Chapter 7: Make the World Stir
The robed figure thought of Marcello with both pity and envy.
The acolyte had not been happy to receive an unwanted guest, but he had proven to be more . . . tolerable than expected. He didn’t seek to selfishly take advantage of their painstakingly gathered mystic tomes. He did not try to force his presence upon his host in some effort to ingratiate himself with them. He didn’t over-avail himself of the luxuries the castle offered. He was a civilized guest.
There had been an equilibrium between them, a balance of power that each had wordlessly come to accept. More than that after the failed attempt to seize the demigod there had been a shared sense of urgency. They had failed in the task set to them by their patron and both of them had shared a desperation to do something, anything, to survive. For that reason Marcello was trusted with the negotiations with the immortal that he had contacted. The robed mage had felt that the urgency of their situation would be enough to keep him on task, to not make promises they could not honour.
But now . . . now the wealthy mage thought they might have been wrong. Perhaps they had been too trusting, perhaps they had allowed their normal suspicion and caution to slip due to the pressure of the situation they were under.
But maybe that had been a mistake.
When Marcello had returned with the remains of the stone egg the robed figure had been overjoyed. Such potent reagents were all but guaranteed to placate any anger that might still be burning in the heart of their patron. And, more importantly, it would ensure their own skins remained intact, unmarred by heated pincers, or more esoteric tools of torture. For the first few hours after their ally had returned the wealthy magic user had been largely content with the situation.
Then the initial rush of relief had worn off, and cold reality had begun to encroach upon their thoughts.
What had he offered in order to walk away with such a prize? What possible price could he have paid in order to attain such potent remains? More and more their thoughts had begun to spiral into a descent of suspicion and worry. The scarred mage couldn’t possibly have paid what those shards of stone were worth, that was a simple fact, so how had he been able to convince the immortal to part with them? Had he made promises? Promises on not only his behalf but also on the part of his fellow acolyte? What could he have offered up? What had been promised without any consultation?
Such thoughts had been like an infected wound, constantly festering and worsening as time passed. The robed mage had done their best to keep such postulations under control, but it had been to no avail.
Then Marcello had revealed what else he had gained from the pact, the geass-bound imprint worked onto his flesh. The geass-bound imprint that served as a second mana pool. The secondary mana pool that threatened to upset the balance between them.
Was that just a coincidence? To have gained not only the shards of the Monkey King’s egg but also something that strengthened him so . . .
WHAT HAD HE PAID?!
The geass within the imprint was real. If he failed to uphold his side of the bargain then his ability to use magic would be stripped from him, and in an extremely painful manner too. It was a terrible sword to have hanging over one’s head. In truth, had the robed figure been offered the same deal then it would have been accepted. Regardless of the looming threat, such a chance to expand their power would have been difficult to refuse.
However, it had been Marcello who gained the new well of power for his use, and that was the problem. Since the two of them had met they had been matched in power, but it had been the robed host that had been the dominant one in the ‘relationship’, as it were. Seniority as a servant of their patron and being the owner of their base of operations had ensured their role as leader.
The Acolyte pulled at their robes, privately cursing the need to wear them all the time as they did. The secrecy was annoying but necessary. When they’d set foot on this path they’d made rules for themselves, means to keep strict separations between their life in the mundane world and their life as a magic user.
They had so much to lose. Reputation, position, trust, influence, all of them were powers that the Acolyte had spent their life cultivating, and all of them were powers that could be lost if their use of magic became widely known.
With the arrival of the Legends, the general view of magic see-sawed wildly in the public mind. One day magic users were seen as heroes, mortals seizing the power of the gods to help mankind. On other days magic users were seen as dangerous fools consorting with unknowable powers and putting everyone around them in danger.
The Acolyte had no desire to fall into either category, to have their public persona come under scrutiny, hence their near-obsessive maintenance of secrecy. Marcello lived with them and it was unlikely that the scarred mage was even aware of their fellow practitioner’s gender, let alone their identity.
Well, regardless of secrecy or public identities the current situation was clear enough. Power was needed.
