The Fall of Esariah

By Peter Stagg

in this the first instalment of 'the mugician chronicles' trilogy our heroes are united for the first time in preparation for their epic quest and to discover their true destinies and identities. the world they traverse is deeply sick, starved of the healing harmonies and balanced vibrations that everyone took so much for granted, and now the forces of discord and malevolence are at the height of their reign.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Stagg
• Release date: Nov 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301320493

Book preview

The Fall of Esariah.

(Part 1 of: The Mugician Chronicles.)

By: Peter M Stagg.

Published by Peter M Stagg at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Peter M Stagg

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

A huge thank you to my friend Kevin Hill whose patient, lengthy and painstaking proof-reading and editing skills give this work its polish and without whose considerable input would have produced a far lesser work.

Table of Contents………

Maps:

Map 1 Grennel's Map - The Initial Journey.

Map 2 The Four Great Realms of Quatretania.

Map 3 Quested Paths.

Map 4 Dothoria. - Dothor's Occupation.

Chapters:

Prologue: Voices at the Edge of Darkness.

1. The Cymbal Tree.

2. A Busy Night's Sleep.

3. Windchime Sauce.

4. A House in a Street.

5. A Necessary Journey.

6. Mr Ronfrey and the Bees.

7. The Crossroads.

8. The Voices of Dreer.

9. Moidel.

10. Grennel.

11. Just Desserts.

12. Pies!

13. Cope.

14. The Legend is Unmasked.

15. Duedne Orzick.

16. Of Fugitives and Tyrants.

17. In the Absence of a Plan.

18. Opalina.

19. Where the Ship Sails.

20. Otor: The Final Hours.

21. Into the Cold and Distant...

22. …Realms of the Broken Moon.

23. Foliah the Insatiable.

24. The Wonders of Orfa.

25. Bourne the Ferryman.

26. A River to Cross.

27. The Seeds of Defiance.

28. Calarwey takes flight.

29. How Thin the Sanctuary of Dreams?

30. Renlah.

31. To Carry Against the Wind.

32. Where Moidel Learns to Fight and some Tales are Told…

33. Mr Ronfrey and Stuttering Stuart.

34. A Grisly Larder.

35. Under the Dark Lantern.

36. The Running Man.

37. Gobby Gets a Big Biffing!

38. Foliah Steals a Jewel.

39. Hindered by Good Fortune.

40. Lazy.

41. A Clash of Wills.

42. Ariall's Revelation.

43. At the Call of the Crow.

44. To Hidden Depths.

45. The Sound of Destiny.

46. Confronting the Devil.

47. Short Sticks for Torches.

48. In Pursuit of Perdition.

49. Through Fire.

50. Quaverlings.

51. Swept by the Current.

52. All to Chance.

53. The Dawn of Dissonance?

54. The Tenth Musiahla.

55. The Nursery of Dark Yearnings.

56. Epilogue.

Prologue

Out of the long night and washed onto the shores of harmony he came, languid and breathless. Cut and torn by music’s ingenuity he so longed to know, and haunted by a melody that would not fade. Soon the melody would leave his ears and shout its message directly to his withered soul, in a ringed procession with no beginning and no end. It would call to him, and open all his adopted certainties to the steel notion of doubt, filling the space left between with the chartless oceans of possibility.

"A life without breath and no limbs with which to act, yet still I endure!"

"What foul curse has befallen me? Where am I?"

The White Mountains were almost upon him, great gleaming shards of warning ivory bringing the promise of a sharp embrace. Harmony’s river flowed towards him from between them, and the terrible beckoning darkness beyond, where the mirror to his soul, blackened, impatient and unappeasable, waited to receive him.

"In the sum of your actions!" Dafiel replied.

In the beginning his thoughts and actions were blameless and pure, and his self-will stood fast, untainted by temptations of desire. A perfect start leading to an unblemished destiny would form the soil and roots on which he grew. And the wondrous plan inspired by love that clasped the blessing of his birth, then coloured the earlier years of his life and guided him to seek no more than his being. For his innocence he was rewarded with peace.

His experience grew, and like a flower, his journey would unfold. Sheltered by heaven’s sacred trees under a perfect sky, clear waters trickled musically down from the fountains of time, into pools of emerald hope and pure blue serenity. People swam in the waters and were cleansed by them, uplifted in mind and spirit, and just like him saw perfection as their natural state. The waters asked for nothing in return.

"I remember a place I once called home, but it is no more!"

Time passed uneventfully for many years, and through his many lives until one day, his enjoyment ceased to fulfil him as before. His old thoughts tired from want of enlightenment, his beliefs suddenly paled from over-use, and he found himself locked within a bubble of contentment, which had grown too small for his swelling mind. He tussled with life’s great mysteries but found only clouds and riddles. He demanded a truth that could be divided into fragments, and that each should sate his curiosity with a neatly apparent solution. Naturally, no such answer could be found, but he ventured forth in pursuit of it regardless, stretching further the gulf between his soul and any future honour. Shackled to his newly acquired desire for knowledge he trekked further into the cold domain of counterfeit thinkers.

"You found a new home Foliah! In power and wealth!

Did that not fulfil your wishes and make you glad?"

These dwellers in this sanctuary of ignorance welcomed him into their world with open arms, seeing him as one of their own. Only a few were ever permitted a glimpse into the real pages of his past. A history written behind his eyes as the score to a great life symphony, corrupted by false notes and erroneous time signatures, its original purity sacrificed as inconsequential to the great scheme.

Those rare few that saw it would run in terror, lest the power behind them should flourish and grow once more, perhaps to douse forever the dull flicker of their meagre insights with truths too terrible to withstand.

