Trials (23 page)

“Be very careful, little mermaid. Don’t let the spirits of the deeps drag you down. Flint won’t be there to save you the next time…”

“Thank you, Flint, I’ll be very careful. Don’t worry, I learnt my lesson.”

The two scholars swung their bags over their shoulders and waved at the little boat, which was already moving away into the lake. They began their journey inland. They would reach their destination in two more days. What awaited them there they had no way of telling, but their determination was firm. They would discover why the grimoire had sent them to the great lake and what connection it had with the Ilenians. Sonea thought about the dangers they might face, from wild beasts to enemy soldiers, and decided with a sigh that it was better not to think. She shook her head with worry and went on.

They would come up with something if need arose.

Two scholars against the wild world.

Haradin washed his hands and face carefully in the basin in his room, as it pleased him to do after dinner every night whenever he could. He dried himself with a linen cloth embroidered with the royal shield of Rogdon, then looked at himself in the oval mirror on the rough stone wall.

“Not bad… not bad at all,” he said to the face which looked back at him, grey-eyed, out of the mirror. “Time seems not to pass through you, Mage.” He stroked his fine goatee.

He carried his forty-five years of age very well, too well perhaps: or at least that is what the good people of the land said, intrigued and somewhat fearful. It seemed that Haradin’s hazardous life had not taken its toll on his appearance. He examined the fine features: smooth skin, intense grey eyes, blond goatee and long, still blond hair. Haradin was aware he was an attractive man ̶ at Court the ladies sought his attention. Nevertheless, the lack of a grey strand of hair or a single wrinkle on his face was certainly a mystery to those around him, even though nobody would ever dare say anything about it to a Mage. In truth, he did look like a man twenty years younger, and the passing of time did not seem to have had any effect on his face or body. Haradin remained permanently youthful and attractive.

“Will we still look the same in ten years’ time?” he asked his reflection, waiting vainly for an answer he knew would never come.

Haradin knew that although to some extent it was due to his being blessed with extremely good genes, the real reason for his youthful appearance was his Gift: the magic which lived inside him. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on his pool of energy, which was calm, like a lake of sky-blue water. That lake was so deep it seemed bottomless, for the power he held was unfathomable. Yet no matter how deep it might be, it was finite and could dry up eventually. Haradin was well aware of this. His magic had slowed down the aging process considerably in some way that was unknown to him. It was not something that the Mage would have done consciously, since he did not believe in interfering with the natural course of human life. Yet as this was the case, he accepted it gracefully.

His eyes sparkling in the light of the oil lamp, he smiled and winked at his reflection, acknowledging in it the young, adventurous dreamer and discoverer of other worlds which he had always wanted to be. Unfortunately his obligations to the Crown had kept him away from his true passion for years. He had to serve the King, the Crown of Rogdon, his nation.
This is the weight a King’s Battle Mage must carry. There’s no doubt that this position represents an honor, but it also entails duties and responsibilities, which I can’t get away from, although I wouldn’t even if I could. I am a Mage of the Court of Rogdon and I must protect the Crown and our realm.
He did have to admit that the King allowed him to attend to his own personal affairs when his presence was not absolutely necessary. But that was not the case in times of war, and unfortunately, these were times of bloody war.

He crossed the elegant room on the top floor of the Western Tower, which was his home in the royal castle of Rilentor, to the big window, and gazed upon the dark night. The clouds hid the moon, covering the sky and only let a couple of shards of silvery light filter through. A chill ran down his spine as if some treacherous mystical breath of freezing air had reached him through the walls of the majestic stone tower. He looked at the low fire burning by the northern wall, where thick logs still crackled cheerfully. He looked down at the long robe he was wearing and felt it with his fingers, the richness of texture and thickness. It was of excellent quality, grey, with Rogdonian decorations in silver thread. He should not be feeling the cold while wearing that, so how could it be that such a sense of freezing winter ran through his body? Haradin tried to shake off that unpleasant feeling by shrugging his shoulders and waving his arms, but did not manage to dispel it.

This is indeed a bad omen, very bad. Something’s going terribly wrong…

He turned to the fire and invoked warmth almost without realizing he was doing so, a simple spell to comfort the body, just as he had done uncountable times before. But to his utter surprise and dismay, the spell did not work.

