The Tessellation Saga, book one. Prophecy's Heir

By D. J. Ridgway

On the distant planet of Arotia, an age-old evil has been awakened and through the sacrifice of the planets brave rulers the evil has been thwarted... for now
Years later and through the study of banned and dangerous books Prince Medim has found the secret to harnessing the immense power and banished evil, but in doing so he must risk the wrath of his father, for his plan to work he must commit great crimes himself and if he is caught the punishment will be great indeed.
On planet Earth, Gideon lives with his father near a mystical and feared forest. He has a special affinity with the flora and fauna of the forest, which he will come to depend on when he finds his village razed to the ground and its occupants sold into slavery. He is traumatised when he realises that the soldiers responsible for the atrocities are searching for him. So he retreats to the safety of the trees and seeks solace with a magical and ageless wolf, who helps him to realise the magic in his blood is not the only reason that he is being hunted but also the answer to all his questions.
Why does the king want him dead? Who is he? Where has the magic come from and why is it slowly killing him? Gideon must find out or die...

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. J. Ridgway
• Release date: Sep 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301108329

D. J. Ridgway

Hi there, I'm married with five grown up children, seven grandchildren and two cats. I love to read, write and walk. I currently drive a really sexy little blue Peugeot 206 and work full time at London's Heathrow Airport.

Book preview

Soul to soul will evil be

Two become one

Two will die

Life from death will be the key

Unity is flawed...

Ramis sat alone in his private study and stared out of the large windows onto the pre-dawn sky; soon the sun would be rising above the horizon but just now, it was still dark, kept that way by the thick and heavy clouds. The wind blew fiercely, whistling through the castle turrets, rattling the slate tiles and making the window frames shake. It will rain shortly he thought, as he stood up to pull the heavy drapes closed on the depressing sight and to try to shake off the gloom that surrounded him like a shroud. Moving like an elderly man, he made his way to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of his favourite sweet red wine before fingering the neck of the beautiful hand blown goblet gently and admiring the physical skill it took to shape and cut the molten glass. Holding the stem carefully between his fingers and before the candle, he thought he could almost feel the heat from the blowers furnace and he noticed how the light reflected back from the wines rich red surface, he smiled as he lifted the glass to his mouth. The gentle scent of summer berries filled his senses as it wafted up softly from the sweet liquor and unwanted tears stirred by memory started in his already tired eyes, no... He thought and replaced the goblet on the sideboard leaving the wine untouched.

Shaking his head sadly, he leant forward placing his hands either side of the glass letting his weight fall onto them and his head drop to his chest heavily.

‘How did we come to this my son?’ He whispered and swallowed hard to prevent himself from releasing the tears that threatened to spill. Again, he smelt the berries and lifting his head he looked at the wine and felt its call. He turned away, knowing how easy it would be to drown his sorrows in the liquor and he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trews to avoid further temptation. The fingers of his right hand naturally clasped around a small hard lump in his pocket and a look of puzzlement crossed his face. Withdrawing his hand and opening his palm, a tiny but spent spell crystal was revealed and holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he lifted it to the light staring hard into its depths as if trying to unearth from within its beautiful facets a hidden answer.

The crystal, mined long ago in the mountains of Dakar, where, it was wildly rumoured, the mountains core touched the roots of magic, remained dormant. Now in each tiny facet, he could only see himself, each small reflection full of condemnation and blame. The dead crystal, although full of light and splendour was a reminder, a reminder of what evil was alive in the world. Again, he shook his head, trying to clear it of memories and quickly dropped the crystal back into his pocket, its sharp quiet beauty too much for him. Instead, Ramis turned toward to an old glass cabinet, an ancient thing housing his most precious and fragile books. Mumbling a softly worded spell to protect the cabinet’s contents from the elements outside of its safe cocoon, he gingerly opened the glass door with a small golden key. Reaching inside he ran his fingers across the faded spines reverently, stopping only when he reached the one he looked for. Holding the ancient tome in his hands, he prayed on the journey that it would provide solace in this time of need and he walked nearer to the small fire and stood staring into the flames, his thumb gently caressing the fragile books cover. The light bounced off the crystal mounted in the golden circlet he wore upon his head, sending shards of rainbow lights dancing around the room. Ignoring the sudden beauty, he threw a cover over a small table beside his chair; gently laid the leather bound volume on the soft cloth, sat down and opened the delicate cover.