Before the Black Sun power had been an . . . undefined concept. For some, it was reputation, the sort that meant that when they gave a command, made a request, or even implied something, and then others would leap to see it done. There was the power of rank, of being in a position where other were obligated to obey by custom and duty, though there the power belonged to the station rather than the individual. For others, there was wealth, possessions that could be traded, bartered away so as to receive something in return, again, it was also a fragile power, but it was a common one and one that was easier to attain. Then there was the power that could come from allies or backers, those willing to share their power for a price, but such power was dependent upon others.
The power the robed figure needed was of a more concrete sort, something that belonged to them and no other. Once it could come by holding a weapon, and in the passage of history it had gone from clubs to blades, to guns, and then to the fearsome nuclear weapons of the world. In more recent days it was also the power that most of the gods and demons wielded, the power of strength that could shatter steel, control the elements, to kill with a glance and a whim. That was the power they wanted, the power that came from one’s self, or from what you held.
Their patron had granted them power, his gifts had augmented their internal reserves, strengthened their mystic veins and even awakened dormant traits in their blood. He had also provided the Acolyte with knowledge, means to practice, spells to learn, information to absorb. It had allowed the robed spellcaster to grow in powers swiftly, but there had been some drawbacks. Without the time to establish firm foundations, they had reached a point of diminishing returns.
That was what they were trying to correct now. After all, they could hardly allow themselves to be overtaken by Marcello, even if it was due to the aid of the Witch of Camelot. The Acolyte was one of the strongest mortal servants of their god, and they were unwilling to let that position slip from their grasp.
Of course, gaining the resources needed to solidify hastily built foundations was not a trivial thing. And as such, it required great power to attain.
“Mortal, why have you summoned me to this place?”
The creature that spoke was a bizarre combination of a man, a snake and a scorpion. It towered over the Acolyte, only contained by the glowing circle of lines and symbols the magic user had painstakingly inscribed upon the chamber’s stone. A bearded human head with a handsome face sat atop a chitinous body with six scorpion-like pincers for arms and a long serpent’s body below. Grey smoke seemed to waft from the creature at random points, curling into the air and then fading away. Still, despite its unnerving form, the most unsettling feature were its eyes. Each was a tiny blue star burning in a pitch-black void, as though two patches of the night sky had been cut away and plastered onto the being’s face.
“I have called you to bargain.” The Acolyte replied, their voice steady, and their form betraying none of their fear.
And they had good reason to be afraid. This creature was a djinn, a being of magic and knowledge. In modern times people who heard the name Djinn immediately thought of genies, a mistake made popular through fairytales and modern media. What everyone seemed to forget was that the most famous of genies, those that appeared in the Arabian Nights stories, were slaves, powerful servants bound to obey.
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Djinn, real djinn, were creatures akin to angels, in that they weren’t gods or born of the earth. They were beings of spirit and power, but not of heaven, they were creatures of smoke and fire, but not of hell. They were not all good, nor were they all evil. They were a breed apart.
However, one thing the legends got right was that they were powerful.
They also were much more reasonable than demons to cut a deal with, which was why the Acolyte had decided to go down this particular route. Sure, to look at them there wasn’t much difference between a demon and a djinn, but to those who knew it was the difference between success and damnation.
“And what do you desire, little mortal spellcaster? And what are you willing to pay in exchange?”
“I wish to strengthen my core of magic and my mana veins. I wish for some method to reinforce the foundations of my magic. In payment . . .”
The Acolyte paused for a moment, then stepped to the side, revealing what their robed figure had concealed. It was an open chest. Within were glass jars, some small, some large, all holding something. One held a human eye floating in some sort of preserving fluid. One held several live butterflies. Another had golden coins, another seemed filled with nothing but sand. It was a strange and eclectic mix, but it drew the eyes of the djinn like a cat having spied an unaware mouse.
“Trinkets,” It said, though the greed in its voice was at odds with its choice of words. “But carefully selected trinkets. I can feel the emotions within each of them, the grief in one, the rage in another, the joy in one more. Yes, they are well chosen.”