“All the fiery demons!” He swore. “Can’t I even do this simplest of spells? Is this what I’m reduced to?”

Bitterly, he remembered the endless suffering he had lived while frozen in carbon in the chamber in the Ilenian Temple of Earth. He let out his breath in a long, resonant sigh.
Damn that treacherous trap. Well, at least I’m still alive…
he said to himself, managing to calm his frustration to some extent
. I must thank the ancient gods for allowing Gerart and his expedition to find me in the final resting home of that Ilenian lord. If it hadn’t been for them, it’s quite possible that no one would have ever found me. A millennium of horror and suffering, trapped and carbon-frozen, that’s what awaited me down there.

He spread his arms and dropped them, striking his thighs with outspread palms. The sound of the blow filled the room, and he felt the hot sting. He still found it hard to believe that he had fallen into the last of the Ilenian traps. He did not understand how he had not been warned by his own magic. His Gift had not alerted him. Maybe being so close to the desired object had unwittingly blinded him for a moment, but it had been a fateful moment. He had overcome all the previous traps, managing to pass by the Ilenian Guardian Mage without his presence even being noticed by using a spell that had taken him months to develop. And just when he had the Medallion of Earth in his hand, his prized goal, the thing which had haunted him and which he had sought desperately, the moment of triumph had blinded him. In an unforgivable moment of inattention, without even realizing it, he had activated the trap that captured him.

The Ilenian trap was meant to hold him alive in death for all eternity. It was overwhelmingly perverse, which did not really surprise Haradin. The Ilenians were far from being the benevolent, altruistic civilization many scholars and men of faith hopefully believed them to be.

No matter how much they might insist on the idea for the “good of the people”, unconsciously fooling those who listened to them. Haradin crossed his arms over his chest thoughtfully. They had been a very advanced civilization and extremely powerful, no doubt. The amazingly strong magic they had been able to develop made them demigods on Earth. But to call them benevolent was very far from the reality, as the good Mage well knew.

Haradin stroked his chin, letting his thoughts wander. He had spent most of his life studying the Lost Civilization in secret —it was his sacred mission. The Ilenians had become an obsession with him ever since he had discovered a terrible secret, a secret that meant the future of all mankind hung from a thread which went all the way back to the Lost Civilization. That was the reason why Haradin did not study the Ilenians with the same goal as Abbott Dian, the priest Lindaro of the Temple of Light or the other scholars who traveled all over Tremia looking for Ilenian remains to analyze, in search of knowledge and answers to all the mysteries they posed, for the good of humankind. Oh, no. His reason was completely different.

“Fools! How much in error you are! If I could stop you all… if I could make you see… but I can’t…” he swore, raising his fist.

They would not get hold of the benefit they were hoping to gain from the Lost Civilization… very far from it…

And they keep stirring up that which should not be disturbed. The danger their search poses for all the inhabitants of this continent makes my blood turn to ice
.

This was why Haradin’s vital mission had become even more significant. He had to go on with renewed certainty. It had become imperative to prevent any of those unfortunates from inadvertently unleashing the irreversible cataclysm he dreaded. It was his sacred duty to protect the secret, in order to protect the human race.

Unfortunately, because of the trap he had fallen into, his mission was in jeopardy. He was now paying for the consequences of having been carbon-frozen, living in a semi-petrified state. Haradin had managed to shield his mind as a form of self-defense, in order not to go mad and to protect himself from the degenerative effects of the Ilenian magic. Somehow the struggle between the power which was trying to reach his reason and his own resistance to it had altered the balance between his mind and the Gift, and now that balance was unfortunately damaged. Before, Haradin had been able to cast spells at a devilish speed, whereas now there were many occasions when he could not even bring them to mind. That frustrated him, and what was worse, made him very afraid.

