Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles (21 page)

But she simply couldn’t stop.

“Shut up and eat your cookies.” Faye picked up another paper. This one was an amazingly complex drawing of a spell. She recognized it instinctively. Faye didn’t need Buckminster Fuller’s Power to tell that all of those complicated shapes stuck together represented the part of the Power that controlled Traveling. Sivaram had been bored in a hospital and his mind had wandered until he’d first seen the Power. Faye had once followed Mr. Sullivan’s dying spirit to the place where the dead people dream in order to see the Power itself. She liked Sivaram’s way better, but it did make her wonder, did it take somebody who could Travel to actually see the Power? Without dying first and getting dragged back first like Mr. Sullivan had, at least? The Chairman had been visiting there for years, which explained how come Imperium magic sometimes seemed so much more advanced than theirs, but then again, it seemed like the Chairman had been able to do whatever he felt like.

Many of Sivaram’s letters had been dated, so she’d put them into order as best as she could. Then there were loose pages, random scribbles, doodles, old photographs, and even napkins with hasty notes scrawled on them. There were huge gaps in time, obvious spots Jacques hadn’t been able to fill in, references to things Sivaram had written that there was no record of, but despite those handicaps, she could follow his path, clear as day. Sivaram had been consumed with a desire to understand the way things worked, and it had dragged him across the whole world.

The majority of the letters were to his wife. The love there was obvious, especially in the early letters, but that began to fade as he became more and more distracted, and his devotion changed from people to magic.

Dearest Devika. I will not be returning home this month as planned. I can only hope that you can endure my continued absence. I cannot give up when I am this close. The journey must continue. This week we went even further in the jungle. When I first heard the British ambassador speaking of this man known as the wizard, I knew I had to seek him out. What manner of man could manipulate magic into all new forms? It has taken years for me to even begin to understand my own Power, yet I cannot conceive of such a skill. As a Traveler, I can catch but the tiniest glimpse at times of what magic really is. I have learned so much, but the things they attribute to this wizard, if even only true in the smallest measure, could drastically increase our understanding of magic. They say that he has learned to draw magic. Draw it? As if it is so easily manipulated! They say that he has engraved magic upon his own body, giving himself whole new types of Power. Surely this is impossible, but I simply must know for myself.

There was a quickly drawn map of a place she didn’t know, and the margins were filled with geometric doodles that were obviously Sivaram’s guesses at what the Power really looked like. It seemed that even before he went and broke his brain and went full-on murder crazy, he was already wound a little tight.

Dearest Devika. I know this letter must come as a surprise, as so much time has passed that surely you must have thought me lost and dead in the jungles, but I have prevailed. My journey to the colonies has been a success. I found the man I have been looking for. The stories about the wizard are true. All of the stories are true. It is magnificent. It is not the creation of new magic, for the magic is already there, we are simply reaching out and taking more of it for ourselves. The Power is an incredible entity, made up of thousands and thousands of intersecting nodes, each one of those capable of some small shifting of the supposedly immutable laws of the universe. I have taken new forms of magic to myself, as many as my frail mortal body can bear. With each one, the mysteries have become clearer. Reality is far more beautiful and far more terrifying than we have ever imagined.

There were dozens of letters to his wife, yet not a single one written to Sivaram in response. She wondered if Jacques had simply never found those, or if she had never bothered to respond at all. The thought made her sad, but then she delved back into the world of the Mad Traveler.

The magic is wasted. It grows so strong while we live, but then it is all lost when we perish. If only there was a way to save this, to keep it, to nurture it and mold it across the generations. All that I have learned, all that I have gained, it cannot be learned through a book or through lecture or pathetic human language, it can only be mastered through immersion in the river of magic. But why must this precious river flow? It must be dammed. It must be stopped. I will not die like this. Pointless.

