My Path to Magic mptm-1

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  At the bottom of the gully, two steps away from the slit, two boards lay on the rocks, and a rope hung from the top. I didn’t grab for it—it wasn’t clear what was fixing it in place. Getting wet and dirty, I finally reached the slit and stood stock-still in surprise.

  What the hell!

  Immediately after the narrow orifice, the slit expanded to the size of a small cave. Sunlight just barely passed through to the center, and eternal darkness swirled in the corners and behind rocks. A huge chest towered in the center of a bright spot on a water-washed rock. Judging by its size, the chest must have been assembled on the spot. The place reeked of dark magic in its most ancient and gloomy sense.

  I cautiously entered the cave. The cache had been made a very, very long time ago, and not by Uncle. Certainly, there was some supernatural being nearby, because my hair stood on end the entire time I was there. The most superficial examination of the chest revealed three layers of magical protection: from the water, from the fire, and from all living things. On the top of the chest I found an amulet-key with an ornate monogram of the capital letter “T”.

  Wow, that was the Tangors’ secret lair!

  My mother and I lived apart from my father’s relatives; therefore, I did not know the Tangor’s legends. Who and when made the cache and how Uncle discovered it was unclear. My curiosity overcame common sense; I took the key and climbed into the chest.

  Two-thirds of it was filled with strange stuff: unusually shaped knives, inlaid polished skulls, and flutes made from bones. Had I brought some of these things to the university, I would have been instantly apprehended for necromancy. In a separate niche I found books, entirely written on parchment, bound in suspiciously fine leather, with meaningful runes on the cover. Surely, those were the treasures of a dark magician, a necromancer, an ancient one. What the dark were doing in the past, I don’t have the right words to describe. But by today’s standards, the collection was of no use, except as antiques. A mail package, tied up with string, lay over the dubious treasures; I took it and left the lair, slowly and cautiously backing to the exit. I never thought that such a probably wrong word to use here place could be in our valley! And it was only mine now.

  The zombie-dog watched with interest as its master clambered over the rocks, using one hand only. At some point my nerves could not take it anymore (I was still far up the slope from Uncle’s house); I aimed my find and threw it toward the barn wall. It wasn’t glass, after all! Having climbed down, I disemboweled the parcel, untying the string and unwrapping it. There was a return address! The postman was right; the parcel came from the capital. Inside, there were several sheets folded in half—a letter—and a small book, ancient in appearance; I immediately grabbed it, opened it, and…

  And couldn’t understand anything.

  Incredibly thin, translucent pages were protected by so much magic that they had become almost metallic—elastic and solid. Blue squiggles of handwriting ran over a yellowish background; no magic runes, circuits, or signs were there. Some letters looked familiar, but the meaning of the words remained a mystery. That must have been one of those ancient relics that Mrs. Clements had been looking for, the same one hundred thousand crowns—not in bonds, but in one piece. I did not think that Uncle was involved in business with rarities! An explanation had to be in the letter, but I didn’t have time to read it—while I was searching the cache, the NZAMIPS truck moved from the pass to the village. My family waited for me at home, and some of my kinsmen could drop by Uncle’s house at any time. I needed to go back.

  But I had to protect the book: Uncle was murdered for it, somebody tried to kill me, and who knows what else they would do. I did not want to carry it in my luggage; there was another way… I put the letter and the address, torn from the wrapper, between the magically protected sheets of the book, and re-packaged it. Then I shoved the parcel into Max’s mouth with instructions to deliver it to my garage at Redstone. That method of transportation seemed to be the most secure to me: no one would notice the zombie among bushes and rocks and, even if someone did, he or she wouldn’t catch the dog. And the zombie didn’t have my name on it. I could always say it wasn’t mine.

  Finally, I was ready to leave Krauhard. With calm soul and conscience, but with agitated nerves. All the way to the village my palms and shoulder blades were itching so much that I wanted to bob up and down like Lyuchik. The enthusiasm of the white is contagious. And I couldn’t tell anyone…

  Returning home, I found Chief Harlik drinking tea on the veranda with the leftovers of cold pancakes (there were no bees). It was outrageous—in my absence my mother let another man in and fed him my meal! I was about to revile the NZAMIPS boss, but Mom deftly put scrambled eggs in front of me. My dark nature was pleased—my meal was bigger. Harlik gave a sour look toward my plate, but did not say anything; yes, he was older, but it was my home.

  “I see you’ve recovered.”

  I allowed myself to swallow a piece of egg and then replied: “I have!”

  “We have found those murderers,” Harlik paused meaningfully. “It’s a pity that we couldn’t interrogate them.”

  I felt like the scrambled egg got stuck in my throat. Hmm. I wondered what Max was doing yesterday. I had not watched the zombie at all.

  “Wolves?”

  “No, Rustle.”

  So, that rascal hadn’t gone far away. Supposedly, it was waiting for me!

  “Obviously, they weren’t local,” Harlik explained when I did not respond. “They came in the evening, hoping to get to the village at night. That’s when the otherworldly caught and killed them.”

  Yes, only barbaric townsfolk could do business in Krauhard at night. Well, even if they saw my dog, they wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about it now!”