Others, fewer still, saw the truth by looking through him, beyond the veil of tears that separate us from innocence. Where the rivers of past and future meet, and their currents run in universal harmony. The message they uncovered told of a truth that explains the nature of all things without word or illustration, that will not yield to questions or suffer to answer them, but provide such clarity that any enquirer of sufficiently pure motive would be amply contented. Though none that saw it, could meet that demand.

"I sought only truth! For this I must be damned for eternity?"

A path of great learning opened up before him and strewn along its road lay many puzzles. Some, whose solutions once gained, brought forth the delectable fruits of satisfaction, but like a mirage would vanish as soon as touched. As well as these were the unfathomable perplexities, the destroyers of peace. The paradox designed to frustrate and confound, the nonsense dressed as a maxim. That the real truth might reside in his hands to begin with, was a thought far from his mind as he lurched and grasped at every possible outcome that logic could present.

"That depends on you Foliah! Are you ready to grow?"

Armed then, with a sickness instead of wisdom, he ventured further into the world as a teacher, and sought to infect or as he considered it, enlighten those minds worthy of his attention. His skills unlike his methods were unquestionable. The gift of his talent stayed loyal through every abuse he inflicted upon it, never leaving his side, while his logic steeped explanations for it contrasted heavily with the beauty his gift worked through him. He grew prepared to accept nothing as out of his control, and as such, he viewed this great contradiction as a curse on his life. An equation without solution or beauty, and wrought by The God Dafiel himself to shower misery and disorder on his deluded state of perfection.

"Tell me what I must do!"

Bitterness became his closest confidante, Rage his friend most called upon. The voices that stayed with him throughout, and had once lifted his mind pleading with him to ‘Accept’ faded away one by one until the silence shouted its vacancy and was filled by less scrupulous tenants. New voices spoke to him now and he was happy to engage them. Eagerly they attended him, always ready to support his ideas, whatever chaos their doing might create, forever cheering him on with promises of eternal greatness in return for his unshakeable resolve: A counsel of the unseen, ready at a seconds notice to pore over a tricky dilemma or concoct a radical solution. Only these voices would he now trust, and as long as they spoke to him, he would listen attentively and carry out their bidding.

"All that you ever emanated must return to you!"

A vision of past wrongs culminating in the hope of millions destroyed, shot through his consciousness. It made its home in the very roots of his essence, where it lumbered clamouring and heavy, like a mournful wail, or a thick chorus of prayers from a faithless mass, cynically pleading with the stench of greed, and the unfulfilled ambition of hate.

Leaden earth buried any hope of escape for him, as he fell deeper into the gaping abyss. Purification’s juices were primed, their call primeval yet warmly familiar, resonating and lubricating the tightening throat of oblivion into which he now passed.

"Then I am undone! For I have not the strength to withstand it!

Who will help me tame the beasts I have unleashed,

now that the voices I followed have turned silent?"

Engulfed by the reverberating hum, the hand of pressure increased, taking him to a place far beyond pain. Touching the remnant that was once his soul, it felt for its life, but found only death. Undeterred, it spun its sonic web of misery around him, choking his senses and darkening his sight, giving him a mere taste of the indigestible medicine that lay ahead. A new doorway began to open, pushing a direct pathway into his spiritual core, and was entered by horrors inconceivable. The stench of putrefaction attended every slow second that passed, each marking a moment of his life untouched by goodness.

"You shall see!"

The millennial minutes ticked from era to aeon, until at last purgatory had done with him, casting the remains of his soul to the elemental winds. Time rewound. His dues were now met, his penance paid, and only the spark of his existence and the grey shadow of his past became the new seed from which he could blossom. Time once more played its part and allowed his wounds to heal. Then, like a turtle’s head emerging from a shell of self-inflicted lies, he finally awoke to the dark expanse of spiritual ocean, which he joined with grateful relief. He absorbed the goodness around him with the thirst of a desert and emanated as much in return. He had regained his balance once more.

"By your grace I have returned from the abyss,

What must I do now? Name it and it shall be done!"

Slowly displacing the darkness surrounding it, a magnificent doorway began to take shape. The pure white outline moved towards him opening as it came. From far beyond the appearing crack, a glimpse of light entered through. A burning ghost of future hope came with it; its celestial fingers creeping into long forgotten corners, the dusty and neglected annals of time once lived. As a movement without motion, it filled the featureless space with life and colour, and sent a new vibration resounding across the universal halls and depth-less vaults of possibility. In fluid state, a wall of sound marched forth, breaking the separation between light and darkness, and giving rise to the ultimate act of magic.

"The great energy you unleashed has swept over the lands you once knew. It now devours the hearts of men and covers their spirit in a shroud of misery. Here, you can do good. Your spirit is strong, but will not withstand the fruits of your old ambition. If you travel the same path as before you will be destroyed forever. I will give you a memory of the past to guide you and the skills you once enjoyed so much. Look for the man that runs, and learn all you can from him, and when doubt visits you in the quiet moments, heed only the voice of your conscience. For that alone is the well of all truth and wisdom. Go now!"

The door opened wide and he gravitated inexorably towards it. Along the silver corridor he flew, drawn to the light at the end where his new world prepared to receive him. The last conscious thought before his new life began was about the joy of doing. Like a road half travelled or an unfinished painting. Moments where one can look back and compare with satisfaction all the twists and turns of each mile gained or each stroke of the brush. Each bringing you nearer to something, though still far enough away from its conclusion to wonder at the possibilities.

That a problem left quietly unsolved could radiate gratitude was something he had not until now considered.

From one divine manifestation, he transformed into another. The great alchemy that forges the temple of the soul in this world and gives it life worked its magic on Foliah. Little of his past adventures would he remember until the time came for him to transform once more, but much would be done before then.

