See. You are an Elder Mage. They were such stubborn creatures. All filled with self-importance. Little wonder they mastered Dragons
“It ” Eldred Mortain on “The Collapse of Civilisations.”
“Moonglum and Elric hunting Theleb K’aarna Myshella now replacing Queen Yishana See them travel through open skies See the amazing steel bird fly”
Moonglum, Hawkwind, Chronicles of the Black Sword
“My name is Elric And I bear the Black Sword
This is the tale of Elric Before he was called Womanslayer Before the final collapse of Melniboné This is the tale of the two Black Swords
Mighty Elric, mightier Sword Sorcerer and Swordman Slayer of kin Lord of a dying race, King of ruins Dragon Master Champion of Doom
Immryr, the Dreaming City Yyrkoon, the hated usurper Cymoril, the beloved All had fallen To the fury and unholy power Of the albino prince And his terrible Sword.”
Stormbringer, Black Runesword Battle-thirsty prince Blood-hungry sword Stormbringer, sing a song of victory And as I hold you in my hands You drink the souls Of all my enemies My enemies, oh drink the souls Of all my enemies
Stormbringer, Black Runesword Battle-thirsty prince Blood-hungry sword Stormbringer, sing a song of victory And as I hold you in my hands You drink the souls Of all my enemies My enemies, oh drink the souls Of all my enemies
Jessica Sorensen
“Don’t die old, die empty. That’s the goal of life. Go to the cemetery and disappoint the graveyard..”
Myles Munroe
This is another short story for this month’s prompt as I explore the world of Dragon Stone.
In his chambers, the Amanuensis was deeply engrossed in his thoughts, struggling to cast aside the memories of Aurelia Wrenn. Her presence was a haunting reminder that time was not as linear as the old teachings suggested. The elder civilisations knew this truth. Knowledge and wisdom transcended time, surviving the ravages of war and natural catastrophes. Yet, the cycle repeated, and the lessons of the past remained unlearned.
Yet knowledge was present in this sister of the abomination from the beginning. Were they gods? Or entities that were as close to such as possible? That fitted better. Gods were for the ignorant, creators of the unknown for those who lacked better ways of describing events. Old glyphs and runes inferred this to open eyes.
It was a matter of trust with Aurelia Wrenn. That she wished to escape was clear, as was her need for him to do so. That she courted him was a means to an end. Or was it? She was both seductive and attractive as lost as he was ensnared in conjurer’s bubbles outside time and space. Her intentions, like the shifting sands of a desert, were a mystery he could not decipher.
He stared into the flames of the candles on his desk. Mortain’s blade turned in his hand. One would unlock the prison, and the other would collapse it into a singularity. Either would end the repetition of days. If he cut wrong, would that also collapse the Garden of Death?
“Then do not sever the incorrect wick Mage.”
Behind him a soft white hand had settled on his shoulder. “How is it that you move from one bubble to another with such ease and yet cannot escape?”
“Like all worlds, conjurer’s traps are connected. Not that my brother ever paid attention to the minutia. Most cannot move freely. That is also said of parallel worlds, and yet there are thin spots where each touches. Find them, and the path becomes clear.”
Another thing no scroll had told him. Or Yish, for that matter. Then again, it was olde sorcery. He doubted even Mortain knew much more than how to create one. It occurred to him that Aurelia Wrenn was using knowledge as bait. She knew how to escape but required an Elder Mage to deliver her to a point in time only a chronomancer could do. She had already called him such. Delalande, as the Exorcist, had also referred to him as a sorcerer of time.
Another memory slipped back. Mossgarde. That was where he needed to be in order to track the progress of Elijah of Darrow and Raenisa. A confusing task as all his work indicated he had to travel to the point in time that Naz broke the abominations conjurer’s trap. Stopping them required him to become an assassin if his interpretations were correct. That was where doubt fell. He already knew that he could kill neither. The sorceress behind him knew this and offered him an alternative. Go with her and forget the past.
That would mean breaking the trust of the Arch Mage and letting time become chaotic. Logic said this was the path of the Necromancer, and Wrenn wanted revenge. He still did not know fully why that creature had locked her in The Garden of Death.
“I need to know more.” He turned to face her. “If I cut the correct flame then I must know how to pass to the correct timestream.”
“It is the paradoxical behaviour of such traps.” She leaned in closer.
Why she had chosen such sultry attire was obvious. It bled a distraction field. “Then teach me how to remember.”
“All in good time Chronomancer.”
Her fingers touched his face, reminding him that physical contact had not occurred since before Yish and Naz left Tor Angra. He brushed her hand aside and stood. “Time continues even while we sit outside it. Events can be stopped Aurelia. You and I want the same things in different ways. First I need knowledge.” The Amanuensis moved to the great hearth where a perpetual fire cast flickering light that mimicked the candles on his desk.
“Sleep with me and all will be revealed.” Again, there was a lilt in her voice.
“You know I cannot do so.” He remained facing the flames.
“See. You are an Elder Mage. They were such stubborn creatures. All filled with self-importance. Little wonder they mastered Dragons. They are alike in many ways.” She joined him before the fire.
“I am no Mage Aurelia. A fool maybe and one that is too feeble to risk cutting the wrong wick.”
She looped her arm around his. This time, he did not revoke the touch. “Did you not realise that only Elder Magi are permitted to unlock the Vault?”