‘Long ago…’ he read aloud, ‘a vain and powerful mage from the island of Bannush…’ Was that Bannush or is it an ‘a’, it must be Bannush, he thought. Bannash is not off Devour…, he began again, this time reading silently.

‘Long ago, a vain and powerful mage from Bannush, an island off the coast of Dervour came close to destroying our world, the home upon which we live; he conspired with a Demon from the void…’

Ramis grinned sardonically, knowing the account of the histories was true but unable to believe in Demons the way his ancestors obviously had done, and he let his face fall and read on. As he read, his tired eyes slowly became accustomed to the spidery age-old handwriting and he thanked the journey for his ability with languages both old and new, a skill he had resented studying as a child but one that had come in useful on more than one occasion since. He continued with the book but his heart remained heavy, heavy with the decision he knew he had to make, the final choice that only he could make, whether to separate a soul from its body, to condemn it to a last and very long journey, a journey with no known end. Ramis read on quietly with the world of Arotia turning around him.

As the book ended, Ramis, King Emperor of Boetesh stared at the final page.

May the people never forget the ‘Twelve,’ never forget the sacrifice made for them…

Themos

First Mage of Boetesh

‘Sacrifice,’ he said aloud, thinking of the noble dead, the twelve men who had sacrificed themselves to protect Arotia, so many years ago. My own ancestors, he mused as he thought about the histories he had just read, the cataclysm brought on by the terrible wars between the Schools and the Gatherer. Themos and Thaddrick, twins of his own house and master mages themselves, their brother Théoden, one of the twelve who died so valiantly and his wife Valeria, along with their youngest son who disappeared through a gateway to an unknown planet because it was believed at the time that Arotia itself would not survive.

‘Those twelve men died to enable us to live, to protect the planet and the people. Can I do less, have I the courage, can I too protect the people?’ He asked the silent book quietly, tenderly touching the handwritten name of his ancestor.

Ramis closed the delicate book and replaced it in its warded cabinet. Although he’d read the account of Themos and the end of the great war many times he’d wanted, needed to read it again, knowing the decisions his ancestors had taken then, had a direct bearing on this, his decision now.

A thunderclap rattled the doors blowing them and the drapes wide open, wind rushed into the room sending smoke from the small fire swirling around the chamber and blowing out the fluttering candles. Ramis walked slowly to the doors and going through, closed them shut behind him. He was still deeply troubled, he paced back and forth along the battlements of his magnificent castle and was so intent on his thoughts he failed to notice a man join him on the cold, windblown balcony.

Sethron, his chancellor and friend stood watching him in the pale light quietly, sadly; he loved this good man and had loved him since the day they had first met. Their respective fathers had held the same positions and they had grown up together, though Sethron was older by one year. Their love, he knew was mutual.

The kingdom of Boetesh had prospered well since the day of Ramis’ coronation and naturally kind and compassionate he had become a much-loved king. ‘His right arm is justice’ the people would cry, adding, ‘his left arm is love.’

Deep in thought, Sethron remained a silent watcher as he continued to observe his friend. If this man has one fault, it has been his constant neglect of his children, even to ignoring his son’s misdeeds! Too late now... mayhap the boy was bad even before Melandra passed away...

Melandra, beloved of Ramis, Queen Empress and mother to Medim, Ramis’ heir, her death on the childbed sixteen years ago had shocked the world. The introverted and spoilt six-year-old Medim had become even more taciturn, his mother had been his life. Always a sullen, wilful and even spiteful child, he became even more reclusive. Ramis, in his own desperate grief at the loss of his wife had ignored the boy and the tiny girl-child, whose mother had passed away giving her life.

‘I wonder if he blames his sister for their mother’s death,’ Sethron asked, not realizing he had voiced his question aloud until the king replied.

‘Possibly Seth, I don’t know, he could as well blame me, for giving Melandra another child!’ Ramis answered turning and seeing his friend for the first time.

‘Sire, forgive me’ cried Sethron, he had to raise his voice over the noise of the worsening weather. "By the Journey’, I had not intended to speak aloud’

The king rested his hands on the solid grey stone of the parapet and bending his head to his hands his shoulders heaved in grief. The gold circlet on his head slipped off, bounced once on the hard cold stone and rolled to rest at Sethron’s feet, its twelve-sided diamond, a replica of the nation’s symbol of hope and unity seemed dull and flat in the near dawn light. Stooping slowly, Sethron retrieved the headband from the floor. Without the constraining band of gold the wind whipped the king’s long grey streaked hair about his head and hunched as Ramis was, Sethron realised his friend was getting old. Lifting his tear streaked face into the wind; Ramis echoed his friend’s thoughts.

