REVEALED: The Mad Mage of Sevendor - Chapter One

 The Mad Mage of Sevendor

The Journals of Minalan The Spellmonger

 

By the grace of Holy Mother Trygg and Briga, the Flame that Burneth Bright, I, Minalan, called the Spellmonger, do herein these pages set down in truest account my willful actions and pure intent this 22nd day of Baismas.  For I am afflicted by a multitude of spirits, memories of the long-dead who haunt my dreams and my thoughts constantly. 

In order to give trust to myself and the vital purpose to which I apply myself, I seek to record my most objective plans and considerations, as bereft of the multitude who inhabit my consciousness as possible.  This is to provide guidance for myself if I find myself confused or drifting from that sacred purpose as well as to present a record for those who should require it, upon the occasion that my experiments lead to an untimely death or an irredeemable madness.

For madness is the force with which I contest my mind, at the moment.  Nine lives are locked within me, each with their diverse perspectives, opinions, histories, and prejudices.  Each has the ability to commandeer my faculties and impose their consciousness within my body for a time.  The struggle to overcome that personality is great and not at all assured.  I am finding that in conquering one I leave myself weakened to contend with another.

Alas, I am finding my sympathies within my own thoughts for their plights and suffering have the capacity to invoke their presence, sometimes in monstrous forms.  There is little remedy to this, to my knowledge; at best I begin my struggle anew and keep at it until there is resolution.  I have begun to undertake treatment from the Handmaiden to seek some relief from this malady.  But when I wake from her examinations, I find myself soaked with sweat and overcome with weariness, as if I had exerted myself mightily.  It is exhausting.

Thankfully, this madness is rumored to be temporary, though I fear it will have lasting consequences for the remainder of my days.  It is also useful.  For while the nine minds that haunt my soul are contentious, each presumably holds the knowledge I need to blaze the path in front of me, in their way.  Through this journal and other methods, I hope to keep to my way and hold fast to the essential goals I pursue.  No less an effort would be proper, in these circumstances.

I write this upon my return to civilization from the Lost Land of Anghysbel, in the 9th year of King Rard I’s reign.  Much has occurred in the kingdom in my absence, including the rise of dread evils and foes from my past.  I will try not dwell overmuch in this journal on matters of history and politics; those studies, as important as they are, seem to be a distraction away from my true purpose.  I shall see them dealt with soon enough.  Only where I find it germane to this document will I mention them at all, I think.

But, in truth, I have little control over my intentions.  I am compromised by my very thoughts.

I have struggled with the fresh chorus of voices between my ears since my fateful encounter with Szal the Yith.  Some days I seem to have more control, whilst other days see me completely at the mercy of my new memories.  The amount of control I have over them is likewise variable.  In some cases an exertion of will is adequate to keep the voices at bay; in others, I am helpless to contend against the long-dead personalities who assert themselves upon my mind.  Memory is an insidious foe.  By necessity, memory is the framework of our consciousness. When it betrays us with experience we did not personally endure, it can provide a subtle and dangerous perspective with pitfalls I am just now recognizing.

I begin afresh tomorrow, retreating to my tower at Spellgarden where I have arranged my workshop there to best support the coming trials.  While Sevendor’s facilities hold the greater power, Spellgarden offers a seclusion suited to the task ahead, as well as access to a growing library which may – or may not – prove useful.  My thaumaturgical staff here is eager to assist in my research, and the enchanters here have no rival even in Sevendor.  I will, at need, repair to my first magelands and its potencies when I require them, as well as other locales as my research indicates.  But Spellgarden was designed with this task in mind, I see now, though I did not anticipate this hellish opportunity when Viscountess Carmella constructed it for me.

To bed, now, to enjoy my eager nightmares.  May Holy Mother Trygg and the Bright One guide and protect me through this madness.

23^rd of Baismas

I began the day with optimism, understanding the task that was ahead.  I felt little effect of my companions, during the morning, and was able to retire to my workshop after breaking my fast with my family to organize my thoughts and decide in what order I should proceed.

The base list of requirements seemed simple, at first.  Yet as I wrote each line, a host of potential challenges arose in my imagination.  Still, it was a useful attempt at delineating the matters at hand.

My list was written as follows, in the morning light:

Prepare the Heart of Stonetrunk for use to detect all manner of diverse arcane energies.

Design and build a better tool with which I could manage the tipirion, and other sophisticated artifacts.

Design and build a tool for the purpose of manipulating arcane energies across the octaves.