A new set of tools in the form of a body, and a new family were waiting to welcome him. They would give him a name and nurture him until the haze of unconsciousness lifted and he found his feet once more.Then it was up to him to live up to the promises he had made.

The journey was nearly at an end. His powers to think and refine ideas were fading, forming instead into indefinable images and colour. Instinct made him fight to retain the ability but deep within his soul, he heard a voice say ‘Accept’. The very last word he would understand before he learned to talk all over again.

Finally, he arrived at his destination. The silver strand, his pathway between worlds snatched away from him, and a warm peace flowed in and around his fragile new form. Kind voices and tantalising sounds and rhythms filtered through the walls of his domain and built the foundation of his life, whilst all the time he grew.

Time had provided all it could for him to prepare, and the day had come for him to leave that temporary refuge and go forth into the world. Nothing would lessen the trauma of his birth except the warnings of forthcoming change in the form of contractions. A new song was playing, a rhythm growing in frequency and velocity, building the suspense for its only possible conclusion...

At last the moment came. Suddenly the rush carried him. His sanctuary changed shape and pushed him from his watery world into the shock of cold air and dazzling brightness. His balance discovered, then upturned and shaken as the strong hand wrenched him struggling into the air. The smell of blood and danger was everywhere. Then, as the other hand struck him, a new sound, as his lungs expelled fluid and functioned as nature intended. Giving voice to his first animal cries and releasing the instinctive call for his mother. Eventually, and once this new experience had served its purpose, he began to quieten down in her protective arms and breathe in the smell that meant safety from harm. His feelings of distress further diminished as the frantic events of before faded from his memory. Everything was quieter now, as he bathed in the most profound sense of calm. The last thing he saw was a blurred silhouette of two heads watching over him. It imprinted itself in his mind and with that single picture of comfort, he slept for the first time.

1. The Cymbal Tree.

Through heavy eyelids and a grimaced face Reneld looked on impatiently as his father prepared the Tree. He’d watched him do this a hundred times before and it hadn’t grown any more interesting since the first; a perception lost on his old man however, who was deeply and forever enraptured by the thin clangs and glassy intonations of the Cymbal Tree.

To engage his son’s fragile concentration, the curtains were drawn and the windows were shut, and only the sounds of tinkling metal and his father’s droning voice featured in this mind numbing study of boredom in progress. One day you’ll thank me for this! his father Mirek whispered. ‘Not bloody likely!’ thought Reneld as the Tree issued another uninspiring ‘ting’ and he strained to hear above it, the joyful shouts of his friends playing outside. Reneld dreamed of what might happen if the Tree were to disappear unaccountably, but then seeing the look of enthralled pleasure on his father’s face decided he really wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt.

‘Just another twenty minutes or so and you’ll be free’ he told himself reassuringly, and immediately felt better. Then the strangest thing occurred, and many times during his life he would revisit this moment, trying always in vain to capture the exact feeling that awakened his senses that day. In his heart was planted a hunger, which no love could satisfy, or deed could lessen.

A lifetime of searching might never reveal the food for which it ached, but he knew that it was more than mere sounds that he heard. Suddenly it was in everything. The world sang to him in broad tones, tuning into his mind and his mind in turn resonating to their song. Mirek could not conceal his delight…

There! You see? I said one day you’d thank me, and now at last you understand what I’ve been trying to teach you these past years!

Indeed Reneld had experienced an insight so powerful and rare he thought he might die from grief were it to fade from his mind. Mirek became concerned seeing the colour drain from Reneld’s face and bade him to sit and rest a while, then afterwards helped him to his bed to recover from his sensory exertions.

Reneld lay on his bed removed of energy with his eyes shut and his head spinning wildly, trying his best to make sense of the great awakening he’d just experienced and still reeling from its echoes. Mirek stayed in the room with him and whispered soothingly in his ear.

My work is done now, my son. — You have tasted enlightenment. - From seeing nothing you have awoken to the world of light and sound. — I cannot open your eyes further nor cause you to perceive the subtler jewels of sonic vibration. It is up to you now to refine your awareness and build upon it. — But heed me well! - If you do not carry on along this path you have found, then sleep will return to blind your senses once more and keep you from finding the truth. Rest now, but remember what I have said!

The days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months. Winter had ended and the invigorating freshness of spring seemed to last only a day or two before fading into the dust and heat of a blazing summer. The searing heat was made worse by the lack of breeze and the hot contained air that skulked under every shady spot, rudely assaulting any that expected the relief of cool shelter. Since Reneld’s strange experience some months before, his father’s health had rapidly deteriorated. Now lying covered by a single white sheet, which accentuated the frailty of his body, he spoke to Reneld in a wheezing whisper between bouts of coughing and gasping. Even in his weakened state he still managed to exhibit a great peacefulness in the face of death.

Reneld was moved to tears, but accepted this new phase of his existence without protest, as if he had known it would come just when it did, and reassured by his father’s worthy place in heaven.

The long summer saw his father’s passing and the beginning of Reneld’s lifelong fascination with music-magic and its meaning. His mother Aurania, had died many years before and her softening influence had expired in all but spirit. In the beginning, Reneld’s father had sought to remove all traces of her memory to lessen his own daily reminder of her passing. But with two bright and motherless children thrown into his world of hard edges and rough-hewn care, he relented and kept out a picture of her for them to see. Various items of household knick-knacks, all at odds with each other peppered the interior of their small dwelling as well, but in his mind helped to make her real and give them a little colour in an otherwise stark reality.

Reneld’s sister Rana was two years his junior but possessed a wit far beyond her age. Reneld had often played the part of big brother and never more so than when their mother fell ill. It had helped him to cope. For him, being strong for his sister meant he could avoid dealing with his own feelings of loss, but her eyes told him where the strength really lay and that he was only deceiving himself.