He turned to face her. “No. Ascension was by trial. But if what you say is true then both Jeremiah and Eldred are also Elder Magi.”
She smiled as her eyes locked on his. “Obviously. That is why both hold Dragon Stones. Or did. One was gifted to Delalande as he fled Tor Angra and the Arch Mage kept his close to his heart. My brother knew Mortain from long before the sacking. Once, I believe they were friends. At least until matters turned to necromancy. Did you never wonder why Eldred was so against even talking about such?”
The Amanuensis placed his hand over hers. “How know you so much?”
Aurelia laughed. Something that made her face light up the darkness of his thoughts. “There are more arts than necromancy. I can reach into thoughts and read minds. Much of what I know came from my brother. At least until he realised I was there.”
“And you have read mine?”
“Often as you sleep. It holds more memories than even you realise.”
The Amanuensis withdrew his hand. Little wonder mistrust ran in their family. He felt violated. To think that as he slept, a diviner was stealing his dreams. Or worse, infiltrating thoughts that never appeared in conscious memory. “Trust is the bond of friendship.” He left it at that.
Aurelia recoiled, realising she acted on impulse. Never had it occurred that she was violating by intruding on another’s thoughts. “Forgive me Mage. All but you have never told me it was wrong. Even my brother sneered and cast blame.” Tears welled in her eyes. She had no parents for guidance that she could remember. Only he and her struggled as best they could. She moved to the bed and sat with her head in her hands.
“Then this is a lesson to learn from. As before, cease blocking Yish. Without her, I cannot leave this prison.”
“I know Mage.” She looked up. Tears streamed down her face.
Such a complex character, and yet what would he do if the situation were reversed? Was he being too harsh? After all, she had taken the graves of his friends into The Garden of Death in order to shield them from the Necromage. That alone told of the scale of her abilities. Was that why she was placed inside a conjurer’s trap? Could she actually rival the powers of her brother?
He moved to gaze through the balcony window. Outside, a bleak white sheet covered what he once knew. Snow lay in rivers where strong winds had swept across the landscape. Like her being stuck on repeat was beginning to tax him.
“Cease blocking Yish.” It was a request that felt familiar. Had he asked this before and then been ignored, or had she smiled and agreed, then broken his trust simply because she knew he would forget as the wheel turned? He moved to sit beside her. “And teach me of my past Aurelia.”
This time, the sorceress looked broken. Her eyes were red from weeping. “Have you lived without trust Mage? Been victimised because you were different or had no guidance in what is right or wrong?”
The Amanuensis shook his head. “No but we learn from others. Actions speak volumes, and eyes carry lies that those who look can read.” He paused as the light began to fade outside. “Another day is ending Aurelia. Stay this night and show me how to control the memory loss. We both suffer from fatigue within these snares.”
The witch inhaled deeply. Crying was always a useful weapon. “Of all the Magi I could have encountered it had to be one with great wisdom.” She stood and straightened her clothing. “I can only teach if you allow me into your mind. Once there I can unlock doors that your Arch Mage closed. But be warned. It will also yield how many nights have passed. One reason that is hidden in from those within conjurer’s bubbles is to protect the sanity of the unfortunate held inside.”
The Amanuensis remembered a theological discussion with Jeremiah Delalande. The discussion revolved around the madness within created by temporal disruption fields. While the Scribe claimed to be ignorant of thaumaturgical theories, he was more than capable of holding his own in discussing the ramifications of misuse.
“The risk is mine to take. We cannot continue within these walls.” He glanced at the pile of letters resting on one side of his desk. It was growing ever larger. Each page represented a journey made to discover that all ended in the death of Yish and Naz. A task he was not prepared to undertake. He doubted Aurelia Wrenn would have the same reservations, and if she were to accompany him, then there was no doubt that she would do what he could not.
“Tonight I will remain awake and before the great hearth shall you begin your witchcraft. If the clock fails to restart, then we will take one last trip to The Garden of Death to visit the Arch Mage before trusting to good fortune.” His eyes flicked at the two candles burning ceaselessly on his desk.
“So be it.” She felt anxiety growing. Could it be that after millennia, she was close to escape? Perhaps to seed a germ in his mind that swayed his feelings toward her. That would be the ultimate deception and ensure that the Prophecy of The Crow was blown away like smoke on the wind. What was missing were the chronomantic abilities of this Elder Mage, and the Necropolis could be hers. “You do understand that once the traps dissolve then your friend’s crypts return to their rightful places scattered throughout time.” She stared into his eyes, trying to shield the desire burning in her heart. Anyone but a chronomancer would have accepted the death of his inamorata deep in the past. Even the finality of witnessing the graves within her cemetery had not swayed his devotion. It was infuriating and yet admirable. Fuelling the flames of desire as mineral salts do upon a fire.
The Amanuensis held her gaze. Though red from weeping, they were steeped in sadness. Had she never known true love? Or was it that all she cared for atrophied and died? If it were not for Yish, then Aurelia would already have seduced him. This he knew with the same certainty that cutting the wrong flame would collapse the bubbles into singularities where his path would end. Yet living meant the moment in time that he could not act upon.
“What shall be will be Aurelia. Allow me to add my final page to the Letters, and I will join you by the great hearth. If night passes and I remember everything then we walk together as one.”
He broke the gaze with some reluctance and sat at his desk. One last visit to a time before the Scribe entered the Garden of Death.