‘I am getting old my friend, this has aged me.’ Sethron could do no more than agree as his beloved king sobbed, his sobs leading on to self-recrimination. ‘What kind of father have I been Seth, that my son could do this thing, to endeavour to take my life and attack his sister, to want a child that way… to, to abuse her so? I can’t help him now; I should have tried before, tried when I was first told he needed help.’ Ramis turned his face to his friend, his agony plain to see. ‘What did I do, I ignored the problem; I ignored him, it was too painful so I, I just ignored it. Arrogance Seth…, that is the real cause of my failure as a father..., my arrogance…, I loved my son once…, I love him still…,’ the kings tirade became a whisper, barely audible over the howling of the wind, the first smattering of rain. ‘He tried to kill me….’

Sethron looked up at the sky to avoid seeing the anguish in his king’s face, watching as the ever-darkening clouds built and split. Appropriate, the sky reflects his pain, he thought, as he watched the rain lash down over to the south.

‘I failed him and I failed Melandra.’ Ramis spoke again quietly as he returned to his desolate pacing before one of the castle cats leapt from the parapet trying to escape the coming storm, it landed almost under the king’s feet causing him to halt in his tracks. Staring after the disappearing cat thought of a time when his children were still quite small. He remembered giving Celendra, his daughter a pair of kittens on her fifth birthday, she had been pleased with her gift and had run out to play in the garden with the animals; after a while, her tutor had summoned her, so she left the kittens in the garden with Medim. A servant found one in the pond the next day, Medim had tied a rock around its neck and put it in the water.

‘I wanted to teach it to swim…’ the eleven-year-old prince said when asked about the incident and although they searched thoroughly, the second kitten had vanished.

Thunder boomed loudly in the king’s ears as lightning lit up the cruel dark sky bringing Ramis back to the present, as he watched, a second jagged but brilliant white light reached down from the heavens to smite a huge tree in the castle grounds. With a mighty thwack the trees great bole disintegrated and fell slowly apart, so slowly that Ramis thought he should have enough time to run down into the gardens and save the tree before it hit the ground.

‘Time Seth, I had time enough to save Medim, I just didn’t bother, didn’t care enough.’ Once more Ramis’ thoughts turned inward and back into the past.

Spoiled since the day he came screaming into the world the prince had had his every whim indulged by both his mother and his nurses. Ramis himself, forever busy with affairs of state found little time for his only son and had believed it easier just to leave the boy to his mother. Then later, after she, Melandra died giving birth to Celendra, Ramis had been unable to abide the sight of either child. Their very existence reminded him too deeply of his loss and the young prince himself, lonely and suffering, sought no solace, instead he spent his time alone or with nurses and caring for the tiny child that had taken his mother’s life.

‘Celendra!’ Ramis snorted with disgust at himself remembering he had not even named his own daughter, the pain Medim caused her... his memories continued.

The first time Celendra had been hurt, Ramis remembered, both the children had been playing outside in the snow. Then, when the nurse called her charges back inside, Medim tried to warm his sister by the open hearth in the nursery. Medim can’t be to blame for Celendra being burned surely; he just failed to notice the flames consuming her hair until they licked at her skin. Ramis shook his head, remembering with disgust how he ignored his son’s strange behaviour at the time, his poking and prodding at the burnt hair and charred flesh whilst Celendra screamed in pain. Despite her desperate pleas of innocence, Ramis punished their nursemaid severely for leaving the blazing fire without its stout iron fireguard. A physic mage healed the little girl leaving no physical scars and Ramis found himself forced to evaluate both his and his children’s lives, he realised he had neglected them for too long. I vowed to protect the then, to spend more time with them, just as Melandra would have wanted. He thought sadly, knowing he had, albeit unintentionally, just let them both down again. Time after time, he cancelled events and planned outings with the growing children as the needs of the country got in the way and again ignored the children had to amuse themselves. Celendra always seemed happy, but Medim? Ramis thought, remembering with guilt his feelings of relief when he finally sent the boy away to school.

Even at school, the boy remained a sullen unpleasant child, hard to like and spiteful if thwarted, he spent much of his time in solitude and study within the schools vast womblike libraries. His fellow students kept clear of him and despite being a prince, his peers avoided him if they could. Medim’s ‘mentor’ in lieu of a friend became his desire for knowledge.