Rana had held together what was left of their family with her feminine grace and boundless optimism. Without a mother herself, she had become a surrogate mother to her father and brother. That Reneld and his father should ever entertain the notion of her loss as well, was something neither had planned for, yet that was what happened: Just two short years after the death of her mother Rana followed her into the Etherworld. Reneld had never been close to his father before, but the need for them to support one another after such trauma overcame any minor clashes of personality. Each were reliant on the other for finding reasons to carry on. Time passed and allowed memories to return in a sunnier light.

Still the questions as to why they were taken at all remained, and for Reneld not a day passed without the grinding slideshow of imprinted thoughts that such injustices impose on the grieving. Reneld’s father was by gift better suited to cope with these sad times than Reneld, and tried as hard as he could to make him see that all was not lost. Reneld for his part played the dutiful son, and only after the years had jaded the sharpness of their pain did the small irritations and petty annoyances begin once more to gnaw at his patience. His father was secretly encouraged by this and sought deliberately to inflame his son’s temper at times, as it aroused comforting feelings of normality.

Mugic was Mirek’s gift to him and though he expected many years would pass before he saw value in it, he would never have believed he’d find gratitude beyond expression for the path it would soon manifest, and for the invaluable tool it would prove to be.

For now though, Reneld was contented to divest his mind of care and bask in the hot sunshine. The sweltering heat, uncomfortable enough to take his mind on journeys far away from the pain that was so close to him yet comforting enough to thaw the coldest regions of his mind and let in the light of optimism and hope. Reneld’s whole life was about to change again and send him on an adventure that would make him question things he’d never dreamed of. Although their support was robust and well-meant, the draw of friends was no longer sufficient to keep him from his quest, especially now that his family was gone. The summer lingered on, and with it Reneld’s restlessness grew and his mind began to tune into the seeming emptiness around him. Something unseen lurked behind every tree root and its shadow could be detected languishing in the depths of every evaporating pool. A shouting presence that spoke without words to any that might have ears to listen.

Though Reneld was new to the skills required for such feats of insight, he knew there was a growing problem that would not resolve itself over time, but rather would grow in severity until none could ignore it however dull their senses might be. He knew in his heart that the answers to these problems if allowed to appear in their own time would arrive too late to be of use, and that he would need to seek them out at their roots located far away from his home, and before the flowers of their grim effect were allowed to bloom. Reneld Ortheo was only twenty two years old and had seldom travelled beyond the borders of his home town of Boslen.

Reneld sat on the front porch of his father’s home thinking about what he had to do. He rested his chin on his arm as he watched his friends playing ball on the parched dusty playground as the sun began to set behind them. He gazed as they kicked up puffs of orange earth and felt a pang of loneliness as the notes of their joyful laughter reached his ears. They could not share his vision and at that moment he envied the simplistic innocence in which they lived out their lives. Reneld took his emotions in check and reminded himself that he was different from them and had a path to travel whereas they did not. ‘But where is the path?’ thought Reneld impatiently and waited to feel the answer. The answer came swiftly, rising up within him and he was in no doubt as to its truth. He would wait for a coming sign, and would recognise it when it appeared.

In the meantime he would listen every day to the cymbal tree, interpreting its message for that day and always focusing his intuitive self to separate prophesy from day dream. In the time left between he would become fit, extremely fit. His friends’ understanding of him would diminish still further and their invitations to rescue him from his obsessive regimes would dwindle, until he was seen as someone who could not be helped and was therefore best avoided.

This saddened Reneld and it was with great effort that he turned his mind away from thoughts of friendship. But he knew that his destiny was too important to neglect, and he could allow nothing to distract him from it, and so his preparations for the unknown continued unabated throughout the remains of that long hot summer.

Reneld deprived himself of any source of comfort lest it cloud his mind with human desires and lead him to fail before he had even started. His days began before the sun rose, with meditation and running. The cymbal tree would demand three or four hours of his morning before he ate anything, then his afternoons and evenings would be spent in the most punishing routines of physical development, which the heat of summer did nothing to ease.

Spending so much time reading the cymbal tree, Reneld felt that it had in effect become a part of him, and he considered that at some point in the not too distant future he would no longer need to use it. A mental image of the tree, so strong it appeared real, resided in Reneld’s mind. He began to strike simple questions on its leaves and compare their answers to the real tree on his father’s desk. More and more often the results were identical and so he concluded that his mind was becoming in tune with the great unseen which excited him immensely, feeding his sense of self and building his confidence.

Reneld considered with wonder how ingeniously the arrangement of four metalbranches and disk-like leaves, sung to nature’s continuous melody, and reflected at its yet untapped potential.When Reneld’s long anticipated moment arrived, it came not through the divine music of Mirek’s tree, but through an everyday occurrence of no apparent significance.

A printed note pushed under his door one evening by an unseen hand was the start.

It read as follows:

‘Evening of Enlightenment and Musical Magic!’

Hosted by the Great Ariall (himself!)

‘Conductor of Harmonies extraordinaire! And Mixer of

Melodic masterpieces!’

Interested parties should present themselves at the Dark Lantern,

North Boslen, (tonight at dusk!!!)

The unexpected invitation bore all the vulgarity of a fairground-poster, but despite its brashness and lack of finesse, was intriguing enough to arouse his curiosity.

Ordinarily, Reneld would have ignored the note, but something within its grandiose content set against the incongruously ragged scrap of paper struck a chord in him. At first he saw it as mildly comical, a fleeting deviation from the toils on which his mind was so focussed, but as he gazed over the unabashedly self-proclaiming message, something else began to take a hold over him, and he found himself strangely seduced by it.

Ostensibly, the venue was particularly apt as it had held every new circus-booth attraction for the past two-hundred years, and in spite of its reputation for hosting mainly the works of implausible fortune-tellers, eccentrics and crackpots, Reneld wondered if this indeed could be the sign that he had waited for...

