The Magus: Part 2
This story was made using the solo RPG: The Magus, by momatoes.
In the end, I decided to ask Trella if I could stay for a time, to both peruse her small library and help in any way I could to repay her kindness. She seemed delighted at the suggestion, and so for several months I shared her house, spending my days tending the yard or working in the nearby town, or studying the books in her library. The more I read, the more fascinated I became by this strange and wonderful world. She had books on flowers and trees, books about animals and insects, books about stones and how rivers moved and even some on the secret ways of the guilds. Books about making iron or tanning hides. Books about brewing ale or making candles from wax.
I kept up my practice from my own book, late at night after she had gone to bed. I had looked long and hard through her library for books on magic, but only a few volumes provided any minor insight, and they were written by Royal Witch-hunter hands.
The most useful book was a diary by the old Royal Witch-hunter Primus, Fenlark the Bloody. In it, he went into salacious detail about rituals he had disrupted, profane acts he had prevented, and provided far more information than might have been prudent. His descriptions of magical instrumentation and unholy sigils provided me with keys to unlock hitherto unknown secrets in my own book, and as such my abilities grew.
I felt giddy at learning more. As the weeks went on, I grew complacent and careless in my hubris, and so one night I did not notice until it was too late that Trella had woken in the dark and was watching my studies. She had seen me clearly, what I had done, and what I could do. I was certain in that moment that she would throw me out of her house, or perhaps even call the guards to come and burn me alive.
Instead, she gave a gentle smile and told me to not stay up too late before heading back to her bed, yawning.
I didn’t know what to do or how to think. Perhaps she was simply lulling me to a false sense of security and I would wake up with a soldier’s blade at my throat. Perhaps she hadn’t really seen my magics, or had dismissed it as a dream. It would have been wise to leave at once, but something in her voice made me stay.
When I woke the next morning there was no sword on my chest nor shackles on my wrists. Trella said nothing to me for the whole day until at last, at supper, I could bare it no longer. I begged her, demanded to know why she had not summoned the Witch-hunters to take me away.
“What kind of host would I be, to sentence a youth like yourself to death for no more than studying a book?” Her smile was kind, almost motherly. “You have been helpful for me, and I have never met another who reads books as hungrily as I. Besides, Grenja, God of Hearth and Food, considers it a sin to pit two guests against each other. I will not bring anyone into my house who would harm another, especially if they will do so without trial.”
She lowered her spoon to look me squarely in the eye. “As long as you live in this house, you are safe, no matter what.”
Such kindness I had never seen before, and I am not ashamed to say I wept at her generosity. I resolved then and there that I would do everything in my power to repay her kindness a thousand-fold when I became a true sorcerer.
I left Trella’s library half a year after I first crossed its threshold, wiser and stronger than I had been. I swore to her to find a way to repay her generosity, and she sent me on my way with enough food and supplies to get to the next town to the west.
I had, however, a different destination in mind.
Among Trella’s books was a book on the history of the region, going back many generations. A brief mention of a Dia Garoma caught my eye, as Di is an old form of address for wizards. Garoma lived in a region far to the south, in an old tower near a large lake, before he died during a peasant uprising in the local region. If my suspicions were correct, this Dia Garoma was a local sorcerer, possibly slain by a mob of peasants or more likely destroyed due to carelessness while practicing his art.
It took me many weeks before I found another sign of civilization — a tiny hamlet of only five or six buildings, filled with farmers and a blacksmith. They were a quiet and wary people, but sharing the few meager coins I had left opened their lips if not their hearts. They knew the ruins I spoke of and refused to give me more than cursory directions, as the region was surely haunted, cursed by the mysterious monsters of the forests.
I put no stock in their folk-tales, more fool me. I made my way to the tower ruins and began the aching labor of uncovering the secrets left behind.
It took many hours of labor to shift many of the cracked and aging stones. I found little that had not rotted away, torn by rodent teeth or pecked to pieces by curious beaks. Shards of ragged tapestry hung limply while rust-covered metal bent and sagged like rotten tree-branches.
At long last I found what I had been searching for; a trap door that had been covered by a collapsing wall. It took what little strength I had left to pry open the door and descend into the darkness, lighting my way with only a tiny candle.
The cellar had begun its collapse many years ago. Tree-roots and spills of soil broke through the stone walls and ceiling, threatening a cave-in at any moment. It was not bravery that pushed me onward, but hubris. I could not conceive that the world would take away my victory, not when it was so close at hand. I know better now, but I was lucky then that I did not perish under a mountain of earth and stone.
