by Pile, Duncan
“I’m here for Hephistole,” a voice growled from the other side of the door.
“This is Hephistole,” the chancellor responded. “Who is this? It’s the middle of the night!”
“Just let me in!” the voice said in a tone that spoke more of irritation than of threat. There was something familiar about that voice.
Taking uncertain steps towards the door, Hephistole reached out and grasped the handle, sending a thread of magic through his fingertips to unlock it. He turned the handle and pulled the door open, taking a step back and drawing even more power to his fists in case he needed to defend himself.
A huge shadow filled the doorframe, the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man. The shadow stepped through the door and into the revealing glow of Hephistole’s magic. Arcane light reflected in startling green eyes, shaded with every hue of growing things under the sun. A well-tanned face was framed by dreadlocked hair as tangled as a forest thicket.
Hephistole stared at the wild-man in disbelief. “Heath!”
…
“That’s no way to greet a visitor,” the druid said, eyeing the balls of power encircling Hephistole’s fists distastefully.
Hephistole glanced at his summoned power as if in surprise. “Right, sorry,” he responded, the light winking out, and leaving them in sudden darkness. Moments later, a globe light appeared, hovering in the air between them.
“What are you doing here?” Hephistole asked. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The druid was a hermit, and profoundly uncomfortable around people. Helioport was just about the last place Hephistole would ever expect to see him.
Just then, a rush of scrabbling claws sounded from behind the druid, and a creamy white ferret came scurrying through the door, followed by an otter with eyes as blue as the summer sky.
“Loreill, Lilly!” Hephistole exclaimed, the arrival of the spirits heralding all sorts of questions and emotions he wasn’t prepared for. No doubt the air spirit was outside even now, circling the skies.
“Let’s go somewhere more private,” Heath said.
“My office,” Hephistole responded. He led them across the floor of the Atrium towards the twelfth transporter plinth, noticing for the first time that students had transported down from the Warren and were watching the exchange in curious silence.
“Antonius, can you put them all back to bed?” he asked as he passed Professor Worrick. The professor mumbled something in the affirmative as they passed, staring with fascination at the druid.
“Step on,” Hephistole said, ushering the druid and both elementals onto the plinth before joining them himself.
“Is there any other way?” Heath asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Hephistole answered. “We have to be touching,” he added with an apologetic grimace.
“Just get it over with,” Heath said, standing still and waiting for the transportation to be over. Hephistole reached out and placed a hand on Heath’s shoulder. The elementals knew what was expected of them, and flopped down on Hephistole’s feet.
“Observatory,” Hephistole said, and they were swept up by the magic of transportation.
…
“I just can’t believe you’re here,” Hephistole said, eyeing the druid in amazement.
“Neither can I,” the druid mumbled to himself, shaking his head to clear the effects of transportation. “Forceful magic!” he spat distastefully.
“You said you were here to see me?” Hephistole said.
“Right you are,” Heath responded. “I only want to explain this once, so you may as well wake Gaspi, along with the other spirits’ bond-mates, and bring them here.”
“Oh! That might be problematic.”
“How so?” Heath asked.
“Gaspi isn’t here.”
“Well where is he man?” the druid rumbled.
“I honestly don’t know,” Hephistole answered. “We were planning a quest – a long journey to Pell, where we hoped to recover fragments of the altar to El-Amyari. Gaspi wanted to get going, but I was delaying until the spirits returned. I believe he has gone ahead with the plan, along with a number of others.”
“You don’t know for certain?” Heath asked incredulously.
“They snuck off without telling me!”
“When did they leave?”
“Over a week ago.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” Heath said, pacing back and forth. “Gaspi respects you. Why would he go behind your back?”
Hephistole sank into a chair and let out a long sigh. “Heath, I haven’t been…on the best form,” he said, running a hand over his face.
Heath stopped his pacing and took several slow steps towards Hephistole. When he reached the chancellor, he crouched down and peered intently into his eyes. Hephistole tried to hold his gaze, but Heath’s eyes were so knowing that he had to look away. He felt like a nervous child, unable to meet the gaze of an inquisitive parent. Heath stood up, backed up a couple of paces and sat down in an empty chair opposite the chancellor.
“What happened to you Hephistole?” he asked, all of his gruffness melted away by compassion.
“What do you mean?” Hephistole.
“I have met you on three separate occasions, and on each of those you were confident, intelligent, and full of energy. You are not the man I knew.”
Hephistole sighed wearily, knowing that Heath was not going to be put off the scent. “I have failed in my duty,” he responded. “A failure so catastrophic I can’t bear to think about it, and yet I can think of nothing else.”
“Tell me of this failure.”
Hephistole almost refused. He’d been over it so many times in his mind and it had got him nowhere, but something about Heath’s attentive manner persuaded him otherwise. Maybe it would be good to talk to a stranger. Starting from the beginning, Hephistole began to unburden himself.
…
When Hephistole had finished, he didn’t feel any better at all. Heath had listened in silence, watching him without expression, and now that he’d heard the whole story, he leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers. He stayed like that for long moments, staring at his hands with a furrowed brow.