The red sun was making its slow descent behind distant hills, when Reneld shut the door behind him and set out on foot to the Dark Lantern. Whether it was because he had ventured no further than a mile from his home in the last few months that made him pause to look nostalgically at his home, as if for the last time, or whether some quiet inner voice was prompting him, he didn’t know. But he also took with him more than was necessary for a simple night’s entertainment, including food rations and a stout coat more suited to winter weather.

Reneld had walked twenty miles, and still had five miles more to travel. It hadn’t been long into the journey before he felt uncomfortably hot, and was forced to discard several layers of his clothing, leaving just the winter coat over his bare skin, and the plain cloth trousers and leather sandals, which achieved for him a most effective look of vagrancy.

The Dark Lantern was originally an old drinking lodge and got its evocative name by the illuminations it cast through its strange connected shapes of timber black framed windows, high up on the rocks of North Boslen.

Perched high atop a rocky outcrop and commanding excellent views in good weather, the lodge was remarkable in an understated way, in that - from a distance on a dark night, it could be described as resembling a lantern, but on closer inspection elicited more disappointment than wonder. The road that led to it however, offered much in the way of suspense, with its dark meandering curves ascending ever skyward and promising to unveil secret wonders at every turn and its long tree-lined tunnels that would end abruptly to reveal powerful rocky vistas with threatening faces carved out by nature to ward off the less intrepid traveller; all building up to the most formidable climax, but on arrival producing instead a most deflating sensation, prompting one immediately to enquire ‘Is that it?’

Reneld was starting to suffer from his choice of attire as the road ascended ever more steeply ahead of him. By now he did not just resemble a vagrant, but was fast beginning to smell like one.

Finally, Reneld rounded the last steep incline and headed up the widening road to the lantern’s base. He felt a little embarrassed at his appearance and more than a little concerned at the unsociable aromas emanating from his armpits.As he approached the entrance, the silhouette of a figure appeared in the brightly lit doorway and a seemingly friendly voice bade him welcome. He walked up and saw that the voice belonged to a stout man in his thirties, a head reminiscent of a potato and dressed in the attire of somebody who tricks people out of money for a living.

Hello there! But, My don’t you look like you need a bath! Smells like it too! Errgh!! That’s close enough! laughed the man holding his nose with one hand, and waving the other around theatrically. Reneld was incensed and was about to speak when the man interrupted him.

Where are you from then? North or South? — Kerlie or Boslen?

Reneld was taken aback, but responded innocently, I’m from Boslen actually, it’s taken me quite... The man interrupted again, Don’t they have baths in Boslen then? — Or maybe you don’t bathe on religious grounds. Ha!?

Reneld shot a hand to the doorman’s collar and twisted it until his eyes bulged.

Listen to me, you irritating little slug! Reneld snarled.

I’ve walked a bloody long way to get here, and I’m hot, thirsty and Very, Very tired. And… I’m Not about to be ridiculed by some greasy yokel whose talents include dressing himself unaided and combing his hair with a spoon. — Do you think you’re in some way better than me? The man shook his head stiffly. Reneld loosened his grip and the man’s face began to regain its normal shape.

Where’s the entertainment? said Reneld coldly. Without another word the man turned nervously and pointed behind him. Reneld spun him around as he pushed past and went inside taking several long deep breaths to restore his composure. He found himself in a narrow passage lit with two hanging oil lamps. On the left-hand wall was an old painting depicting the Dark Lantern as it appeared over a hundred years ago. The picture was already known to him; a memory of childhood so vividly conveyed by his father’s words that Reneld felt sure he’d seen it before and was apt to embrace it as one would an old friend.

The artist had made such clever use of lighting to portray the Lantern as a magical place, that it seemed impossible that it could exist except in one’s mind. The painting was undated and he wondered whether it was in fact older than the Lantern itself, and so perhaps, the inspiration for its construction. Reneld thought as he drank in the image, that if that was the case then one was left in no doubt that the artist’s dream greatly eclipsed the builder’s reality, and that perhaps they shouldn’t have bothered building it at all.

Reneld was still gazing dreamily at the picture when the creak of a door behind him, made him turn to look. Exiting furtively, with his back to him, from a room off the main passage, was a small, roundish sort of fellow, who in Reneld’s mind could have done with missing a few meals. Reneld was also struck by the sickly-green hue of his shirt, and the unruly mop of hair that stuck out at all sorts of mad angles.

Reneld coughed lightly to make his presence known, only to see the man jump and rush back inside, slamming the door behind him with a thud. Reneld approached the door and knocked on it smartly.

Hello, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a start! Silence followed. Reneld called out again.

Hello, can you hear me in there? The sound of something heavy falling followed by a muffled cry came through the closed door. Reneld was about to try the handle just as someone from the other side opened it just far enough to poke a head around.

Yes? — Well? — Can I help you at all? said the man nervously holding the door with both hands like a shield, and not about to open it an inch further than necessary. Reneld gave his most friendly of smiles.

I don’t know, maybe you can! — I need to wash... the man raised an eyebrow at this unwelcome revelation and lifting his nose began to cautiously sniff the air.

…It’s a dull story so I won’t bother explaining, if you could just point me in the right direction, I’d be...

Through the door there, up the stairs, first door on the right! blurted the man waving Reneld away with his hand, and once again slammed the door shut leaving Reneld feeling a bit confused and a little put out.

Reneld moved towards the door he’d been shown and went through. Once inside, he saw that people had already arrived and were seating themselves down to face the black curtain of the stage at the end of the large room. A number of brass oil lamps hung from the walls and from beams high up among the glass-clad rafters, restfully flickering behind suffused orbs of tinted crystal. A quiet murmur of voices issued from the seated crowd and Reneld noticed somewhat uncomfortably how well turned out some of them were.