Haradin was considered to be the greatest and most powerful Mage in the entire West of Tremia. Some said even in the entire continent, although there was no way of verifying this. Haradin though, was much more prudent, believing that in all probability, there had to be someone in some hidden corner of that huge continent more powerful than he was himself. There is always someone more powerful, or a faster conjuror or even both. The Mage who believed otherwise was a fool, and a dead one at that. There was an unanswerable maxim: “No matter how good one might be in any aspect of life, there’s always someone better. To believe otherwise is wrong, and leads to absolute failure.” That was why fear was scratching at his heart with sharp claws. The thing which he had always believed in and trusted, the thing which defined who he was and had never failed him, his Gift of magic, was indeed failing him… At a time of supreme importance, when his mission called him and his beloved Rogdon was caught between the wall and a bloody sword.

He felt anxiety clamping his stomach like an iron claw. His situation was getting ever more desperate. He was at a crossroads, feeling totally defenseless. He was torn between having to continue with his sacred mission and protecting his people, the Rogdonians, who found themselves on the edge of defeat and death. He had to do both simultaneously, and this he felt to be practically impossible. And just then, at that crucial moment, he failed them… He had to do something, react in some way, find a solution to his problem, but what? What could one do when magic did not respond to direct commands?

Haradin swore between his teeth as he walked around the room, his hands at his back, trying to quell his frustration and growing fear. Something was damaged inside him, as well he knew. That fragile symbiosis between mind and Gift, the natural balance in those blessed with magic, had been broken, and he could no longer trust his art.
Well, I may not be what I once was, but at least I know something, the bond hasn’t been severed completely. That much I can feel. Thanks be to the ancient gods! I can still conjure spells, unfortunately not always at will or at the necessary speed, but even when things are at their worst I must stay optimistic, because the Gift is still in me and I can still create magic. And when all’s said and done, that’s all that matters.

“All is not lost” he said out loud, to cheer himself up.

He turned to his bedroom in a calmer and more positive state of mind. He had to check something before going to his secret meeting that cold, dark evening. He walked in and closed the door behind him. He went around the big oakfour-poster bed with its silken awnings, closed the heavy curtains and went to the finely-carved wooden chest against the northern wall. He gazed at the cold rocky wall of the tower against which the chest was set, then he looked at the sides of the room and finally at the closed door behind him. He was alone and out of reach of prying eyes, which was as it should be, because he was on the brink of looking upon one of the most deeply-hidden treasures on the face of Tremia.

Don’t fail me now… I need to check a most important detail…

Delving into his inner energy he concentrated, extended his arm, then raised the palm of his hand. “Flame…” he called, and at his will, a steady flame left his hand and struck the solid rock wall. Haradin kept the flame on the wall knowing what was about to happen. There was a crack, followed by the dry grating of stone on stone. The Mage extinguished the flame and noted the opening which was now revealed in the wall. He put his arms in the hole in the wall and very carefully extracted the precious treasure. He placed it on the chest as he had done so many times before, then removed the thick cloth that protected the Ilenian object.

A book of great size and enormous age was revealed. The golden cover seemed to be pure gold, shining in the light of the oil lamp, and all over it were lines of strange symbols and hieroglyphs. It was thick and heavy, as if the pages were made of metal. A golden treasure, which at least as far as size and weight went, would be the dream of any tomb-raider. Nevertheless, the value of that book went far beyond the imagination of any of Tremia’s thieves.

“The Book of the Sun,” murmured Haradin, looking at it, moved anew and incredulous. This was the book which contained a part of the most powerful magic of the Ilenians, as well as part of their knowledge and history. It could unleash the end of Man on Tremia, the destruction of the whole civilized world. But only a part… and as long as the Book of the Sun remained in his hands, Haradin feared nothing. He was its protector, its guardian, and he would never allow the unthinkable to happen. He had taken an oath, and his promise was sacred.

Again he felt a chill down his spine, and shrugged in distaste. He sighed. It was a deep, prolonged sigh. It had taken him years to find the Book of the Sun, and he had nearly lost his life several times in the attempt. But that had only been the beginning of his woes, since the discovery had revealed to him what tormented him day and night, what he could not forget. But it was no longer possible to change it. All those past efforts, all the pain, did not matter anymore: the priceless volume was in his custody, and so it would remain as long as Haradin or the members of the secret society he led were still alive. They would keep it from falling into strange hands. They had promised to protect the Enigma with their lives, even though they might have to shed the last drop of their blood, and they would do that if necessary —their devotion and loyalty were unquestionable.