“Guilt is a strange thing,” he began eventually. “People with a conscience will embrace it when they feel they have erred, whereas people who only care about themselves will never experience it – not even for a moment. They will carry on as if nothing has happened while the good man laments in ashes. In this way, guilt marks the difference between people, Hephistole, and I would be much more concerned if you did not feel as you do.”
“That’s no comfort to me,” Hephistole said snappily. Heath’s platitudes left him feeling ragged, angry even. “Wise-sounding words perhaps, but at the end of the day, Everand will still be dead at the hand of one of his fellow pupils, and the blame for that lies at my feet.”
Heath’s eyes flashed warningly at Hephistole’s tone. “I shall permit your rudeness this once, chancellor. You are not in your right mind. But once this conversation is over, you will do well to remember that I am not one of your underlings, to be spoken to as such.”
Hephistole shrugged, staring sullenly at the glowering druid.
Heath took a controlled breath and carried on. “It is important to embrace your guilt, but no-one can live under its burden for any length of time. It will rob you of your peace of mind, and eventually it will devour you.”
“So what am I meant to do?” Hephistole asked, frustrated. “Just forget what happened and move on?”
“I’m not trying to give you an easy answer,” Heath said. “There’s a difference between regret and a burden of guilt. We all live with regrets, as you well know, but somewhere along the line you need to forgive yourself for what has happened. If you don’t, that guilt will never mellow into regret, and you’ll be crippled by it for the rest of your life.”
Hephistole stared at Heath with profound sadness. “I know there is wisdom in what you are saying, but
I just can’t forgive myself. To do so would be like saying what happened was okay.”
“No it wouldn’t!” Heath insisted, leaning forward in his chair. “To forgive yourself you first have to acknowledge that you have done wrong. You must throw yourself on the mercy of the Great Spirit, and give yourself permission to carry on living. With all due respect, chancellor, if you do not do this, you will be guilty of a much greater act of selfishness. You are needed, and the longer you wallow in this state, the more danger you put other people in.”
“I beg your pardon?” Hephistole said incredulously, rising swiftly to his feet. “How dare you!”
“I dare because I must,” Heath responded, rising to his feet as well.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Hephistole said, biting off each word.
“I can’t do that,” Heath responded calmly.
“I don’t want to force you, but I will if I have to,” Hephistole said, tightening his hands into fists as the light of arcane power swelled into being around them.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Heath growled. He picked up his staff and bashed the butt against the floor with a heavy thunk. Loreill and Lilly transformed in a moment, flashing into iridescent spirit form and flanking Heath on either side. Just then, there was an enormous implosion, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Hephistole spun around to see the enchanted window of the Observatory come crashing to the floor in a thousand pieces. A howling gale filled the room, picking up shards of glass and flinging them across the floor as two more elementals soared in through the gap where the window used to be.
The hawk and the dragon - for that is what the creatures were - transformed into spirit form, and Hephistole faced two more advancing spirits, one crackling with lightning and the other glowing dangerously with the light of searing flame.
“Hold!” Heath shouted, and though the spirits stopped their advance, they didn’t change from their ominous spirit forms.
Hephistole let go of his power, knowing he was defeated. Even if he could hold his own against four elementals and a druid, he didn’t want to. The elementals were fundamentally benign creatures – part of the land itself in some mysterious way – and being in spirit form while out of their natural elements was extremely painful for them.
“I give in. Please, change back to bodily form,” he said. None of the spirits did as he said.
“You can trust him,” Heath insisted, and one by one, all four spirits clothed themselves with flesh, starting with Loreill and ending with the fire spirit.
Hephistole stared in confusion at the fire spirit. “What? How…?” he started. The fire spirit was supposed to be dead.
“Explanations can wait,” Heath said. He rested his staff against the wall and stepped towards Hephistole. Placing his hands on the chancellor’s shoulders, he looked him in the eye. “I know you’re used to being in charge,” the druid started, speaking gently. “Other people come to you with their worries, and you willingly shoulder their burdens, but on this occasion it is you that needs help, and you don’t know how to handle that. When the pillar that holds the building up crumbles, the whole building comes tumbling down. Like it or not, if you do not allow me to help you, you will crumble like that pillar, and the collapse will crush everyone who takes shelter beneath it.”
Hephistole stood still as a statue, wrestling with Heath’s words. The druid was right – he wasn’t used to asking for help. He often asked for advice, and enjoyed working alongside talented people like Voltan, but in the end, he was the one who took responsibility. He made the final decisions, and he’d always been okay with that. But maybe he’d come to the end of himself. For the first time in his adult life, self-sufficiency had failed him. Perhaps it was time to reach out for help.
“Okay Heath, I’ll let you help me.”
Heath smiled warmly and removed his hands from Hephistole’s shoulders. “A wise decision,” he said. “Everything starts with forgiveness. You must look at your failures, acknowledging their extent and taking responsibility for them. If you will permit, I will lead you through it.”
A fearful part of Hephistole urged him to refuse. This would make him much too vulnerable! With an extreme effort of will, he resisted that defensive instinct. Heath was right – he’d come to the end of himself, and he needed help. Whether it made a difference or not, he had to give it a go.
