He had just folded the wanted poster and hurriedly stuffed it into his pocket, when a voice startled him from below. “Quick, come in here,” it beckoned; “quickly now!” It seemed to be coming from a doorway below ground level, a few feet down the alley way. Lloyd paused, considering his options, before darting down the stairs, pushing aside a stained cloth that covered the open door, and entering the basement of a house. It was dank and poorly lighted and smelled as if something had died and was now rotting in the corner. The voice came from the darkest part of the room, and was that of a man’s, an old man’s. Lloyd tried to make out the contours of the figure, squinting as his eyes adjusted. He was able to make out the shadow of a hunched man squatting comfortably on a mat. “A bit of trouble you appear to be in, eh?” The figure rose slowly and lit a lantern on the clay wall behind him. Lloyd could see the man clearly now. He was short and frail, with his ribs visible on a clearly malnourished frame. His head was devoid of hair, except for a long, spindle white beard, that descended from his chin to the floor. The skin on his face was withered, wrinkled, spotted and frail, his eyes resting deeply in their sockets. In his left hand he clutched a crooked staff, using it to support his surely ailing muscles. Over his shoulders was draped a shawl made of rough linen, a dark brown. He did not have a right arm, the shoulder blade twisted and in-grown, likely due to lack of treatment at the time of injury. The light also allowed Lloyd to see the room in its entirety. The walls were made of tightly packed clay, and water off the street had run down them and puddled in a murky spot by the old man. The floor was barren except for the puddle, the stained mat the man had been resting on, and a series of broken and cracked jugs spread chaotically about the ground.
His milky eyes looked Lloyd up and down, nodding to himself. “So tell me boy, did your really kill someone?” Lloyd took a step back, placing a hand on his sword hilt. “How do you know about that?” The man grinned, revealing yellow crooked teeth, “That posting in your pocket is all over town.” Lloyd’s heart began to beat quicker, as his eyes darted nervously between the silhouette of a man and the exit. “Don’t worry, I’d be hard pressed to stop you from leaving.” Lloyd’s sword arm was still tight, his face beginning to sweat. The man looked him over again, “Ah, but still, something bothers you?” Lloyd barked, “How did you know I had that in my pocket?” The man laughed, “The answer is far simpler than you’ve led yourself to believe. I simply watched you in the alleyway before calling you in here.” Relief fell across Lloyd’s face, and he took his hand from the sword. “Good, for a moment there I thought you were some sort of diviner.” The old man grinned again and laughed. “Me? No, no, no; I’m no diviner. Wizard is the correct term.”
“What?” Hobbling to the corner, he looked up at Lloyd, who stood shocked as before. “Yes, I am a wizard. But please, call me Lysander. ‘Wizard’ is my, well was my occupation.” With some difficulty, he positioned himself squarely above the mat, laid his cane next to it, and fell onto it, using his one arm to balance the fall so that he ended up sitting cross legged. “Please come, boy, sit,” the old arm motioned to a second mat, which was partially covered up by some refuse. Lloyd still hadn’t moved. Lysander sighed, clearly irritated by his lack of movement, “Now listen, I mean you no harm and simply wish to talk. Please,” gesturing to the mat once more, “sit.” Lloyd walked over to the mat, kicking some of the dirt and bits of clay off before sitting down.
“So by Wizard, you mean…what, exactly?”
Lysander reached for a broken jug by next to him, “Well I mean wizard, someone that sees the energy that ties our world and everything on it together, and because of that can draw power from it.” He took a sip of the dark fluid in the jug, “By borrowing this power from other beings, sentient or not, I can do things that expand far beyond the normal realm of reality.” He waved his arm over the empty socket where another arm once resided, and from it grew a fleshy tendril. It reached out, almost instantly, flapping around momentarily before filling out, and fraying at the end. From the fraying at the end sprung a hand of fingers that each bend and curled, before resting flat. Lysander continued, “I can make illusions,” moving the new arm about, “that will pass any visual test, but are unable to interact on a material level,” he reached for the cup on his leg, but his hand passed through it, as if gas. Lloyd leaned forward, looking intently at the arm, “So that, isn’t real?” Lysander extended it for a friendly shake, “See for yourself.” Slowly, Lloyd went to grasp it, but each time he touched it, his hand passed through as though it weren’t there. The Wizard flicked his real wrist, and the other arm dissipated; the socket once again empty. “Illusions are quite easy to maintain and they require little energy. Material spells, things that influence the realm of reality, are far more difficult to grasp and control.”