Faye’s journey continued. Notes and alchemical solutions, chemistry diagrams and mathematical notations that were far over her head, yet each one became increasingly erratic. Now the geometric representations of the Power had become darker, uglier, harsher. Where they’d been elegant before, these lines seemed twisted, the paper had often torn beneath the fury of Sivaram’s quill. There were long dried droplets of blood on the pages, as if he’d gotten a nosebleed and not noticed because of the intensity of the concentration needed for his calculations.

Jacques came back from lunch. She had not realized that he had left, nor had she heard him ask if she wanted anything. He placed some meat, cheese, and bread next to her, and she ate it without tasting it.

The next letter was addressed to no one. His handwriting had been shakier, harder to read.

I am close to a breakthrough. The wall between our world and the Power is thin here. My mind is unable to comprehend that which must be done. I am weak. No one else understands. Their Power is wasted. Fools. They stumble blindly, not understanding what must be done. I will take their Power, take it and use it as it should be used.

I do not believe in gods. Gods have never helped me. Everything I have done, I have done through my own intellect. Yet now as my mind fails me, I have prayed for help.

I think something has answered.

Faye did not understand the next drawing at all. It was half math, half shapes, and it made her head hurt just looking at it. She had to force her eyes away and let loose an audible groan.

Jacques was sitting across from her, watching, sipping from a glass of wine “Yes. I see you found the rough draft of the spell which would become your curse.”

“Is that what it is?”

He took a sip. “I believe so. Do not feel bad. It has that effect on everyone.” There was a sharp knock on the door. Jacques spoke loudly in French. A coachman stuck his head in and asked Jacques a question she couldn’t understand. She did understand that Jacques’ answer of
oui
meant
yes
, and then the man left.

“What was that about?” Faye asked.

“He merely wanted to make sure we had all of our windows closed for our safety. Do not worry.” Jacques took the bottle out of the bucket of ice and poured himself some more wine. “Please, continue.”

Dearest Devika. I have succeeded where all others have failed. They called me mad, but I have confirmed the truth. The Power is alive. What we call magic is the means by which it feeds. It grants a piece of itself to some few of us, and as we exercise that connection through every manipulation of the physical world, the magic grows. Upon our death, that increase returns to the Power. It is a symbiotic parasite. Grown fat upon us, the process repeats, more Actives are created, the cycle continues. The Power itself has a certain measure of awareness. Aware? Yes. I do not know yet if it knows that I have stolen from it, and if so, how it will react to my petty thievery. As the Power is using us, I intend to use it. I beg your forgiveness for what I must now become.

There was an old, badly damaged photograph of a very young woman. Nobody could smile in photographs back then because your face muscles would get worn out before the picture took, but she was still rather pretty.

“That was when I became involved,” Jacques said softly. “She was one of us. A knight and a . . . friend . . . Sivaram was a vulture at first. When people died around him, he would snatch up their magic. Even those who are considered normal are not without some small touch of magic, for the Power would often touch them, find them wanting, and then move on. The Spellbound would steal even that, but it was not nearly enough. He needed more, and the stronger the Active, the better.”

As the stack of papers dwindled, there were fewer notes and letters, but it was made up for with newspaper clippings, and Faye read every single one. Murder. Murder. Murder. Accidental Death. Mass Murder. Drowning. Plane Crash. Theater Fire. Ship Lost at Sea. It went on and on and on . . .

“There were more. Many, many more. Travel in, cause something awful, Travel back out. I suspect that many of the assassinations that helped speed along the Great War were his doing, his insatiable hunger for chaos, and the hope that a great modern war would bring tremendous death with it. That’s finally how we caught him. I set a trap. I simply went to the greatest slaughter the world had ever seen and waited for him to show up. Normally I would ask if you had any idea how deadly an assassin a motivated and highly skilled Traveler could be . . . but you know, Faye. You know very well.”

Faye could only nod. She tried to only used her Power to do good things, but for her, killing folks was a snap. But this . . . she flipped through the newspaper clippings. This was unimaginable.