Hurriedly, he made his way up the circular wooden staircase to the floor above, a new addition to the lantern since his early childhood visit. At the top of the stairs an unlit passage faded into darkness but the door he wanted was plainly visible and usefully marked with a sign saying ‘Washroom’. Reneld tried the door just as somebody was locking it from the other side.

Excuse me, are you going to be very long in there? asked Reneld with a mix of politeness and impatience.

Sure, I’m nearly done in here, just give me a moment or two! came the slow relaxed tones of a voice that sounded quite unused to being hurried for any reason, save for a fire perhaps. Are you here for the music maybe? said the voice through the door.

Yes! said Reneld shortly. I hear it’s going to be rather special, this Ariall fellow has been all over the world with it you know! Reneld yawned deliberately and muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath. What’s that you say? came the innocent reply. Nothing! said Reneld with a tone of disinterest. The door suddenly opened and a man quite unlike the image suggested by his voice appeared, he had the look of a fiery giant and stocky, but with a kind face and gentle demeanour.

Reneld thought it quite remarkable. My name is Berndell by the way! said the man stretching out his hand. Reneld took it and tried to shake what felt like an immovable tree branch. Jules Berndell, but my friends just call me Berndell.

Why don’t they call you Jules? It’s shorter! enquired Reneld helpfully.

Berndell paused before answering, looking at Reneld as if he were a little simple.

…I don’t know! he offered finally with just a hint of sarcasm. Why don’t they call me ‘Bob’, that’s shorter still!

Reneld shrugged, Berndell it is then! I’m Reneld, pleased to meet you! Look! I don’t mean to be rude, but.. well, frankly I stink! I need to get in there now if that’s alright!

Berndell laughed,

Well that’s fine by me, let me see if I can find you an alternative to that horses blanket you’re wearing. Reneld thanked him and went inside to find a white tiled room with a fire in one corner heating a large metal pan full of water and next to that was a large porcelain bowl, a pile of fresh towels and a wooden shelf above it with a selection of sponges, cleansing leaves and fragrance oils. Reneld peeled off his offensively aromatic overcoat vowing to himself never to repeat the blunder.

Berndell came back with a full change of clothes, and Reneld by now completely clean and feeling human again, listened much more happily to Berndell as they went downstairs to watch the entertainment.

I run this place now! said Berndell conversationally. I’m trying to turn back the hands of time and capture something of its former glory, which with some of the things that pass for entertainment these days is going to be a challenge!

They seated themselves on the edge of the anticipating group, Reneld behind Berndell, and waited with the others for the show to start. One member of the audience sitting close to the front caught Reneld’s attention. The lean man in his early twenties, seemed quite agitated and kept standing up and looking at the people behind him every half a minute or so, scanning their faces as if to find someone. His own face was a mask of pent up rage.

Berndell turned and whispered to Reneld under his hand.

He’s on the lookout for someone! — I was talking to him earlier, he reckons he saw someone trying to steal the contents of his saddlebag from his horse outside, says whoever it was wore a sickly green shirt and looked like they could do to lose a few pounds. Doesn’t look like he’s about to let it go either! Reneld smiled as he remembered the man in question and his comical expression of panic when he asked him for directions.

Suddenly the room’s whole atmosphere changed. The temperature dropped noticeably and in unison the oil lamps around the wall dimmed inexplicably.Then came what could best be described as a ‘musical sigh’. It filled the room, radiating from its centre and flowing outwards like a refreshing breeze, signalling the beginning of something strange and a little frightening. The gathered group seemed to sink into their seats as if flinching from the surrounding tones swirling and diving over them in a translucent glow of pale shadows.

Then the real sounds came, their source initially from behind the black curtain but then finding their own life and escaping into the room to be reborn from random sources all around them. Reneld realised at this point the curtain would never be raised as there was no need for it to be. The sounds grew and Reneld recognised their origin as coming from a cymbal tree, though he had never experienced anything close to the power that this particular tree or its unseen player was producing, and he was mesmerised by it. As the myriad images were unleashed and darted and danced tantalisingly in the space around them, Reneld knew they were in the presence of a master although was puzzled as to why he preferred to remain hidden from view. As a turning windmill in perfect miniature floated past his eyes, it drew Reneld’s captivated vision with it. Suddenly flying upwards, Reneld’s eyes followed it, to see it disappearing into a bright golden circle, like a window onto another world. Skies flowed like rivers beyond its outline, and angels’ faces appeared, wearing expressions of such tranquillity and contentment that he immediately came to see that no worldly event, however great could claim to inspire such a look of serenity.

Finally the music faded, and the ‘magic-lantern’ images returned to darkness once more. The dimmed lamps flickered back to full luminescence and the atmosphere threw off any last pretensions of magic it might secretly have wanted to keep.

Pasty faces acknowledged each other as if waking from a deep sleep. To his surprise, none of them exhibited the excitement that Reneld felt at that moment, and when Berndell turned to him and spoke, nothing in his eyes suggested he’d just experienced something momentous. Reneld was troubled by this and was beginning to think he alone had witnessed the ‘real’ show. He so desperately wanted to share his encounter with somebody who understood, and could recount elements of it that he might have already forgotten. Somebody, anybody would do, just as long as they felt what he felt. He scanned the faces around him but none held the same need to enthuse as he, and so he was forced to accept the fact that he was surrounded by a bunch of dull witted sheep. Reneld shrugged as people began to stand up and filter out of the room.

