it sounded kind of cool, like a nice way to cap things off. Thus, you can imagine my disappointment when my life didn’t flash before my eyes. There was just a loud crash, a discombobulated sense of flying, and then waking up some time later feeling dazed and dizzy. As I regained focus, I saw Cassie kneeling over me and gently prodding my shoulder.
“Hey,” she said. “Are you okay?”
I pried myself off the floor to sit up. I was drenched from all the puddles. “Am I dead?”
She shook her head. “No, but the other guy sure is. How did you do that?”
I blinked and tried to clear the cobwebs. My whole head was buzzing like a tuning fork. “Do what?” I asked.
“You totally killed the Larva Mage,” she said, and I noticed her eyes were wide. “You did some kind of spell.”
“I did?”
“Wait, you don’t remember it?”
“I just remember he threw a spell at me and then I thought I was dead.”
“No, you blocked it with something. This big lightning shield appeared and his spell bounced back at him. He burst into green flames and melted. I don’t even know if Rosewood could do something like that. How did you learn it?”
I sat up straighter and scratched my head. “I have no idea. But why does my head hurt so much?”
She frowned. “Well, you kind of collapsed afterwards. I figured the spell took a toll or something.”
She offered a hand and pulled me to my feet.
“So that’s it?” I said. “We’re done?”
“I’m not sure. When I found the Mage, he was looking at that old telescope over there,”—she pointed behind her—“but as far as I can tell, there’s nothing special about it. Still, it might have something to do with the Steinberg thing. Rosewood thought the Mage was searching for him.”
I knew from Intro to Dark Creatures that Larva Mages didn’t do things on their own. They were always beholden to someone more powerful. So, if that was the case, it begged the question who the Larva Mage was working for, and why was that person looking for Professor Steinberg?
Rosewood was probably right. The professor was definitely up to something, and someone with a lot of power was trying to find him. I mean, you’d have to have a lot of power, right? If something like a Larva Mage was your servant? Whoever that dude was, I definitely didn’t want to meet him.
I shook my head a final time and the dizziness faded. I looked where Cassie had pointed and saw one of the museum’s ancient telescopes lying on the wet floor. I winced when I saw it. It was probably several hundred years old and made by Galileo himself. At the very least, we needed to put it back in its case.
When I picked it up, I noticed the oddest thing. Even though it was made of wood and had been resting in inch-deep water, it was completely dry. And I’m not talking about waterproofing either. I’m talking about bone dry. There was definitely something supernatural at work. Yet as I turned it over in my hands, I didn’t see anything strange.
“What do you think?” Cassie asked, leaning over my shoulder.
I shrugged. “Well, there’s something weird about it. See how it’s not wet?”
She peered closer. “Huh,” she said.
“Yeah.” Then I had an idea. “Wait,” I told her. “There’s this spell. I saw it once when I was flipping through my book. It might help.”
“What is it?”
I handed her the telescope and fished the Solitar from my pocket. “I forget what it’s called. McFadden will know. Let me see if I can learn it.”
“Won’t that take a really long time?”
“For me? Ten seconds. I’ll be back in a flash, sugar.”
I was joking when I said that, and I expected Cassie to raise an eyebrow at me, but instead she just beamed. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll protect the Zippo thing while you’re in there. Go be a wizard.” She gave me a little peck on the cheek.
I flipped open the cap and sparked the lighter. There was a swirl of melting walls and then I was back on my football field. McFadden was already waiting, standing impatiently next to a chalkboard.
“Any man who isn’t a disco dancer in the 1970s who calls his girlfriend ‘sugar’ should be punched in the face. Nevertheless, the spell you are after is called ‘Reveal Magic.’ It is a Level Two spell that most of my former students mastered when they were eight years old. Let us see what you can do at age twenty.”
“What page is it on?” I asked, sitting at one of my desks and flipping open the book.
“What page, you ask? Well, I suppose it is a bit much to expect you to find it on your own. After all, the index can be quite tricky. The name of each spell is listed alphabetically with a page number next to—”
“Found it,” I said.
“Ah. Well done. I dare say you have surpassed my expectations.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I read over the Canti for the spell and it looked doable. There were a few Thetas and Kappas I’d never done before, but they were still a lot easier than the Deltas I had to do for the Vigilia Temporis. And speaking of Vigilia Temporis …
“Why are some spells in Latin and others in English?” I asked, still keeping my nose in the book.
There was a brief pause before McFadden boomed, “Well!” He sounded genuinely pleased for once and it made me jump. “François, that may be your first non-imbecilic question! I’m speechless!”
“I try,” I said.