‘Knowledge is power,’ one of his early teachers told him and Medim wanted to be powerful. He found he had an aptitude for magic and quickly mastered the basic skills, he also learnt about the roots of magic, about intonation, balance and consequence and during one history lesson, he learnt of an outlawed form of magic his ancestors had banned, Blood magic. He became curious and wanting to know more continued his research alone. He learnt that Blood Magic had been at the heart of the mage wars so long ago and he learnt about the Gatherer, a master mage who had also craved knowledge and power and he likened himself to him in all of his fantasies.

Eventually, Medim attempted to steal an ancient book of lore and intonation from one of the schools large libraries leaving the master mage no choice but to expel him. Ramis spoke briefly to Medim after the expulsion but had been exceptionally busy with affairs of state and once again unable to spend much time with the young boy.

‘It was just a book father,’ Medim said petulantly when asked why he had tried to steal, ‘I like to read.’ Pleased with his son’s interest in history and knowledge, Ramis forgave him his sulks and increased his allowance to enable the boy to acquire more books. If I had spoken to him more I would have realised his interest in old magic was growing, I may have been able to help him ...so much for the vow I made. The thought tortured the king as he paced and again, his memories pulled him in.

‘A new school, new disciplines and more books,’ Ramis told the young prince. ‘Try to behave here, remember, one day you’ll be King!’ He added as he left the prince with the schools master mage and sighed with relief knowing the boy was out of the way again, at least until the school holidays.

Medim was growing but as he grew, so did the problems. One summer the palace chaplain sought Ramis out begging him to listen, the prince was ill, dangerous, ‘accidents’ seemed to happen whenever he was home, this time it was a spate of barn burnings, the tortured screams of the animals still locked inside had filled the skies. No one directly accused Medim but he was usually in the vicinity. I never listened, ever; Ramis chastised himself before memory again clawed at him. Another fire, that time Celendra’s nurse, caught in a blaze in the nursery had barely managed to escape with her life! Please, let that have been a real accident! Ramis shuddered at the thought of it being otherwise remembering that the nurse had held no love for the prince. She had steadfastly protected her charge, refusing to leave Celendra alone with Medim after the incident in which the princess’s hair and face had burned as a child. Ramis remembered speaking to the nurse himself but she had never forgotten it and rumour grew and spread like a disease.

‘Someone had set the fire...’

‘The flames began strangely…’

‘Magic was involved...’ I ignored them all, every rumour surrounding him, even when the serving girls’ avoided serving him; I thought it was for other reasons. Even Seth tried to warn me... Ramis thought, remembering how he had laughed in his friends face.

‘Medims seduction of the castle girls’ has got to be stopped.’ Sethron said angrily one afternoon. Ramis laughed loudly with relief, thinking it proof his son becoming a man.

He continued to ignore the veiled warnings from his council and the more blatant warnings from Sethron; instead, he became increasingly annoyed at the constant haranguing of his son.

He snorted loudly causing to Sethron to glance worriedly at him.

‘I was so blind...!’ Ramis whispered the words almost lost amidst the worsening weather. ‘I was relieved when Medim began to procure his whores’ from the town but only because you stopped complaining about him Seth, remember?’ Ramis said guiltily still staring at the sky, ‘unfortunate youthful follies, coincidence, I called the incidents.’ Sethron did not reply, his own memories of accidents involving the prince were equally, if not more disturbing than the king’s. ‘And what did I do whilst Medim played with peoples’ lives?’ Ramis continued sarcastically, ‘me, kind and good king Ramis, father to the nation. Well, here’s what I did, I gave him money and a place of his own where he could continue his reign of terror almost with impunity!’

Ramis had indeed given over a little used tower section of the castle for Medim’s personal use and Medim had loved it. An allowance from the royal purse allowed him to plan and execute his own experiments, magical and otherwise and the king was happy that he had at last pleased his son. For a while, Medim seemed contented, the incidents stopped and he continued his solitary studies. His libraries became his passion, he secretly practiced his craft alone and in his tower, all the time leaning toward the darker side of magic and with the outlawed blood magic still not mastered, and his spells became more dangerous.

Unaware of Medims experiments, Ramis was pleased beyond measure when his son requested to further his education and so Sethron, under Ramis’s direction, arranged for a place for the prince at the prestigious, ‘Academy of Craft’ and there at the college, Medim found more libraries, the like of which he had never seen before. Only one library was out of bounds and although curious as to why, he was satisfied as he found himself with halls of books he had never read and with permission to peruse at his leisure; he seemed content. Ramis was relieved, the council stopped complaining and even Sethron seemed to leave the young man alone, with no more dangerous experiments and no more accidents Medim appeared to have found his calling at last. Ramis and his council at last heard good reports of the prince from his tutors and it seemed, finally, Medim was happy.

