by Dante King
“Wow,” I said. “As nice and terrifyingly gruesome as this little stroll down memory lane promises to be, how about we refocus?”
“Sorry,” Zenidor said, returning to the present. “You wanted to know about any limitations that you might have, is that it?”
“In a nutshell, yeah.”
“Right. Well, in a nutshell; it’s true. Creation Mages do have a limited number of spell slots available to them.”
My face must have fallen at this news because my old man said quickly, “Don’t fret, son. That doesn’t mean that you need to put your sword back in its sheath, so to speak. If you’ll allow me to lay another piece of advice on you, it’s that limits are only limits for as long as no one pushes them, for as long as no one breaks them.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Dad,” I said, “but good intentions and willpower and all that will only take you so far in this world, or so I’ve found.”
“Good,” my father said with brusque approval. “Optimism in the face of adversity never hurt anyone, but it’s good to temper that with pragmatism. You’ll find yourself, one day, coming against a hard limit.”
“A hard limit? You mean that after...doing the deed one day, I’ll stop gaining new spells in my spellbook?”
“Precisely,” my dad said. “This is an inevitability. When this happens, you’ll need to locate certain relics of power that will enable you to continue to gain new spells.”
A host of fresh questions bloomed in my mind as this information washed over me, but I couldn’t afford to start down a fresh line of questions at this point. Clearly, my old man was of the same opinion, because when I said, “Relics?” he simply shook his head.
“You needn’t trouble yourself with the location of these relics until you reach this limit. When that day comes—and it sounds like it’s not far off—finding the Chief Inscriber in Avalonia’s capital, the Castle of Ascendance, under the very nose of the Queen, will be your best course of action.”
“You think the Chief Inscriber would be willing to help me out, after what you just told me about the Arcane Council’s views on Creation Mages?” I asked incredulously.
Zenidor studied his fingernails and then looked up at me. “She’s an old friend of mine, this Chief Inscriber. She may require some wrangling to reveal the location of the relics, that being said. Unless they have changed their ways, the Arcane Council has likely had them scattered, or guarded under lock, key, ward, and monstrous protection.”
“That might have intimidated me once,” I said. “But it all sounds like par for the course now.”
“Didn’t take long for you to get acclimatized to this world and the extremes it presents,” Zenidor observed.
“I’ve got HBO to thank for that,” I said, “and the good folks at Sony and Microsoft.”
Zenidor gave me the blank stare of bafflement that often accompanied these explanations of mine.
While we still had time, I figured I might as well ask whatever questions came to my mind.
“How did these Inscribers even come to be?” I suddenly asked. “Why are there such people in the world? Do they act as conduits to control the flow of magic out into the world or something?”
My father clapped his hands delightedly and came and thumped me on the arm good-naturedly. Even this shade of his, this spirit, had a decent arm on him. I figured that he would have been a warrior worth avoiding on the battlefield if you could manage it.
“That’s precisely it,” he said. “They are the gatekeepers of knowledge and magic. With them resides the greatest responsibility of our world, although it is commonly overlooked.”
“But how did they come to be the keepers of spells and magic?” I pressed.
“The very first Creation Mage enabled spells,” Zenidor explained, in a slightly rushed voice. “Just as procreation brings all things into existence, so does Sex Magic. The very first Creation Mage was a god who had access to all forms of magic—Storm, Frost, Earth, Fire, Air, Death, Chaos, Holy, Infernal, etcetera, etcetera. By sleeping with his wives, he imbued them with a little of his magic. Eventually, he lost this magic and faded from the world, but his children bore some of his Creative Powers. These were passed down and diluted with the powers of other mages through the years, just like any other genetic trait. Creation Mages can create spells, Justin.”
“So, when I, you know, get down to a bit of mattress testing with someone, you’re saying that I can create spells during the act? Is that it?”
“Yes, that’s what it amounts to,” Zenidor said.
“But how?”
“By being creative in the bedchamber,” my dad said.
I closed my eyes and repressed a little shiver. What I did in the bedroom was something I really didn’t want to discuss with my dad—be he long-lost or not—but I had to know.
“Can you clarify that?” I asked him.
Zenidor allowed himself an indulgent smile. I caught a glimpse then of the joy that all fathers get in embarrassing their children. I guessed that it was a biological coping mechanism of sorts. Children cost you so much in time, sleep, and money, I supposed that the very least fathers were entitled to was humiliating their offspring a little.
“Through a conscious conjuring,” he said.
“Conscious conjuring?” I asked.
“You, during the love act—”
“Oooooh boy, can’t you just call it ‘sex’? ‘Love act’ is so…”
“During the love act,” Zenidor said, overriding me and emphasizing the words, “you can consciously conjure Sex Magic, guiding and helping form what kind of spell will appear in your spellbook. It’s really not that hard when you know how.”
Zenidor went back to casually regarding his fingernails, while outside the window lightning flickered and traced itself across the purple mass of clouds. There was a definite sense of a trap being laid in the way that he left that sentence hanging. As the dutiful son that has just stumbled across his dead father’s spirit, I stepped resignedly into said trap.
“Oh yeah, how is it done exactly, then?” I asked.