“It’s so ‘not stupid,’ in fact that … well, here.” He reached forward and stuck a little gold star on my book. “Well deserved,” he said. “And the answer to your question is this: Up until the mid-Renaissance, all spells were inscribed in Latin. However, as times began to change, there were movements within the Magic Community to adopt a more egalitarian approach and label certain spells in the native languages of their practitioners. After that, it was merely a matter of happenstance that some words remained in Latin, while others were more changeable. Eventually, this was codified into a proper ‘grammar,’ if you will, and to this day it remains rigorously enforced by snooty academics such as myself.”
“Cool,” I said.
“Yes. It is ‘cool.’ Have you made any progress with the spell yet?”
“I’m trying to memorize it,” I said. “It makes it easier to do the Canti.”
McFadden paused again. “Hm,” he said. “Two non-imbecilic remarks in as many minutes. Perhaps this is the beginning of a new era, like when the first chimpanzee used a stick against another. The reason it is easier is that when you remain focused on the Imago, you fingers are less
likely to stray. I used to teach that very lesson to my former students.”
I finally stole my eyes from the page and looked up. “How come you never taught me anything like that? I’m a student.”
“Oh, François! Dear boy. I may as well ask you why you never taught your family’s cocker spaniel to do theoretical physics. I must admit, it simply never occurred to me.”
I mumbled that that was mean and went back to memorizing the spell. I thought briefly about ordering McFadden to stand on one leg—which he would have had to obey—but I didn’t want to be petty …
A few minutes later, I felt confident that I had the sequence of Canti down pat. Now it was just a matter of doing them. I bid McFadden farewell—to which he made an uncharacteristic retching sound—and I left the Solitar. I found Cassie sitting cross-legged on a dry patch of floor. I emerged right on top of her. It proved to be a mildly awkward moment, if not a pleasantly awkward one, as we both got to our feet.
“So what can I do?” she asked.
I winced and blew out a breath. “Refrain from laughter when I blow up the spell in my face.”
She gave a salute. “Never.”
(Ah. A question in rhetoric. Never would she laugh, or never would she refrain? Who knew?)
I formed an Imago and set to work with the Canti. Minute after minute went by as I got it wrong dozens of times. Normally, that would be par for the course. Yet somehow, having a really, really hot girl watching you makes every attempt that’s not a hole-in-one a catastrophe.
Still, on my fifty-third try, I got the fucker right as rain.
Oh, and here’s another Latin term used in spellcasting: Ignis.
The Ignis is the little spark of energy that dances around your fingertips after you’ve successfully formed the spell from the Imago. It’s then up to you to cast your spell by tossing the Ignis at whatever your target is. In this particular case, the Galilean telescope was my target. The second the spell touched the wood, the letters, A, R, and X appeared in a beautiful cursive scroll.
“Arx!” Cassie squealed in delight, beating me to the punch. (Thankfully.) “Remember? That’s the word I found in Steinberg’s office!”
“Yeah, the one that meant ‘fortress,’” I mused. “Why would it be written on a telescope?”
“I don’t know. But at least we’re on the right track.”
I frowned and reexamined the scope. The letters looked worn and faded, as if they’d always been there. The magic—which I “revealed” with the spell—must have turned them invisible. And while that may not seem like a huge clue, it kind of was. It meant that the letters were likely carved hundreds of years ago by the great man himself. Thus, the “fortress”—or whatever arx was—was not a new invention. It was an old one. Steinberg wasn’t inventing anything. He was discovering something.
I turned the telescope over a couple more times and then put my eye to the lens. (I’ll admit, I probably should have thought to do this earlier.) As soon as I did, the walls around me melted in a familiar pattern. The instant they did, I knew exactly what was happening. This telescope wasn’t a telescope at all. It was Galileo Galilei’s own, personal Solitar. Holy. Freaking. Crap.
The inside looked like the main hall of a massive Cathedral—probably out of a sense of irony since the Church kept trying to kill the guy for doing science. However, instead of long pews and a raised pulpit, the entire space had been converted into a workshop. My first thought was: Iron Man. This was the Seventeenth Century version of Tony Stark’s garage. And if I had thought that the outside museum had a steampunk feel to it, this place took it to a whole new level. Insane-looking contraptions of brass and copper with spindles and gears and pendulums were everywhere. Most of it, I didn’t recognize at all. They were undoubtedly magical inventions that never got revealed to the world. The few items I did recognize were a cluster of telescopes, as well as something that looked like an ornately carved cuckoo clock.