C’mon! said Berndell casually. Let’s go next door and grab some food before this lot scoff it all! Reneld went to stand and a severe case of ‘pins and needles’ came sharply to his notice. It was prevalent in both of his legs and invited him to sit down again much sooner than he’d intended. I’ll be along in a second, just need to get the blood knocking about in my legs again! said Reneld rubbing his thighs. Berndell laughed and promised to save him some crumbs before bounding off a little too eagerly in pursuit of the food.

Reneld was about to make his second attempt to rise before he noticed one audience member whose mind was not completely overtaken by thoughts of edible delights. It was the man who had looked around so angrily before. He was sitting very still, bolt upright, and by his posture appeared to be staring straight ahead. Reneld thought to call out to him, but decided instead to approach him first. It was as well he did for the man was in a deep stupor, staring ahead, mumbling incomprehensibly and unreceptive to any distraction. Reneld, feeling a little concerned for him, put his hand on the man’s shoulder and was about to speak, when the man suddenly snapped back to his senses.

Who are you? — What happened? then he turned to look around,

Where’s that little weasel? — He tried to steal my things you know!His eyes then became glassy and fixed and his voice altered to a dreamy whisper.

That was incredible! — It’s true! - It’s true what they said, - and I’ve seen it!

Seen what? — What’s true? said Reneld expectantly.

Who are you? the man repeated much to Reneld’s annoyance.

My name is Reneld, Reneld Ortheo and everyone is in there! he said pointing.

Shall we join them? Reneld suggested. The man nodded gravely as if the decision was one of life or death.

Well, I suppose I’ve sat here for long enough. How long have we been sitting here anyway? Reneld hadn’t thought about it, and would have estimated it to have been about ten or fifteen minutes had his legs not turned to jelly the moment he’d tried to stand. I think we’ve been here for well over an hour, maybe two! he offered after thoughtful consideration. Anyway, I’m Reneld…! He said again hoping this time to prompt the man into revealing his own identity.

I know! You said so a minute ago! the man snapped impatiently. At that, Reneld decided he really didn’t care to know what the man’s name was after all. Right then! said Reneld abruptly, I don’t know what your plans are, but I’m going next door to grab a bite to eat before it’s all gone!

The man’s expression brightened. They’ve put food on as well?

I believe so, yes! replied Reneld curtly.You don’t mind if I join you?

No! — Come on we’ve spent enough time talking about it!

The man followed behind Reneld walking with a pronounced hobble gained from the three and a half hours they’d actually been sitting, whilst witnessing the music-magic of Ariall. Reneld pushed open the heavy wooden door into the other room and they were immediately hit by the brighter light and noise of lively conversation. As audience members stood around in groups chatting animatedly about the night’s ‘entertainment’, it was clear to Reneld from their general demeanour and air of frivolity that none had gained much of an insight into what had really taken place. Their conversations although eloquent in structure were nonetheless pretentious in content and reminded him of how children would sometimes impress upon an adult their interest in a subject purely to gain their acceptance, but he noted as well, that they certainly appeared contented enough.

Just then Berndell came over to meet them. I see your legs have recovered! Not much in the way of eatables now I’m afraid, but I’m sure you’ll find something! Hello again, Eliah wasn’t it? said Berndell talking over Reneld’s shoulder to the man behind, Did you find your thief? Not yet, but when I do... Well he had better watch out that’s all! Berndell laughed in a friendly but dismissive way and left them. He thinks I’m joking! I mean it when I find that little...Ooh! Pies! and he left Reneld at a trot to stake his claim for the remnants of a buffet on a large trestle table in the corner. Reneld followed him brooding thoughtfully and feeling quite put out that this fellow had happily volunteered his name to Berndell but not to him, and he sought to make something of it. So, your name is Eliah is it? Eliah nodded casually, whilst stuffing his face with broken piecrust and sausage meat. Where are you from? questioned Reneld in a conversational tone.

Mumpf gmf br flumpf! came the unintelligible reply through a lavish spray of crumbs and half chewed meat. Finally Reneld had had enough. So wonderful to have met you, I’m going over there now, and I’d be most grateful if you would stay here. Eliah looked completely bewildered as Reneld moved away as fast as he could, ploughing through the assembled group to find somebody more forthcoming to talk to.

Just at that moment to Reneld’s relief, Berndell appeared again, Hello there! I was looking for you! When you’re ready, come through to the other room, there’s some people you might like to meet! Right now is good for me!" said Reneld with grateful sincerity.

Reneld followed him out of the room through the same door they’d entered, then across the function room to the hallway where the old painting hung and where he’d seen Eliah’s thief. Berndell stopped about halfway down and knocked on the wall.

‘Must be checking for rot!’ thought Reneld glancing past him to catch a glimpse of the fat doorman and to see if he was troubling anyone else, but he’d disappeared.

Suddenly the panelled wall opened to reveal a concealed entrance. Berndell and Reneld were hurriedly ushered inside by a short man with a serious expression, the man nodded deferentially to Berndell and himself. It took Reneld a moment to realise that this was the same doorman who’d insulted him before, but the reverential hush that hung in the atmosphere discouraged him from saying anything.

They walked the length of a short passage to a large room with a windowed ceiling, where several small groups stood quietly talking. Berndell cheerfully introduced Reneld to the first group before disappearing. Reneld quickly wished he was back suffering the ill-mannered Eliah, as at least he couldn’t be accused of boring anybody. He tried in vain to concentrate as the group veered from one dry subject to another, but after the sensory elevations of the music still lighting up the rooms of his mind, the subjects of ‘desert irrigation’ and the healing properties of pot plants just wasn’t absorbing enough to grab his attention, and so Reneld inevitably found his thoughts beginning to wander.

Reneld put his inability to concentrate down to his prolonged isolation at home and told himself it would improve if he socialised more. His thoughts were floating about all over the place again as one of the group droned sonorously on about the disadvantages of clay soil and he hoped none of them would ask him anything that would require more than a thoughtful nod or a furrowed brow. Reneld was pretending to listen to them, wondering when and how he could escape politely when a voice suddenly appeared in his head.