“Show me what to do,” he said at last.
“Take a seat,” Heath said, and both men sat down. “Close your eyes…and breathe…in and out…in and out…”
Hephistole tried to relax, but it was difficult. He hadn’t practiced meditation in weeks, and his mind had become accustomed to turning in frantic, useless circles. As he struggled to let go of his thoughts, it became clear just how tense a state he was in. He fingers kept twitching, and his mind just kept on spinning.
“Don’t try and force it. It’ll happen if you wait long enough,” Heath said, his voice low and soporific.
“I’m struggling,” Hephistole said without opening his eyes.
“I can see,” Heath said. “Just listen to my voice. Let’s try an imaginative exercise.”
“Okay,” Hephistole murmured, continuing to concentrate on his breathing.
“Imagine you’re standing alone on a rocky shore, stretching away for as far as you can see,” Heath said, speaking slowly and carefully. Hephistole let the druid’s words float through his mind, guiding his inner vision, and sure enough, he started to relax.
“You look down and see thousands of pebbles, of different shapes, colours and sizes…” He could see them; brown and grey, black and white, speckled and plain. Hephistole marvelled at the mind’s ability to conjure such vivid images.
“As you look at them, you realise that each pebble is a memory…if you pick them up and examine them, you will relive that memory…” Hephistole looked at the great variety of pebbles before him, wondering what memories they might represent. Some of the pebbles were attractive to look at, but others were jagged and ugly.
“You see a pebble that looks appealing, and take it in your hand.”
Hephistole passed over several coarse stones and selected a white pebble instead, perfectly smooth and warm to the touch. He held it in his hand for long moments, opening himself to the memory it contained, and sure enough, he found himself as a young man, standing on the prow of his father’s fishing boat as it ploughed through lively surf. It was a warm, clear day, and a strong breeze whipped up the spray and sent it flying back over the boat. As it spattered him, he tasted the salty tang of the ocean on his tongue. Feeling suddenly alive, the young Hephistole whooped with pleasure, turning back to look at his father, who grinned in return; a wild, weathered smile that told him his father knew exactly what he was feeling. The memory faded, leaving Hephistole with a great feeling of contentment.
“Another beautiful pebble catches your eye. You reach out and take it,” Heath said, his voice low and hypnotic. Hephistole cast his eyes over the pebbles at his feet and stopped on a mineral fragment, polished to perfection by sand and sea. It glimmered red and gold in the sun. He bent down and picked it up, attuning himself to the memory it contained.
He was sitting on a hilltop, far above the plains below, talking with the head shaman of the local network of tribes. The shaman’s skin was covered in a lattice of tattoos, each of which represented a spell he had mastered. He was only in his middle years, and he still showed patches of undecorated skin, but he was far and away the most gifted magic-user in the mountains. Hephistole had worked long and hard to establish communication with the man they called the Dag-Mar, but the tribespeople were wary of “plainsdwellers”, and it had taken great patience and persistent diplomatic effort to arrange this meeting. Sitting on that hilltop, Hephistole and the Dag-Mar began to talk. The shaman was cautious at first, but as Hephistole had hoped, he began to talk openly, explaining how magic was practiced among the tribes. Listening to the shaman talk, Hephistole felt a profound sen
se of fulfilment. This was what he was passionate about – building bridges between the diverse traditions of magic across the known world. He cared about sharing knowledge and forging understanding, and that day on the hilltop was the first of his great victories. It was also the first time he understood his highest calling and ambition, and how he would spend his life in the service of magic.
The memory started to fade, but the feeling of fulfilment lingered, even after he placed the pebble back on the ground. He felt better than he had in months – rejuvenated by reliving some of the best moments in his life.
“You become aware of something wonderful approaching,” Heath continued. “It is Love itself, drawing near to you.”
Hephistole became aware of a sense of infinite peace, of love, nearing him, making every last inch of his skin tingle. He turned around, looking for the source, but it was like the wind - it was everywhere - and yet its presence felt personal and somehow sentient.
“Allow yourself to be loved…” Heath’s voice continued. Hephistole didn’t hesitate. He pulled down every last scrap of defensiveness and opened his heart. Moment by moment, he became steadily more overwhelmed by love. That love went beyond what he did well or badly, beyond his successes and failures. It just was, as if love was the true essence of everything, and he was permitted in that moment to touch it. It was so pure, so intense, that he almost couldn’t stand it, but just when it felt like he couldn’t take any more, the sense of love slowly withdrew. Not completely, but enough that he felt in control of himself again. It was then that Hephistole realised he had been crying. His face and beard were wet with tears, soaked in fact, but he didn’t open his eyes, drying the tears off with his sleeve.
“You are ready to face your fears,” Heath said, just above a whisper.
Hephistole felt a twinge of fear but he ignored it. He was going to trust that tremendous sense of love that even now lingered nearby, keeping him safe.
“You look down at the beach once again, and see a jagged pebble. It is sharp and coarse. You bend down and pick it up, allowing yourself to feel its weight, its texture. Allow yourself to look deeply into the memory it contains…”