Lysander pointed at a broken pot with his outstretched arm, straining as if to reach for it. Lloyd leaned over to grab it for him, “No,” Lysander interrupted him, “allow me.” The broken pot moved slightly from side to side in the mud, before lifting off the ground a few inches. Pieces of nearby pots also rose from the ground around the first, circling them slowly; flying through the air like a flock of birds. They moved in, enclosing the pot from view. After a moment, the pieces fell to the floor, lifeless, leaving behind the first pot, now whole. Moving his fingers, Lysander brought the clay jug to his lap, setting it down. He poured the water from the half broken vessel into the restored one.
“That’s amazing!”
“Indeed,” Lysander took a drink from the fixed pot, “but not without its toll.” He turned his arm to the side, showing black lines running like veins up to his chest. “Each act of prestidigitation, of magic, big or small, has its price.” Resting his arm on his lap and speaking quieter, “If you borrow from the energy of life from anything, you must return it – one way or another.” Lysander handed the pot over to Lloyd, “As you can see,” he said, pointing to the clay cup, “There are no traces of it ever being damaged. The magic has actually broken it apart into thousands of fragments, and then reformed it from the chaos.” Lloyd turned the jug over, feeling the sides with his hands. There were no flaws or rough patches; the entire outside was smooth, as if it had just been taken from the kiln of a master craftsman. Lysander yawned sleepily, and began to stroke his beard, as his eyes wandered to Lloyd’s arm. “Boy, what is that on your arm there?”
He was referring to the scar Lloyd had carried since birth. It was only two or three fingers wide, but was quite noticeable on the otherwise blank skin. A fairly distinct mark, a circular line of triangular notches behind what Lloyd had come to think of as crooked ‘L,’ tilted an eighth of a turn to the left. “This?” he responded, “It’s been here since before I can remember.” Lysander’s eyes widened as he spoke, his voice nervous at first, “Child, that mark,” he calmed himself. “That mark was not caused accidentally but was carved into you by magic.” Lloyd set the clay pot down, “Excuse me?” Lysander’s good arm strained as he held it to the wall to stand up, “That pattern is unmistakable, and I’ve seen it only once place before.” He lowered the arm and pointed it to Lloyd’s shoulder, his fingers quivering as he spoke stutter struck. “That mark isn’t a mere scar, it- it’s an ancient rune. A very powerful rune, scribed by the most powerful wizard this land has seen in ten thousand years. By the gods, so it has come to pass?” An expression of dread passed over the wizards face, as he lowered his arm. “No, no, this cannot be.”
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“What has come to pass?” Lloyd stood up hastily, “what has happened?” The old man grabbed his arm, placing his hand below the patch of scars. “This,” he tapped Lloyd’s arm, “is the first sign.” Lloyd jerked his arm free and took a step back, “What are you talking about?” Lysander sighed, leaning against the wall and sliding back into his folded squat. “Please, do sit down again. There is much to hear.” As Lloyd sat, he spoke. “Long ago, magic was not an uncommon sight as it is now. It was normal for a town’s water supply to be entirely conjured, or for lamps to be lit by the wave of a hand, and chores done with the flick of your wrist. Every person was born with a degree of magical prowess, some more so than others. Magic was in everything, everyone; it was life. It also worked different then than now. The nature of casting was simpler, spells were invoked with no cost of life force; no exchange for the casting of spells. A majority of people only ever learned the most basic of tricks, like fixing that cup or the illusion of my arm, as the magic manifested in a person’s later years. However, those that showed magical proficiency at a young age were thought of as prodigies. They were trained by the most magically skilled men in all of the kingdoms so they could control it and focus it into powerful spells; these men were the first wizards.”
“The wisest of these wizards founded the Circle of Sages, a group dedicated magic and knowledge. Among those that sat in the seats of the sages was a seer, whose visions were written down as prophecy. He foretold that a child would be born of incalculable magical power, and that this boy would bring the end of a great evil throughout the kingdom. The wizards prepared, and when the child was born, he was taken in by the circle immediately. They named him Neemah, ‘he who would bring change,’ and devoted their teachings to him. By the age of six he was ages ahead of his peers and had surpassed his teachers. Magic to him was like breathing is to us, and it flowed with ease from his hands; each spells merely an idea brought to life through his will. Alas, the prophecy would prove to be wrong as Neemah grew corrupt and arrogant. He realized he alone had the power to shape the world, mold it to his will; in his mind, he was a god. All manners of royalty attended his eighteenth birthday. As the festivities began, he announced his future rule over the land, asking who among them would submit now. All refused, and before any could make it to the door all had been slain. While the blood was still fresh on his robes, Neemah raced to see the king. He arrived before word of the betrayal travelled back, and the guards let him into the throne room. King and queen dead, he cast a spell of travel, returning to the sage’s sanctuary where he had spent his childhood. By nightfall he had burnt it to cinders, killing anyone he could find. Former friends, teachers, and children all died by his hands. I was there that night, that terrible night.”