“Justin,” said the man who called himself my father, “I’m glad you asked me.”
He looked studiously at me.
“You’re really going to milk this, aren’t you?” I said.
“Now,” Zenidor said, completely ignoring my words and the stony expression on my face, “let’s say that you’re in the market for a spell that is related to speed? Well, that can be achieved by making sure that the thrusts you deliver unto your ‘mattress testing partner’ are fast.”
It was at that point that I realized that this talk was going to be more awkward than I had previously anticipated. Also, no matter how badass your dad looked—Zenidor was dressed in the all-black of a rogue-cum-dragonrider—he was still your dad.
“Something to help with defense?” my father continued. “Then, working a woman from behind will guide the magic in that right direction.”
“Did you just say, ‘working a woman?’” I said.
“I could have said ‘giving her a Barbarian backrub,” Dad said.
“Woooah, point well made.”
“This Sex Magic works differently for each Creation Mage,” Zenidor said, “so it will take a little practice to get the hang of it.”
“I promise to be a diligent student,” I said.
“Good, because all joking aside, this is how you will grow and develop and strengthen as a mage, Justin. Your teachers are competent, are they?”
“How do you mean? As educational professionals or in bed?”
My father burst out laughing. “You’ve slept with your teachers?” he snorted.
“Not all of them,” I said. “Ragnar Ironksin, the guy who runs that insane obstacle course class, is a dude. That’s not my jam.”
My father shook his head and laughed some more. “Gods, what a man you’ve turned out to be. Remember though, it is knowing this stuff—the basics about Creationism—that will help carry you through
the War Mage Games.”
The War Mage Games! I thought. I’d almost forgotten about them!
What with all the recent excitement—rescuing the austerely beautiful Priestess Mallory Entwistle and escaping her Celestial Realms—the Mage Games Qualifiers had totally slipped my mind.
“Are they really that important, these Mage Games, what with everything else that’s being heaped on my plate on a daily basis?” I asked. “Don’t get me wrong, this life beats the hell out of chilling in Uncle Mickey’s occult bookstore, but…”
“It’s imperative that you stick the course, as far as the Mage Games are concerned,” Zenidor said.
“Why?” I asked.
“For the combat experience, that much is evident,” the bronze dragon suddenly chipped in for the first time.
I checked a reply that would have been something along the lines of ‘who asked your opinion, pal?’ The dragon was, after all, the soul that had resided in my very first vector. I was sure that he had only my best interests at heart.
Still, I was going to have to find out who the hell this reptilian motherfucker was all the same, at some point.
“There is that facet to it, of course,” Zenidor said. “But you must learn to look further afield than that, Justin. In our world—in the Avalonian Kingdom—a champion War Mage carries a lot of clout. They vicariously carry the hopes and dreams and ambitions of the thousands and tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands who follow them on their shoulders.”
“You mean they become sort of figureheads of the people?” I asked. “A representative and champion of the proletariat, sort of thing?”
“Yes, just so,” Zenidor said. “If you’re able to get yourself into that sort of position, it will be a hell of a lot harder for the Arcane Council to try any sort of skullduggery, should they wish to do so.”
“Right,” I said. “Become a public fixture so that if I disappear or something…”
“That’s right,” my father said. “If they try to get rid of you, they will make a rod for their own back. They will anger not just those closest to you, but the legions of fans that will, hopefully, follow you too.”
“Damn,” I said, “so you’re really covering all the angles here, right? You think things, this agenda that Reginald Chaosbane is pushing—whatever it might be—might get to a point where having a mage in the public eye helps the cause?”
My father stood up and took me by the shoulders. He gave me a little shake. “That is what leaders must do, Justin. If you’re leading an army, or a group of people that might one day turn into an army, you have to look ten steps down the road.”
That gave me pause for thought. I’d never been sure what that genius lunatic Reginald Chaosbane might have been planning, but I hadn’t really considered it to be rebellion or anything like that. The Headmaster of the Mazirian Academy had been an ardent follower of my parents, as well as a hell of a powerful mage in his own right, but an instigator of insurrection against the Queen and the Arcane Council?
I have seen that dude in some pretty fucked up states. Really, I wouldn’t put it past him, my brain said.
My brain had a point. Headmaster Chaosbane wasn’t so much a loose cannon as he was a revolving, staggering cruise missile.
I felt a squirming in my stomach. On the edge of my hearing, I could hear the clang and gloing of metal being worked. I blinked a couple of times and touched my face, sure that I had just felt cold water spot my forehead.
My father watched me carefully.
“You’re becoming aware of outside stimulus again,” he said. “The spell, the soul magic that you used to gain access to me here, is wearing thin.”
“Goddamn it, but there’s so much more that I could discuss with you,” I said. “So much that I want to know about everything. About Mom. About where we came from. About where we lived. I’ve got the fucking house, the family home, did you know that?”
My dad grinned again. “Yes, that makes sense. I left it to you in my will, along with instructions for Chaosbane to deal with it in a manner he deemed fit. Where did he put it?”
“On the hill overlooking Nevermoor,” I said.
“Prime real estate!” my father said. “Aren’t you the lucky one.”