“Yet even then we underestimated him. Sivaram was no longer a mere mortal Traveler. The spell he’d carved into himself saw to that. He was hard to catch, even harder to kill. He massacred my men and anyone around him. I believe the Spellbound became our greatest threat.”

“More than the Chairman?”

“It was arguable, but I was in the minority. There was at least a cold logic to everything Okubo Tokugawa did, and yes, I know he killed far, far more people that Sivaram ever dreamed of, by an order of magnitude. The Chairman’s Imperium has made butchery and slavery into a bloody, emotionless trade, mechanized, unfeeling, something only an all-powerful government can do. Sivaram was alone, most of the elders saw him only as a mad dog that needed to be put down. However, after studying the man and following him for years, I came to understand the true threat. Read his last letter. It had never been posted. Read, Faye.”

Dearest Devika. Much time has passed since I have written. I have been consumed by my work. I write this letter in a brief moment of lucidity. I do not know how many more I will have, as they are becoming fewer by the day. Do not let my sons listen to the rumors of what I have become. The rumors are true but they must never know of the evil created by my hand. I was blinded by pride. One does not steal from the Power without paying a price. It is more intelligent than I suspected and it is learning. Though I thought I was using it, I was truly the one being used. Human emotions are not sufficient to describe the Power, but it was not upset when it discovered my theft. My resourcefulness gave it hope. The Power tried to prepare me for a task, but I was unworthy of its gifts. I have failed the test. Now all that remains is the hunger.

The failure of understanding the Power’s true nature is upon my head. Though incomprehensible to our pathetic minds, it has its own mysterious desires and purposes. It is using mankind for something, developing and steering us in the hopes of accomplishing its goals.

When I was young and naïve, I thought to master the Power by toying with geometries beyond human understanding. I was nothing, but I stepped before the Power and presented myself as a sacrifice, as a science experiment. The Power utilized me, and though I have failed, it will try again, for I surprised it. I showed it what mankind is capable of. This spell burned into my flesh is too strong to die now. The Power will find a new subject to toy with.

What an interesting phenomenon. Look at the laboratory rat. What a clever thing. This rat’s pathetic mind discerned new avenues that the observer, even with its far superior intellect, could never see. Of course not, it is hard to see when you are on such a lofty perch. Behold the rat’s tricks. The rat dies, but the experiment is incomplete. We will train more. The experiment will begin again. There will be more rats. The rats must be fed.

The madness I have wrought is nothing compared to what will come. Please forgive me for what I have done.

The ink had run in spots, as if his tears had watered the paper as he’d been writing. Faye slowly returned the letter to the stack. “I don’t get it,” she lied. Not understanding everything was not the same as not understanding anything at all.

“Very few members of the Society ever saw that, and among those who did, most dismissed it as the ravings of a madman. I disagreed.” Jacques put his glass on the table between them. The usual affable, pleasant demeanor he tended to wear was gone, having been replaced with the face of a very cold, very discerning investigator. “Mad? Perhaps, but driven mad because he understood just what he had unleashed upon mankind. I see in that letter the same thing I saw in the letters of criminals giving their deathbed confessions, a stark realization that actions have consequences.”

“You ain’t really worried about what the Spellbound
does
. . .” Faye muttered. “You’re worried about what the Power is up to.”

”Sivaram thought his actions, killing in order to steal magic,
pleased
the intelligence behind the Power. We are talking about a being which feeds off of us, uses us, changes us, gives blessings and takes them away without a shred of anything we recognize as logic or decency. It would appear that Power is an advocate of evolution, let the strongest survive, and let the weakest perish. Magicals were a new step in evolution, one brought about by the Power. The Spellbound was one of those magicals taking evolution into his own hands, and it seems that the Power approved. Sivaram said he did not believe in gods.” Jacques snorted. “Heh. It seems to me he found one that believed in him. And it is neither a merciful nor wrathful god, but rather an ambivalent intelligence that cares only about itself.”