Lloyd interjected, “How is that possible? You’d have to be over a thousand years old?!” Lysander laughed, “Indeed child, indeed. I was but a child when the temple was attacked, and cheated death by chance. After the blaze started and Neemah had gone, I raced inside; collecting what tomes I could carry in my small arms. I found myself alone, none others had survived; and so fled into hiding with the books. My life has been long, a tale in its own, but the length of it is considerable, you are correct.” He lifted part of his robe, revealing his chest. Across it, Lloyd could see his veins were black, his skin pale and sickly. “I have been extending my time on this earth through magic. There is a spell which allows wizards to have centuries of life beyond a normal man’s.” He lowered his tattered robes and continued, “With wizards gone and the empire in chaos, Neemah was free of obstacles, and none opposed his new claim to power. His rule became iron clad; at the height of his reign, he had taken over half of the known world. Conquests alone were not enough to quench his thirst for power, and this would be his undoing. He became delusional and isolated, ever fearful of being overthrown. He began to work in secret, carving a great rune into the floor of his throne room. Unfortunately for Neemah, he was a prodigy, and the rune worked flawlessly. You see, he had come to fear the great power he wielded, the force of magic, so he had crafted a rune that would sap the magic of every person in the land –draining his magic too; leaving him a frail old man, with no claim to the throne he had built.”
“He had channeled so much of himself into the rune, that he found himself unable to conjure even the simplest of spells. Empty of magic, he was overthrown by the military force he created and fled through the sewers into exile. In order to sustain the great rune, Neemah had magically linked himself to it, and when he left the city, the link between him and it was broken, and the magic was redistributed sporadically throughout the world. Every living thing on the planet was imbued with a faint trace of the great power that a select few had once possessed, and the casting of magic faded away into history. He had changed the very nature of the world; people no longer contained enough essence to cast a spell. In order to cast even the simplest of spells, there was now an exchange required.” He gestured to his missing arm and scarred chest, “These are the prices for my extended life.”
“For the rest of the world, the lines had changed once again, the empire was re-divided, the generals of the army established military rule in their lands, and generations were born anew into a world devoid of magic. The lands under the generals became kingdoms, and centuries later, are the ones that are recognized today.”
“But the story does not end there. In exile, Neemah found that he had to do tasks without magic. Mundane chores became difficult and over the years, he became aware of all his previous acts of evil. He saw how flawed he had been, how his magic had consumed lives, how his lust for power had killed thousands, and how he had slaughtered even his closest of friends. His sorrow would not bring those slain back from the underworld, so deep in the deserts to the east, Neemah sat in meditation, hoping for guidance of what could be done. It was there that he had a vision, a prophecy; a man would inherit a kingdom centuries after he had passed. The man would know of magic and learn a powerful secret; one that Neemah had scribed away in his writings before fleeing the city. You see, Neemah had discovered that the exchange required for magic could be easily borrowed, or,” Lysander leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper, “it could be taken, and never returned. In other words, you could kill someone and harness what sliver of essence they contained.” He leaned back, speaking normally again, “Neemah knew that once this man learned of the final truth of magic, he would embroil the world in war again, just as Neemah had done centuries earlier. He could not wait a thousand years, by then he would be as I am now – and too weak to combat this evil. The only way he could see to stop this, was to use all the magic that remained within him and scribe one final rune. As it was finished, he gave up his life to power it. A simple design, of a sword held by a fist, silhouetted by a star; one that he foretold would find itself upon the arm of a child when the time was right.”
With that Lysander hobbled to some of the pots and began to pull out scrolls from them, dropping them on the ground, adding to the disorder. After a few seconds he found what he was looking for and opened it. “Here it is.” The parchment was old and tattered. There were some letters upon it, but they were in a text Lloyd was unfamiliar with; and he only could make sense of the drawing of a gauntlet tightly clenching a sword, overlaying a sun pattern. The sword overlapped the starburst and extended over its edges – his scar. “It reads, ‘That which is nothing must first find one, then one and another together make two. Two together as one can overcome a third, which will together make three. Three must give up three to be nothing again; only that which is nothing can defeat one.'" The page was heavily damaged, and Lysander passed it to Lloyd, “Here,” placing it into his hands, “this belongs to you, and you’ll need it on your journey.”
Lloyd began to fold the page and tuck it away, “Wait, what journey?”