Arrange for the materials necessary to begin production of irionite.

 

As a manifest of desires, this seems both simple and blissfully technical.  Each one of these creations will be required if I am to see my destination reached in my lifetime.  The entire reason for me seeking the striekema in the first place was to allow me to see into the nuances of the eldritch universe and determine which thaumaturgical energies are present and to what extent.

Yet I am at odds about how to express the properties of this unique material in a manner that would be useful.  I am familiar with the limits of the thaumaturgical art, as I understand it, having had tutelage from the acknowledged masters of thaumaturgy and a certain innate understanding I have developed in my experience.  Yet there is a vast gulf of ignorance between my imagination and the realization of that effort.

Similarly, my understanding of the tipirion – that ancient Alka Alon device that promised a fine and delicate control over a molopor – is entirely beyond my understanding unless the mind and memory of Thenreyal, a long-dead Alka Alon Spiritsinger, is foremost in my mind.  Alas, she proves elusive, as I try to invoke her memories.  From our past acquaintance I understand the construction and use of the artifact was dependent upon deep study, an ascetic approach to the higher energies involved, and an iron discipline of intent that not even ordinary spellsinging required.  But I have little knowledge of the details of the rites.  That, I realize, will come only in time.

The matter of the manipulation of arcane energies is, perhaps, easier to consider as a conception of my imagination.  I do, after all, have access and use of the wide range of thaumaturgic wands of an especial manufacture used in the process of enchantment. 

The tool I envision surpasses all of these, however, in both scope and capacity.  The simple tools that have been constructed for Imperial Magic’s crude system were wholly inadequate for what I will need, should I persist in my goal of saving Callidore from destruction.  I require an instrument of unrivaled power and unprecedented control.  A tool that will combine all normal methods of arcane energy manipulation as well as powers affecting distance, dimension, life, death, energy, matter, gravity, the spectrum of light, and even the subject of time, itself.  That is no small endeavor.

On the subject of irionite, alone, I feel some degree of confidence as I plan for the tasks ahead.  That, at least, has a very real and practical beginning, and a well-understood (if obscure) process to be followed.  The collection of kirsiethsap was the first step, and that can best be done with the cultivation of that particular shrub.  To that end I had invited Lady Varen to plant that peculiar evergreen around her keep.  Once the plant is well established, I can then instruct my servants on how best to secure a goodly supply of sap. The sap will be transformed into irionite, eventually.

That, too, is no small task.  I will need some alchemical reagents, I know, as well as some specific apparatus to effect the change.  Thankfully, wealth and power provide resources.  I ordered several hundred feet of fine copper wire from the metalsmiths of Vanador.  I also sketched out a rough plan for the vessels that would contain the sap, eventually.

But as I drew this list of these basic requirements to a close, a sense of despair crept over me.  It seemed pointless, hopeless, or both to launch myself into such a daunting undertaking.  It was as if I was required to construct an elaborate millwork which I could – just barely – conceive of, but was provided only a few sharp rocks to begin with.  It isn’t beyond my capability, but the prospect is formidable and exhausting to consider.

I also know that it was a fundamental necessity that I succeed.  There is no other option.  This was not something another mage could do – or the Alka Alon, the Met Sakinsa, the vaunted Vundel or the very gods.  What lay ahead is purely the product of human pride and human arrogance.  Only my innate unwillingness to accept “conventional wisdom” allows me to consider success at all.

But we wizards are just kind of like that.  We live in opposition to good sense.  That gives me some perverse sense of destiny as I plunge into a hopeless path that, once taken, can not be departed.

For good or ill, sanity or madness, I know that I am committed.

24th of Baismas

I’ve been busy today.  To what effect, I will not know for months, but I begin my journey with a clear head and a deep sense of purpose.  Alas, I was unable to maintain that state long before a foreign perspective began to influence me.  It was subtle, at first, but before luncheon I had to reluctantly acknowledge that my ego had been compromised.  More than compromised . . . seduced.

I did not recognize it when it began.  There was a subtle shift in my perspective during breakfast, when I noted a decidedly feminine cast to my humor.  It was not apparent, at first, but as I bantered with Minalyan and flirted with Alya, there was a change in my mood and perceptions that informed me that I was no longer the one holding the reins to my body and mind.

Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to excuse myself at the conclusion of the meal, offering Alya a chaste kiss before I retreated quickly to the tower of Spellgarden, my sanctum.  Along the way, as my hurried steps echoed in the halls, I found myself reflecting on the primitive nature of the architecture and its similarity to cultures I’d never heard of.  By the time I arrived at my workshop it was clear to me that the one known as Saram was in command of my faculties.