  “Bad luck,” I mumbled, returning to the food.

  “You don’t look very upset,” Harlik noticed.

  “I am not upset at all,” I agreed, chewing non-stop. Mother sighed softly, and I had to explain my point to her, “I know what Uncle had gone through before he died. Rustle is far too humane for them!”

  I reminded myself not to blab out to the chief that I was now personally familiar with Rustle.

  Joe cautiously approached the veranda: two dark magicians at a time were too much for his nerves.

  “I am leaving,” Harlik stood up. “Call me, if anything.”

  Mom gently nodded.

  “What was he talking about?” I asked suspiciously when the back of the chief was out of sight.

  “He is worried that the interest in Gordon would pass onto us,” she answered serenely.

  That was unconvincing. Though why would Mother lie?

  And I threw Harlik out of my head; I had far too many impressions today.

  * * *

  Locomotive wasn’t able to take the student to the coordinator: the enterprising kid had left town right before the authorities expressed interest in him. The captain flirted with the idea of contacting Krauhard’s department of NZAMIPS, but decided against it: fables of mutual cover-up and conspiracy among the local dark could be true. None of the dark magicians was ever caught in Krauhard for the entirety of NZAMIPS’ history. The captain had to wait until the guy returned to Redstone on his own.

  Mr. Satal reacted to Locomotive’s misfortune quite emotionally: “What the hell! Next time I should be the first to know, got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Locomotive did not argue.

  Morning briefs of NZAMIPS higher-ups became regular, and Captain Baer had to attend them alone—his subordinates were losing their operability after meetings with the senior coordinator.

  It was difficult to say whether there was any benefit from the meetings. The coordinator wished to know everything that was happening in Redstone—Redstone alone and nowhere else. Sometimes Conrad Baer asked himself: was the situation in his town unique? Had anything similar happened before?

  “A new informant let us approach the elder who acts in the southwestern part of the town. His na
me is Godovan Boberri; he has been detained for illegal practice of magic. Boberri is clearly a priest and had a few disciples, three of whom have been arrested.”

  The coordinator nodded in satisfaction.

  “The source of the rumors about a ‘rebirth’ has not been found yet. Our analyst emphasizes the high quality of the underlying theory; he is of the opinion that they will soon move from words to deeds. His recommendation is to pay attention to the corpses of young men, including the ones who died of putative suicide or accidents; they could attempt to hide the real cause of death.”

  Mr. Satal frowned: “This topic had already been discussed in the ministry. We have been advised to stay calm and wait, meaning that we should use information resources only after finding three-four corpses. Try not to miss them!”

  Captain Baer refrained himself from swearing, though he was confident that he didn’t need recommendations on how to do his job. The captain himself had complained that his superiors were not interested in his work, and he started regretting that now.

  “All editions of the pamphlet ‘The New Way’ have been confiscated; the reason formulated was the ‘promotion of dangerous magic practices’. The publisher has been detained; the chief editor is under investigation. We are checking why they decided to print the editions without the visa of the NZAMIPS censor.”

  The coordinator sighed: “Share responsibility. If your censors are choking, pass on part of the work to our department. Ms. Kevinahari has a group of six experts, and it would warm them up.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Locomotive made note to contact the empath; his censor was truly overloaded.

  His whole division was overwhelmed with work—their weekly load was higher than their monthly load a year ago.

  “Now for the oddities.”

  The coordinator put his elbows on the desk and folded his palms as if making a house of cards—the gesture meant he was extremely interested and attentive.

  “There is a connection between Boberri and Fire Mage who was arrested two weeks ago: both used trusted aides of similar appearance—it seemed to be one and the same person. The aide uses different names and dress styles, and the two groups belong to different religious confessions, but a few white witnesses quite emotionally described a man with a piercing gaze who smelled strangely. What was interesting in case of Fire Mage is that the aide insisted on more serious sacrifices than a few candles.”

  “Excellent!” the dark magician echoed. “It looks like we are nearing the center point.”

  Locomotive grimly nodded: “All of these ‘elders’ are just protective fog around a group that is up for some really serious stuff. Minions are lost sooner than their leaders expected them to be, and now they have to risk the lives of higher-standing agents.”

  A haze of meditation covered the dark magician’s eyes: “We need to find them, Conrad! Before they are ready. We must strengthen the work at the university. Tell your guys there. Freshmen from the province will be their first target.”

  “We think about the same,” Baer stated grimly.

  Mr. Satal’s voice broke out in a hissing whisper: “The artisans! Or a similar sect that just calls itself differently. They preach that the nature of man can be changed—that man can be turned into a different being. As soon as you eat and drink something special or say ‘yes’ in the right place, voila, your soul and body are purged. First, they invent some kind of threat, then they require sacrifices to fix it; and the greater the sacrifice, the more followers believe in the existence of threats. But in the end no one can remember for the sake of what it all began.”

  “And reckless magical practices,” Locomotive couldn’t keep his concerns to himself.

  “Naturally!” the coordinator agreed. “If they don’t respect the boundaries of their own nature, why would they limit themselves in the application of the elements? The insane cannot master the concept of responsibility. But we’ll get them, Conrad; I will prove that we can do that!”