One evening whilst studying at the academy, Medim climbed an old wooden library ladder whilst attempting to reach a volume on lore, as he stretched, the wheels of the ladder shifted on the antique marble floor and slid out from under him almost sending him crashing down onto the hard surface below. In an attempt to steady himself he grabbed at the shelf before him causing an ancient book to fall to the tiles in a cloud of dust. Shaken, Medim climbed down the ladder to retrieve the book lying open and crumpled with its spine broken and its binding straps askew. Sadly, he looked at the broken spine; above all else, he loved these silent teachers filled with wonderful words, each one full of power and knowledge. Instantly contrite at the broken book he softly peeled back the cover in order to attempt a quick repair. The book was entitled, ‘The Heart of a Flower,’ of no particular interest itself to Medim, but as a book, it deserved respect and he was sorry to have caused it damage. As he lifted the book to one of the library tables, he gently tried a little magic to mend the split leather and the broken clasp, at once, his skin began to tingle and tighten so he stopped immediately. He had nothing with which to balance the magic needed to mend the volume and he knew without it, the magic would find its own balance indiscriminately, possibly his own life force, or perhaps the books around him would burn or freeze as the temperature changed. He sighed knowing he would have to mend the book by hand, a painstaking but eventually satisfying task so he gently picked up the broken book and carried it back to his room where he could begin.

Preparing his equipment lovingly, he sat at his desk with the book before him, he opened a simple wooden vice far enough to insert the book spine up and carefully tightened and screwed the rods that secured the book in place using a piece of soft leather to protect the ancient covers from the wooden blocks. With an impressive array of sharp wooden handled tools before him, he was last ready to begin. The curved spine of the old book was now uppermost and showing how badly it had been in need of repair, warped with age, a lump had appeared in the once soft hide covering, causing the leather to split even before the fall the book had endured. So taking his sharpest knife, he gently slit the stitches of the flexibly sewn spine, a device that allowed the book to lie flat when open. As he pulled the old leather back, he could see the offending lump was a piece of parchment apparently used to add support and stiffening to the spine itself. Somehow over the years it had shifted and formed a tight knot beneath the now dry leather, the poor book had literally been about to burst its seams. Gently holding the split open, he chose his long nosed tweezers and began to extract the lumpy stuffing that had shifted from true. The old vellum came away piece by piece and Medim piled it on his desk for disposal, he was not surprised to see writing covering the paper, bookbinding itself was expensive after all and it was still a common custom to re-use old and used sheets of manuscript to help strengthen new book covers. Eventually finished, Medim re-strengthened the spine and completed the repair with some very fine sewing. Finally satisfied, he dusted off the book and gave the cover a gentle polish to add more ‘give’ to the dry leather and he smiled at his work, opening the book to view his handiwork at ease, he viewed the first page with disdain. The picture drawn on the frontispiece was indeed that of a beautiful flower, each petal and line still holding the vivid colours originally painted so many years ago. What a waste… Medim thought, preferring words to pictures and closing the book he placed it on a table near the door ready to take it back to the library, only then did he return to his desk to clear up the mess made by his afternoon’s long labour. First he cleaned and put the tools carefully away in their leather roll and then began to sweep the discarded pieces of written paper into a wicker bin, as he brushed the last piece of old paper away he caught the swirl of a capital ‘G’. It fell from his fingers and mingled softly with its counterparts, something about the piece and the spidery handwritten ‘G’ struck a chord but Medim was anxious to get back to the library and resume his studies.

That night, Medim lay tossing and turning in his bed and despite being tired, sleep eluded him; he could not shift the feeling that something still needed doing. Carefully he went over the events of the day in his mind, from waking that morning to finally getting into bed and blowing out the candle on the nightstand. Still though, sleep would not come, a worm of thought was wriggling away in his subconscious denying him peace. Finally, tired but frustrated by his inability to drift off he sat up and re-lit the candle deciding to read until sleep claimed him.

Glancing around the room looking for the book he had been studying his eyes fell on the bin beside his desk, the pale candlelight was falling just inside the rim of the basket illuminating a small piece of paper wedged in the side of the rough wicker. Remembering the book he had inadvertently broken and then mended that afternoon, he thought of the small piece of dry vellum stuffed so badly inside the spine it had caused the damage in the first place. He scanned the room again before realising he had left his reading book in the library along with the mended volume, so he sighed and shook his head in frustration as he continued to stare vacantly around the place he called home.