Deep beneath the tower, I found what I had sought: the old wizard’s laboratory. There I found books and scrolls that were so old as to be nearly useless, but even the few remaining snippets were useful. It was humbling, in fact, to see how much had turned to dust and yet even the scraps were priceless jewels to me.
I spent longer than I should have in that cellar, pouring over what I could find, ignoring the faint dripping sounds and periodic creaks that echoed in the dark. It wasn’t until I found the chest that I truly considered leaving: it was large, the lid was cracked, and inside I could see a book and something else wrapped in silver silk. I managed to pry open the lid and threw everything I could find into the empty space before dragging the chest up the stairs and into the light.
I set up camp in the remains of the tower and resolved to not move from the spot until I had learned what secrets I had unearthed.
The silk held a collection of strange magical artifacts, items I had not seen before and could not guess at their function. I knew better, even so young, than to blindly experiment with such items, so I set them aside, carefully wrapped, to study when I had more time and wisdom.
The book was, in fact, Dia Garoma’s journal. It was similar in many ways to the book I am writing in now. It spoke of his history, his family, his experiments and explorations across the far reaches of the arcane. In many ways it was more helpful than a simple spell might have been, for it showed me how sorcerers think.
This is not to say it did not provide me practical information as well. Luckily, Garoma chronicled his experiments and detailed his discovery of a great spell, which he entitled “Dreamer’s Ghost.” A rite of great complexity and danger, the spell dragged forth the power of a sleeper’s mind and placed them into a coma from which they would not wake for a full cycle of the moon. During this rest, the soul of the dreamer separates from their body and becomes untethered to time and space. The secrets of the spheres are open to the dreamer, lending them the power to appear anywhere they wish and do anything they will. Such is the power of dreams, that even the strangest things are made simple.
I followed along with his experiments, tracking how he adjusted his art with each failure and why. I found remnants of his old laboratory equipment that a steady supply of elbow grease and makeshift efforts turned into passible tools. Scraps of old dried scrolls provided clues as to what worked, while the journal hinted at what would not.
At long last, I pieced together the mighty spell. I drew the sigil around my cot, prepared the sacred ingredients harvested by my own hand, and spoke the incantations as clearly and precisely as a bell.
That night, I dreamed of flying. I saw the ruined tower in which I slept, and with a wave of my hand made it anew. In the blink of an eye I was next to Trella in her cottage, watching as she finished her supper. Another instant and I was at my parent’s side, watching them sleep undisturbed by nightmares of their lost child. I danced on clouds and sang on mountaintops. I swam in the deep sea and watched the sun rise in the hardest desert. I felt nothing, for my skin lay still and quiet in the cradle of magic.
The first few weeks were spent in frivolity and drunken delight. I was dreaming, yes, but everything was real. It was not until the third week, and the memory of my physical form loomed large that I returned to my body to inspect its condition.
I need not have worried, the spell held fast. The tower, however, was not as whole as it had been when I first left. My magics were little more than illusions, dreams themselves that lasted only as long as I willed them so. Still a great power, and one worthy of a mighty sorcerer. I could summon storms to frighten villagers or monsters to distract enemy sorcerers. Anything I could imagine I could present as real, and those who had not the power to see through my magics would be fooled.
The last week I spent testing my abilities, to see how far they could be pushed. The last two days I did not move from my body, only considering the power I had attained. I left my body only once to spy once more on Trella to see how she was getting on. Her life was simple, tending to the ten gods she worshiped and sometimes traveling to the nearby towns to sell her services as a scholar and teacher. I spied on her many times, and never did I understand how such a humble life could be so satisfying.
I could not understand her. There was something in her that I had never had; a satisfaction that I thought mere resignation, cowardice, stupidity, or perhaps just a lack of imagination. Eventually, I stopped searching and resigned myself to my lack of understanding.
After I returned to my body that first time, I stood up in a body that felt older and weaker than it had ever felt before. I hobbled my way to the window, flush with the victory of my first great success. I decided to claim the tower as my own, repair it if I could, and spend my days becoming a sorcerer worthy of the title.
As I watched the sun rise, I saw a single eagle take flight, calling out it’s hunting cry. I knew then that I was the eagle, and I was just beginning to soar.