  “Are you going to declare the theological threat?” the captain clarified.

  Mr. Satal could hardly get back to reality: “No. Then they will start all over with the same people, but in another place. And they will take into account the errors made in Redstone. Do we need that?”

  Locomotive did not answer.

  “Have you read Redstone’s artisans’ file?” the coordinator was curious.

  Captain Baer nodded: “I took part in the preparation of those materials.”

  “Then you know that the inquisitors couldn’t get the artisans’ higher-ups, five-six people that lay low after Nintark. Our job is to lure them out of their shelter.”

  Locomotive applauded the idea, but he didn’t like that it was planned for Redstone.

  “Will you let them frolic in freedom?”

  “No!” Mr. Satal resentfully shook his head. “We will be beating them, but… awkwardly. We’ll win, demonstrating our helplessness, as if by accident. We’ll look ridiculous, as though all that separated them from success was the incompetence of their junior officers.”

  “Do you think that normal people will buy such nonsense?”

  “Do you think that the artisans are normal people?”

  Locomotive shrugged: “Well, if we are going to beat them anyway, I am in!”

  “I didn’t doubt for a second!” Mr. Satal chuckled. “By the way, you can call me Dan for short, but not before subordinates.”

  Locomotive was always moved by the ceremoniousness of the dark, often demonstrated at the most inopportune times. “And I am just Conrad,” he suggested placidly.

  Chapter 19

  How much does a dark mage need in order to be happy? In fact, quite a lot, but there is some minimum which makes life bearable. That summer I regarded as successful.

  I decorously parted with my family on the platform, three times pledged to Lyuchik to come to his school in winter, and encouragingly patted Joe on the back (“keep an eye on everything while I am away”). Then we barely pulled my suitcase into the railroad car.

  The circumstances of the eventful morning were still settling in my head (to collect thoughts in the presence of Lyuchik was just impossible), so I had to act intuitively. I checked in the heavy suitcase with deliberate carelessness and took into the compartment only a basket—it was large, see-through, and allowed visual inspection from all sides. Everyone could see that I didn’t carry any ancient artifacts with me. The train’s buffers clanked, and we slowly sailed off through the starting drizzle—Krauhard’s summer was over. My family waved at me from the platform.

  There is some benefit to having relatives, especially when they are compassionate.

  I sat on the bench, plunging into meditation—not for the sake of spellcasting (it was forbidden for me), but simply to get my thoughts in order. Not often did I have such a need.

  The passing summer was very special: it scared, surprised, angered, and delighted me. I would have never thought that a dark mage could experience such a diverse range of emotions! I almost died and was saved, suffered from helplessness and triumphed, was outraged and intrigued. But in the end I became bigger, wider, and longer. Something of that kind. For a magician it is very important to see and perceive the world in all its diversity, and for a dark magician it is also very difficult. We always impose our own view on reality and dislike accepting objections, so reality intrudes into our lives in one way only: by force and without asking.

  In a burst of feelings, I promised myself that I would start a new life. I would pay greater attention to what happened around me, so that no more enemies could approach me from behind. I would start thinking not only about myself… One year left until graduation from the university, but I didn’t know any better entertainment than joining Quarters for his pub parties. It was shameful! Please understand, I had no desire to make this promise a major life turning point; it was momentary insanity, a second of weakness, born from thoughts about my white family. Thinking about spiritual perfection, I moved the basket close
r to sort out the delicious grub that Mom had put in - there was too much food to finish it at once, anyway.

  That night I didn’t dream about alchemical designs. I saw Redstone, not as always, but in some strange, very alien way. Everything was colored in dust and dirt; buildings had trembling outlines, as if drawn by a frightened hand, and they were almost indistinguishable from each other. Acrid smoke, hanging low over the pavement like a ghost, hot stuffiness, and lack of shades: that must be the way a completely feral white mage would perceive a city. It hurts to think of the white at night!

  I liked the feeling I experienced during a night dream; it had a sort of gentle exotic touch. Funny what kind of brains one must have to imagine buildings with inclined side walls. Houses could not stand that way, after all. And strange orange stench… Fireplaces in residential areas were stocked with pressed briquettes, and they gave off a bluish, slightly tart smoke with scent of straw and manure. The closest things I had ever seen in real life were the yellowish acidic evaporations of smithy and leather workshops in the southeastern outskirts of Redstone. Only a white was capable of confusing the blue smoke with the red one. In a burst of rare complacency, I tried to make the image more realistic by running cars and trams along the streets of my dream. I spent the rest of the night doing just that.

  And then the night dream continued in reality.

  I stood silently on the platform, hugging my suitcase with the basket, and realizing that I did not recognize the station where I had been plenty of times. It was a completely strange place now. I didn’t forget the details; I just did not see them. Normal daily life seethed around me, but the crowd seemed to look strange now: people were replaced with some kind of blurred contours that flashed iridescently with unnamed colors (either shades of emotions or reflections of intents). No, the contours did not merge, did not lose individuality, but I couldn’t say what those people wore even under pain of death.