The powerful being paused, and even though its eyes were as alien as the stars above, the Acolyte was sure they saw calculation in them.
“Yes, these shall buy you what you wish. A small treasure, not a great prize, but sufficient for what you wish.”
Beneath their robes and spells the Acolyte felt a smile pull at their lips. Yes, this was what they’d wanted. They didn’t want some mighty artefact, such as Morgan la Fey had offered Marcello. Their needs were more modest, something powerful but not earthshaking. The contents of the chest had been items that were emotionally charged, treats that the djinn could feast upon at its leisure. They had been somewhat difficult to collect, but money talked, and there were always those who wanted it enough to do strange things.
“What exactly do they get me?”
The Acolyte knew that had to be careful. Djinn were less likely to screw you over than devils, but there were still plenty of them that would delight in tormenting a mortal that summoned them. Ask for a dead loved one back and you’d end up with a hungry undead. Ask for power and you’d end up burning with it from the inside out. Ask for knowledge and you be driven mad by the overload of information being forced into your mind. It wasn’t every time, not even every other time, but it happened often enough that those who dealt in summoning knew to watch their words and watch their step.
In response to the question, the djinn tilted its head slightly, regarding its summoner like a butcher eyeing a bull. What could it get away with, how vulnerable was the target, and was it worth it?
“You wish to solidify your foundations? Yes . . . I can see why you would wish that. Too much power, too fast, too soon, and now you wish to eliminate that weakness. Very well, I believe . . . yes, this should serve well.”
As he spoke one of the scorpion claws extended, and the robed magic user could see something . . . slide into being at the end of the claw. It wasn’t large, but as it came into being they had the impression it was being drawn there from somewhere else, not created on the spot.
The object was small, dark and shrivelled, but it could be recognised as some sort of fruit. Though it looked like something that should have been found in some forgotten corner of a larder magic radiated from it in a constant thrum. Whatever it was, it was strong, deep. It wasn’t flashy, and it wasn’t loud, instead, it was . . . profound was the best word that the Acolyte could think of.
“And what is this?”
Even though they had already chosen to take it the robed magic user was still cautious. Yes, there was power there, but every little bit they knew about it could be invaluable.
“I present you with a fruit from the Garden of Eden. Though it is dried and withered it still possesses some remnants of its lost glory. Consume it and your craft and knowledge shall be empowered, the foundations of your magic made firm as granite stone.”
Deep inside the Acolyte’s heart a sharp spike of greed shot out. Even if it was just a remnant that fruit was exactly what they wanted.
It was a little-known fact that when Adam and Eve were cast from Eden they didn’t leave empty-handed. Though they couldn’t bring any fruits from the forbidden tree that they’d eaten from, they were allowed to take other fruits and seeds with them, a mercy to ease their future toil. Those fruits and seeds had been grown, and eventually, more seeds had grown and been planted, then they had been harvested and so on. Supposedly almost all fruit trees were descended from those original trees, but that was not important. What mattered was that the first generation, the trees grown from the fruits taken from Eden, had retained some of the Garden’s power, its purity and, most importantly, its knowledge.
In some mystic works the Garden of Eden was likened to the Akashic Record in that it was a place where all conceivable knowledge and information existed and could be accessed. Consuming fruits from the Tree of Knowledge might have been an interpretation of early humanity accessing some knowledge they were not meant to possess. It was only a theory, but one that carried some weight.
Fruits like these, fruits that carried a remnant of Eden within them, could provide something indefinable, not knowledge, not information. Rather they could grant a moment of . . . brilliance, of inspiration, a moment where you were finally struck by the realization of how to finally solve the problem that had been plaguing you. if the Acolyte ate it then they would know how to solidify their foundation, how to perfectly slot together all the disparate pieces into one cohesive and solid whole.
Exactly what they wanted!