I stepped between workbenches, marveling at each item. There was no organization to any of it. Everything was strewn about haphazardly like the aftermath of a kids game. I wandered for a good minute or two until I heard a few tiny clinks coming from another room. It sounded like it was coming from near the front of the cathedral where a hallway led to another area—perhaps the back offices for the priests or something. (As you can tell, I don’t really know my way around cathedrals. Or any type of church for that matter.) Nevertheless, I quietly followed the sounds until I came upon a small workshop behind the main floor. It appeared to be dedicated to a single invention—one that I recognized from various scenes in movies. I could’ve been wrong, but it looked exactly like an atomic bomb. But not a new one. It looked the first one ever built—a dark metallic sphere studded with silvery canisters and a million wires sticking out.
Also—crouching next to the invention and tinkering with it—was Professor David Freaking Steinberg. He looked just like the photograph Rosewood had shown us—a carbon copy of Albert Einstein complete with poofy white hair and gigantic eyebrows. I stood in the doorway for a full ten seconds before he noticed I was there. When he did, his eyes lit up in pleasant surprise.
“Why, hello!” he said merrily. “Are you a friend of Carol’s?”
It took me a second to remember that Carol was the name of Professor Steinberg’s wife. I told him no.
“Oh.” The response seemed to puzzle him. “How did you find me then?”
“It’s kind of a long story,” I said and moved into the room. “My name’s François. A lot of people are looking for you.”
The puzzlement turned to shock. “Me? Why?”
That was a good question. The truth was I still had no idea why anyone was looking for him. Rosewood had thought he was part of a nefarious plot, but didn’t have any other details. The BPI, the Larva Mage, and probably a few others were looking for him as well, but once again, I didn’t know why.
“I believe they thought you were up to something. You went missing like two weeks ago,” I said.
“Two weeks? No. Time is slower in here. Surely it hasn’t been that long, has it?”
“I think it has.”
His eyebrows furrowed together as he thought a moment. Then he chuckled, embarrassed. “Oh boy. I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”
“What do you mean?”
“Carol’s going to kill me. You’re telling me I’ve been gone for two weeks and she didn’t know where? I’ll never sleep in our bed again. And that couch …”
“Professor,” I said. “I think you have bigger problems than your wife. My friend and I just killed a Larva Mage that was trying to steal this Solitar. Our friend, who works for the SIA, tasked us with finding you. And the BPI has search parties out looking as we speak. So I have to ask, what are you working on in here? What’s the ‘arx?’”
“Gracious.” He stood a moment, scratching his head in confusion. “A Larva Mage? Here? In the museum?”
I nodded. “When we found him, he was looking at this telescope. Why would he be trying to steal it? What’s in here?”
Steinberg kept scratching his head but now turned his gaze on me with a touch of suspicion. “François,” he said slowly. “Are you from France?”
“No.”
“But you are a wizard, yes?”
“Sort of,” I said. “But I only know four spells.”
Steinberg frowned a little as his hand moved to his chin. “Well, four spells is better than no spells.” (Told you that was a real quote.) “I can’t be certain,” he said, “but it is very likely that your Larva Mage was sent to steal this.” He gestured to the atomic bomb device. “Galileo dubbed it the Orbis Lux, or ‘World Light.’ It was meant to be his greatest invention for the protection of this realm. Yet sadly, he never finished it.”
“What happened?”
“He lived in the 1600s. The materials he needed simply weren’t available.”
I stepped closer and peered at it. “It looks like an atomic bomb. What does it do?”
“So it is a weapon?” I asked.
“Only in the wrong hands. You mentioned that you only know four spells. How much do you understand about the Multi-Realm and its various interactions with the Eternal Planes?”
I felt a quick pang of guilt. I’d skipped that particular book in my Vicipadea. In my defense, the next book on the list was A History of Magical Warfare: Key Battles and Lessons Learned. How was I supposed to know that the “Multi-Realm” book was going to come in handy first?
“Not much,” I admitted.
“In that case, I’ll give you a crash course. You see, right now you think of Earth as a planet, yes?”
I nodded.
“You believe it exists within a vast universe of countless stars and billions of galaxies—which if you do the math—would suggest there are other life forms out there as well. Is this all correct?”
I nodded again, and Steinberg raised a finger with excitement. “The truth,” he said, beaming, “is that the surrounding universe is an illusion—the Fifth Discipline of Magic. You could climb aboard a rocket ship and fly as many billions of light years into space as you wished. All you would find is more space. The reason, quite simply, is that the illusion moves with you no matter where you go.”
“So no aliens?” I asked. “That’s not cool at all.”
“Well I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘aliens.’ If an alien is merely a person or creature from another world, then my dear boy, there are millions of aliens. I’m sure you’ve already met a few—including your Larva Mage. You see, Earth is but one realm within the vast Multi-Realm. Each one has its own ‘planet’ with its own civilizations and peoples and creatures, etcetera. However, realms are only half the equation. There are also the Eternal Planes. The key difference is that realms are for mortal creatures while planes are for immortal ones.”