“Sounds like you and Mom used to throw some pretty radical parties,” I said.
Zenidor nodded his head slowly. “Yes, I suppose we did.”
“If winning, or at least doing well in the War Games is so important,” I said, hit by a sudden notion, “are there any hints or tips that you want to fire my way? Anything from back in your day that you think might prove helpful?”
“This is the world of magic, my son,” Zenidor said. “Magic is as old as time itself, almost. What held true with magical combat thirty years ago holds just as true today.”
“Well, spill the beans then, old man,” I said. “I’ve done pretty well for myself so far, but it’s a stubborn, egomaniacal jackass that doesn’t ask for advice from a man who isn’t just his father, but also one of the two most infamous mages ever to walk Avalonian soil.”
My father settled himself back in his seat and crossed his legs. He brushed a few specks of dust from his broad shoulders and looked at me.
“It’s like you said, boy,” he told me. “You have come remarkably far on your wits alone. I’ve always been a good judge of character, and I can see in your face that you have taken on much from those you have trusted with your friendship. My advice: keep doing this. Surround yourself with like-minded men and women. Treat them well and cherish their friendships. Make sure you always bear in mind that the Avalonian Kingdom is full of latent magic and wonders; wonders that are waiting patiently for those with keen enough wit to uncover and see. Your mother told me something, and never failed to reiterate it to me during times of extreme stress. I think it holds true in battle, just as it does in everyday life—maybe more so in a way.”
I could feel the rain of another world, of another place on my cheeks now, though it left not a drop on my face. Thunder rumbled through the room, but I was the only one who could hear it.
“What was it?” I asked. “Quick, tell me.”
“It was this: never become one of those people that forget to live. Don’t be one of those fools who spend their days perpetually looking onward to the distant horizon, dreaming of some magical flower garden that doesn’t exist. Live in the present. Enjoy the flowers that are blooming right under your nose today. Fight for every breath.”
I looked at Zenidor, at my father. There was a grin on his face, but it was the epitome of a bittersweet smile. It was obvious that he was sad that I’d be leaving him.
I knew how he felt.
I had lived my whole life thinking that I would never know my parents. I had reconciled myself with that fact early on. Now though, I found that I had kin—even if they were only the spiritual shades left behind by the people themselves—and it had got right in under my ribs.
Lightning flickered across my vision, across my eyes. The scene of my father and the dragon sitting in that strange gray room began to break up, to dissipate.
“Shit!” I blurted out. “I needed to know about the genocide! About just why you wanted to do things the way that everyone tells me that you wanted them done! Was that the only way to save the universal magic?”
“Remember, your mother’s words, Justin,” my father said as lightning cracked across my eyes once more and the gray world splintered into pieces. “She’s the smartest person I ever met. Don’t forget to smell the flowers blooming right under your nose. Watch your back. Fight for every breath!”
My father got up and walked toward me through the swirling, building confusion. At first, I thought he was going to go in for a hug, but Zenidor stopped just short of me as the room pitched and swirled around him.
He simply nodded his head.
I had to hand it to the man, it was amazing how many words and emotions he managed to fit into that one small gesture.
“We’ll chat ag
ain though, right?” I yelled, over the building noise of wind and rain that was filling my ears like wine into a cup.
“Oh yes, you can bet your ass on that, son,” Zenidor said. “I’ve still got much to tell you. Although, next time might require something more substantial than a trio of souls.”
With that, the gray, smoky, insubstantial world closed in on itself. There was a flash of white, which might have been lightning or might have been brought about by me clocking my head as I keeled over sideways onto the lawn outside of my fraternity house. My vision blurred, darkened, and then blurred again.
Dimly, as if from the other end of a long corridor, I heard voices.
“Shit, is he okay?” Nigel asked.
“Is he breathing?” Damien put in.
Then a deep voice asserted itself. It was a subterranean voice that I had no chance of confusing with any other; Rick Hammersmith, Earth Elemental Mage, and one of my frat brothers.
“I have seen this before, friends,” he rumbled. “A very common sight, when someone has touched their ancestors.”
“What should we do for him?” said a far more melodious voice, which I recognized, vaguely, as belonging to the delightfully aristocratic Elven Frost Mage, Cecilia Chillgrave.
There was the unmistakable thwop sound of a cork being pulled. My eyelids flickered. The wet grass was cool under my cheek.
“Get that man a drink,” Rick rumbled.
Chapter Two
My mind cleared after about five minutes, or three shots of werewolf whiskey, later.
“There he is, there he fucking is,” came the voice of Damien Davis, Fire Magic practitioner and one of only a few other people I knew who had ever visited Earth.
I blinked again. My belly was full of a warm glow that was spreading tendrils to outlying regions.
That would be the whiskey, my brain supplied helpfully.
My vision cleared, and I hauled myself up into a sitting position.
There was an arm around my shoulder. It was an athletic, smooth-skinned arm, running with rain. I followed it up to its accompanying shoulder and saw that it belonged to Enwyn Emberskull. Her trademark spectacles framed her dark eyes . Her blood-red lips stood out starkly against her pale skin, her face bordered by twin curtains of dark hair.