Desperately trying not to appear too eager the robed mage reached into the circle and took the fruit. There was no effort at a double-cross on the djinn’s side, so the Acolyte gestured, and magic picked up the chest and carried it over to the powerful creature. The exchange was complete, yet the djinn did not fade away.
“There is more,” It said, its voice almost honied. “You have given me a fine bounty, I am willing to provide a small . . . gift to go with your chosen purchase.”
Immediately the Acolyte felt their elation fade and be replaced with wariness. A gift from a djinn was almost as dangerous as a deal or a wish. Sure, there was a slightly better chance that it was given sincerely, but even so, the gift of a djinn could well be poison prettily wrapped. Frantically the robed mage reviewed their interactions. Had they done anything that could constitute an insult to the summoned being? They could not think of anything, they had been as polite as they could while maintaining a position of strength. They had offered fair trade, not demanding too much while offering too little.
Could this gift be sincere? Could they risk taking it? Could they risk refusing it?
Inspiration hit, a diplomatic way to decline.
“My thanks for the offer, but I believe we have bargained fairly. I would not want to create a debt between us, even if it is a debt formed on friendship, I hope you shall understand.”
“Oh, what I offer is but a small thing, I would not wish to try to place you under obligation to me.” The djinn’s voice was the very picture of polite disagreement, but there was an edge there, subtle and hidden, but sharp enough to draw blood. “It is merely a small whisper I heard, but one that came from a reliable source.”
Just information? Well, information of the right sort could be as deadly to the receiver as a dagger to the heart. Still, subtle though it was the Acolyte could see that that djinn wasn’t going to take no for an answer. It had its own agenda, and passing on this knowledge seemed to be part of it. It was a risk, but it was probably best not to fight it.
“If that is the case, then I would be happy to hear whatever you might say. Whispers and rumours can always be important in these changeable times.”
“Indeed. As I said, it is a small thing, but I thought that it might be of some interest to you.”
The djinn lowered itself until they stared into the dark depths of the Acolyte’s robes. So close the differences were made all the more apparent, the scorpion claws all the more alien, those star-like eyes all the more eldritch.
“I have heard that a powerful immortal witch has returned to the mortal world. Peer of Merlin, the bane of Camelot. Handmaiden of Avalon. I have heard that she has returned and that she is eyeing her old lands once more. Make of that what you will.”
The next moment the djinn was gone, smoke swirled up, obscuring its large form, then swirled, condensed, and disappeared, leaving the circle empty. That in itself was a statement that said; yes, the djinn could be called, it could be kept in the circle, but it could have left whenever it wished. It was a powerful statement, but at that moment the Acolyte had more pressing concerns.
It had known about Morgan la Fey? How? And how much did it know? It had mentioned it to the robed magic user, so did it know about Marcello’s deal? If it did, then how? Neither the Acolyte nor Marcello had told anyone else about it, and they didn’t see Morgan la Fey being the one to tell others.
Was Morgan la Fey was preparing to move against Arthur? That was not unexpected, given their antagonism was a major part of both their legends, but that it was happening so soon was. Arthur had returned to the mortal realm more powerful than he had ever been before.
During the time of his legend, he was a mighty king who held the most famous sword in the world. Now he had become something more akin to a deity than even a demigod. On top of that, he was served by the spirits of the Round Table, tied to the land, and held tremendous popularity and favour among the mortal population, almost to the point of worship. And La Fey was planning to go up against that?
Across the Acolyte’s hidden face, a small smile spread as their gloved hand gently caressed the Fruit of Eden.
Marcello had sworn to aid the immortal witch, and if she was aiming to attack Arthur . . .
Perhaps the scarred mage wouldn’t be a concern for much longer.
Taking a certain amount of schadenfreude in the thought the robed magic-user turned and left the chamber. There were still things that needed to be done before the fruit could be consumed. Tests to make sure it was safe, preparations to make sure the maximum benefit could be extracted from it, and plans as to how their improvement would affect future efforts.
It was a lot of work, but it would be worth it.
After all, the Acolyte might soon be doing the work of two, should anything . . . unfortunate happen to Marcello.