Oh, I was still present; Saram recognized her own limitations and abilities, and within a surprisingly short time was indulging in casual experimentation and explorations of me and my world that I suppose I should have expected.  She was quite impressed by some elements – and not the ones I would have presupposed – and quite appalled by others.  I tried not to take it personally.  She’s been dead for tens of thousands of years, and there are bound to be changes in fashion that would alarm and intrigue someone from a different age.

Saram, her name was.  An academic.  A scholar.  A scion of a long-dead world.  And one possessed of a unique genius in subtlety and understanding.  Her memories flowed through my mind like a river as she quietly took control of my actions and my higher thoughts, as we entered the tower of Spellgarden.  When my ancient memories come to me, often they are merely present.  Occasionally the thoughts and remembrances of those ghosts assert themselves, particularly if my will is weak and I am unprepared, and they take power over me.

Do not think for a moment that I ceded control voluntarily.  Saram’s eruption from my mind and memory was nothing I could defend against, like a rising tide.  I confess I panicked, as it occurred, and struggled against the onslaught of unfamiliar feelings and emotions, memories and sympathies like I was struggling against a strong river current.  But to no avail.  My agency was ripped away and I was subjugated to the role of mere spectator in my life.  Saram, or her memory, was thrust into the seat of my consciousness while I clung tenuously to her wake.

It is terrifying, at first.  To lose one’s faculties is bad enough, but to forfeit any element of control to a strange consciousness produced in my tortured mind engendered a feeling of abject terror I cannot adequately describe.  Saram was not a malevolent soul, by any means, but the loss of the ability to choose one’s fate was damnable.  I sat helplessly by in a corner of my mind while this alien force usurped control of my body.  I knew what she was thinking, what she was feeling, as she realized her situation.  Perversely, I had a moment of sympathy as she initially reeled at the implications of her novel perspective.  I knew she suspected it was a mere dream.

But once she had ruled out mere madness, Saram proved an incredibly adaptable creature, a woman with an insatiable curiosity about her surroundings.  She spent nearly an hour just observing things in Spellgarden tower, marveling over the details and speculating about the influences and factors that contributed to their creation.  Saram was adept at coming to a conclusion based on her logic and reason, not to mention her broad education into the various historical epochs of the galaxy.  It did not take her long to establish with reasonable accuracy the nature of her new surroundings.  It took a little more time for her to appreciate the nature of the host she now inhabited.

I found that Saram was intrigued by the male body she found herself in possession of.  Which is why I found myself, in the midmorning, joyfully taking a piss off the highest level of Spellgarden’s tower. Despite her impressive scholarly intellect, when she was fully in control the first thing she wanted to do was indulge her innate curiosity about the male phallus and its capabilities.  As droll as the action was, I could appreciate it – because I have a similarly low character, when it comes to such things.  If I ever found myself in possession of a clitoris, I hesitate to speculate on what I might do.

Eventually, however, Saram’s fascination in my anatomy waned and her intellect regained control.  I confess I did not strive too much to regain agency over this collection of long-dead memories; I was as fascinated by her perspective on the challenges I faced as she was in the golden arc that decorated Spellgarden’s sky, however briefly.

And I was gratified by that forbearance.  For as soon as she was done with her indulgence, Saram’s memories began to assess the political issues I faced within the context of a history of which I was ignorant.  Saram had studied thousands of worlds and their struggles.  I had but one to contend with.  Yet through her memory I saw that what Callidore faced was not unique.  Indeed, she had a myriad of examples of similar situations across time and space.  And I found her insights both subtle and valuable.

The historian’s perspective granted me insight into the cycle the Five Duchies was presently enduring.  Saram’s experience saw the rise of Castalshar and the reaction of the eastern duchies in a context that I had little experience of.  But, over the millennia, Galactic History was replete with such conflicts.  The rise of new, reformational power centers naturally led to the growth of an opposing center of power.  It was as predictable as natural law.  The sudden resurgence of moribund Merwyn in the face of Rard’s political gambit was echoed in a thousand other instances across history. 

My mind swam at the examples Saram was eagerly providing.  Merwyn could not stand the new politics of the Five Duchies, despite the historical connection it had with the three western sovereignties.  An opportunistic reaction, my ancient historian insisted, was inevitable.  Merwyn (and its client, Vore) could not abide uncontested a rival such that Rard had constructed.  After Merwyn, Castal and Alshar were the two most powerful entities on the continent.  To see them combined (however imperfectly) created a political colossus that Merwyn could not abide.