Hello Reneld. It’s wonderful to see you at last. Reneld was shocked and quite expected the expressions of those around him to change in acknowledgement of it, but they didn’t so much as bat an eyelid, so he knew the voice had only spoken to him. Just then a tingling sensation ran up his spine and an inexplicable feeling of terror shot through him followed by a rush of air as if falling from a great height. He trembled, and as the hairs on his neck stood on end, he was drawn to look slowly over his right shoulder.

Behind him talking animatedly to another small group was one of the tallest men he had ever seen, and he was surprised not to have noticed him before. A tad over seven feet with a thick mop of long black curly hair and a brown coat so long it seemed to go on forever. The man had his back to him but was communicating with him nonetheless.

Again the voice spoke to him, I don’t mean to be rude, I have only to finish this conversation and I’ll be right with you! Reneld turned back to his group and carried on as before pretending to listen, but with so much happening invisibly all around him he found it harder than ever to conceal his straying thoughts. A strikingly pale and scholarly young woman in the group noticed him and raised a disapproving eyebrow as Reneld fidgeted and shuffled about distractedly. His frustration of not knowing who the tall man was, or more importantly what he might want from him was at last worsening his ability to behave normally. Reneld was well aware of the odd looks he was starting to attract but was unable to stop himself mouthing replies to the inaudible voice that had set up home unbidden in his head.

Fortunately for Reneld, he did not have to wait long to discover the identity of the mysterious giant. The voice that had echoed inside his head just moments before with the words, ‘Even fools deserve patience!’ was now speaking plainly for all to hear, and the responses it drew were nothing short of awe-struck as he turned to Reneld’s group to exchange pleasantries with the small gathering.

Towering over them like an abnormally tall grandfather clock, he began:

My dear friends, it is so wonderful to be surrounded by people who can appreciate the finer intricacies of mugic. A uniform look of smugness and self-satisfaction arose instantly on their faces and overflowed in a show of sickly indulgence. The tall man smiled inscrutably as he studied their expressions one by one, finishing with Reneld who was busy making some assessments of his own.

I don’t believe we’ve met? the man said, looking down to face Reneld directly.

I am Ariall and responsible for the little show you experienced tonight. — I do hope you enjoyed it!

Before Reneld could utter a word Ariall had placed a hand on his shoulder and was guiding him to take a step forward. Reneld looked down to see a pair of soft brown leather slippers bearing the letters ‘B’ and ‘M’ and embroidered with stars and moons in gold thread and various other signs and figures the like of which he’d never seen.

Step into them! Ariall commanded firmly, and as instructed Reneld unthinkingly took a step forward. No sooner had he done so, than the world around him began to distort and change. He was revisited by the sensations of falling he’d experienced when he first encountered the mysterious Ariall, but this time they were far worse and terrified him as he hurtled uncontrollably through inner space and backwards through time, until the terror itself grew weary from working and slept.

With fear no longer in his heart Reneld shed the mantle of his body like a garment that had grown too small to wear, leaving just his spirit to soar freely through time. The years passed in a blink sometimes letting him pause to re-live a hidden memory or re-kindle a moment of forgotten joy, then he moved beyond the boundaries of his own life and accelerated through the lives of people he once knew as himself. Ariall’s hand was always there guiding him through the dark passages and thorny recesses of history and his voice spoke to him in pictures instead of words.

Reneld was to witness something that had occurred nearly nine thousand years ago and it was looming ever closer to his sight.

The great sounds were first to come, ringing and echoing in a space unimaginable. Voices singing harmonies scripted in heaven for ears blessed and attuned to receive them. Then powerful waves of pure energy expressed as light pulsed and burned their fiery path towards the main event. Reneld had transformed into a new entity that could travel with ease across the vast spans of time and bring their images to the present as it trickled and grinded ever forward into the constantly evolving future. He glided effortlessly towards the event like a ship in full sail and absorbed the love that surrounded it.

He stood then among a sea of souls under a stone sky, and as a vibration that flows like a river between all states of being. A glimpse of the unimaginable and a sample of utopia and then suddenly it was all over.

How long have I been away? sighed Reneld as he reclaimed possession of his body and senses.

Only long enough to snatch a glimpse, — a second or two, — no more. said Ariall in a confidential voice. Reneld looked around to see that no-one had missed him and indeed may have felt some gratitude for having Ariall take him off their hands for a while.

It made no sense to me and yet it felt strangely familiar. What was it? — What did I see? Reneld asked eagerly. Ariall paused before giving his considered answer.

What you ask me I cannot explain to you in the time we have, and only time will provide you with the answers you need. I don’t have to tell you that your presence here is no accident and I don’t need to tell you that your destiny lies far from here in the most dangerous and unwelcoming places. Always assuming that you follow your heart you will discover surprising things about yourself that even your creative imagination will find hard to accept. You are to play a part in the most important event to have happened in thousands of years, and your only reason for being here now is for your protection.

Reneld wanted to ask so many questions and to compare his knowledge of mugic with a master just to see how far he’d come by himself, but there were too many and each requiring more time to answer than he felt Ariall would give him, so he held his tongue and listened intently.

Ariall continued; Whatever you decide to do, I strongly advise you to remain here and not to return home tonight. A far-away look took his face as he continued to speak and Reneld felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

Strange winds are set to roam the lands and roads this night. I feel them gathering. Ariall’s face darkened. Soon they shall come. From the north, cast forth like a net to ensnare the gifted and bring them within his crushing grasp. Reneld looked at him anxiously wishing he’d be more plain speaking and Ariall cleared his throat before obliging him.

"Your studies with the cymbal