Indeed, Saram’s memory assured me that the Duke of Merwyn would challenge Rard’s claim to the Three-Fifths Throne (as she styled his regime) rather robustly out of necessity.  There were a hundred examples of similar moves in her memories, and she was not hesitant about sharing them.

Similarly, the inevitability of the rise of internal dissent was assured, in her mind.  The kingdom had overturned an order that had endured for four hundred years.  It had, to her mind, combined the robust attitudes of the Narasi barbarians with the vestiges of the Magocracy’s rule.  Rard had unleashed the power of the magi in his ambitions.  That was a kettle that, once spilled, could never be regained.  Nor was there any guarantee he would survive long enough to pass along his achievements to his son, Tavard.  Indeed, history suggested that such bold and impetuous political moves invited a counter from the interior of the state.  From Saram’s perspective, Tavard’s future as king of Castalshar was far from being assured.

It was fascinating, regarding the present moment in context of Saram’s knowledge.  Indeed, nothing of contemporary affairs seemed to surprise the scholar; it was as if everything that had developed since Timberwatch was expected and predictable.  Rard’s rise, Grendine’s treachery, Rardine’s rebellion against her dam, Castalshar’s prominence, and Merwyn’s treachery seemed to fall neatly into a pattern long-established amongst far-away stars. 

Each development that had arisen afresh in my eyes seemed inevitable in hers.  Establishment of order, rebellion, and resolution all seemed to occur within her expectations.  In light of the great effort that had been expended by so many to establish and preserve the kingdom, it was more than a little disconcerting to understand just how transitory Castalshar could become. .

Saram’s perspective revolved around the concept of power: who had it, who would lose it, and what they would do to fight against that loss.  She understood implicitly the role the aristocracy enjoyed, and what they would do to preserve their privileges.  Hundreds of examples from dozens of worlds were presented to me as her memories dominated my own.  There was nothing new, I quickly realized, when it came to matters of politics and power.

Saram knew not the intricacies of magic or its potential effects.   It was an odd variable, compared to the armed aristocracy and the unarmed common man who strove against each other.  Well-understood rules of power were skewed by magic’s prominence in the emerging order.  Wealth, she knew, and political authority were easy to quantify and appreciate in the scope of history.  Developments in craft and technology could quickly affect a society.  Small changes in simple matters could have catastrophic effects on a culture unprepared for revolutionary advances.  But there was always an element of predictability involved, even when those predictions were wrong.

But magic?  Magic turned those carefully conceived ideas on their head.  That troubled her, and undermined the security of her knowledge of the sweep of history.  From her perspective many of the advances enchantment had achieved in the last few years had parallels to innovations in engineering or scientific understanding . . . but then many of them did not.  Worse, to her memory, was the presence of the gods and their unstable and unpredictable displays of power and their impact on humanity.

While she understood implicitly the threat of Merwyn to the kingdom and the destabilizing nature of Farise on commerce, considering the possibility that some seemingly-benign craft deity popping up and demolishing the social order through a fit of whimsy was just too drastic a thing for her to appreciate.  To add in the subtle influence of the Alka Alon, the malign impact of Korbal and his minions, and the existential threat of angering the Vundel, Saram’s memory found itself . . . perplexed.

As I experienced her reaction to the politics and statecraft I presented her with, I was naturally sympathetic – and a bit relieved.  I’d considered these matters myself with no less a feeling of confusion and trepidation.  I had managed to keep the gods from interfering overmuch largely through bluff and threat; the Alka Alon I’d alternatively wooed and confronted, Korbal I’d fought with tenacity and guile, and I’d been able to avoid the possibly catastrophic confrontation with the Vundel thus far.  But I knew all too well how easily each of those conflicts could lead to doom.

Magic belied reasonable assumptions, I knew from my own experience.  History can account for novelty in science, engineering, or social transformation.  It could not predict the inherently unpredictable or give much guidance on how to contend with it.  Magic was a sudden flame, a secret fire that could burn down all we knew in an instant . . . and there was nothing either of us could do to prepare for that.

I go to bed with Saram’s memory slowly fading, her sense of wonder and despair at my predicament both disappointing and oddly comforting.  If a great scholar of history like her was perplexed at the Matter of Callidore, then my attempts to control the uncontrollable brought me some solace.  It was a consolation, nothing more, but it provided me with at least a hint of satisfaction.