Finding his eye repeatedly drawn back to the wicker basket and the small piece of wedged paper, he threw back his thin blankets and taking the small candle, shuffled over to his desk, curling his toes as he walked across the cold stone floor. Spilling a little melted wax on to the desktop candleholder, he anchored the small candle safely, enjoying the momentary heat of the flame as it kissed his fingers and he bent down to retrieve the stuck piece of parchment. The vellum caught within the strands of wicker felt fragile and dry but gently and with reverence for the paper itself, a respect he had not shown as he pulled it piece by piece from the spine of the broken book, he held it between his finger and thumb before the candle.

‘Gat…’’ he read from the paper noting how the writing still seemed quite fresh but in a very old style. Where he had picked out the pieces of paper from behind the damaged spine, he had effectively torn the old thin velum completely through the middle of the word. Intrigued now, he wondered what the word could have been and reached into the bin for the other pieces intending to put them together once more. A pointless exercise but it may help me sleep, he thought. The second piece of paper had the word ‘here’ on it, Medim looked at the strange piece, the slither of velum was definitely the mate of the first as the join was complete and the tear went straight through between ‘Gat’ and ‘here,’ further intrigued he tried to think of a word beginning ‘Gathere.’ Suddenly he was no longer tired; stunned, he reached again into the bin and retrieved another fragment. Gently straightening a larger piece in his fingers, he read the few words before him, excitement and curiosity gripped him and he hastily lifted the bin itself, spilling the contents across his desk. Once he was sure he had retrieved all the torn pieces, Medim re-filled the bin with the obvious rubbish and replaced it on the floor. Walking to the small window of his room, he pulled at the sash cord allowing the pane of glass to slide open and the warm night air to gently circulate, then, just as he turned away he caught sight of the college cat across the rooftop not far away. A tiny spell of summoning later and with the air only slightly cooler, the young cat appeared at the sill and leapt gracefully down on to the bed.

‘Hello Kitty,’ smiled Medim as he stroked the young cat between its red-brown ears. Medim watched as the cat walked slowly in a tight circle and curling itself up, proceeded to knead the bedclothes as if it were getting ready to suckle its mother. Its purr reverberated around the room as still smiling, Medim crossed to his washstand where he lifted the jug of fresh water from its stand, poured the contents slowly into the large porcelain bowl set ready for his morning ablutions and rinsed his hands to remove the cat hairs that had stuck to his long slender fingers. After drying them absently, he walked back to the window and pulled at the cord again, he waited as the wooden framed glass slid slowly closed once more and again, he smiled.

Ready at last Medim returned to the desk where the small pieces of torn velum lay in a pile and he pulled out a chair throwing to the floor the clothes heaped on its seat. With his hands on the chair back itself, he gripped the smooth polished wood hard and took a deep breath. Softly, he began to chant, his singsong mumbling, low and rough joined with the cat’s purr and filled the room with an intense feeling of pressure. The cat’s tail began to twitch lazily as its fur began to itch and irritated by the itching it sat up expectantly, its eyes never leaving Medim. Slowly the prince increased the volume of the singing, finding a rough discordant jarring between the reverberating purr and the sound of his own voice then reaching into a small drawer on the desktop, he removed a pocket knife. He continued to sing as he walked back to the china bowl where this time the cold flagstones under his feet were beneath his notice.

Medim held his hand over the bowl of cold water and the small strands of reddish brown cat fur that floated on the top like miniature boats and opening the sharp blade, he pierced the skin of his finger. His blood looked black by the light of the dirty yellow candle and he squeezed his finger hard, ensuring the blood blossomed like a new rose. As the size of the droplet expanded, he turned his hand allowing it to fall slowly into the water before pointing with the bloody knife to the bits of paper still piled on his desk. Again, he repeated the procedure and sang as the magic began to work its wonders. Somewhere nearby a timepiece ticked loudly, its rhythm became irregular as the sound became heavy and slowly the small papers on the desk began to separate, moving away from the pile, each piece twisting and turning as it found its proper place. Medim grew cold as he watched and wondered through his pain whether an invisible hand was working, trying each piece this way and that until each torn edge was sitting adjacent to its mate. Just like a wooden puzzle, he thought as the parchment pieces waited for the final instruction to re-join.

Throughout the night Medim worked, not stopping even as the dawn crept over the windowsill and the candle burnt out. Finally, the paper was complete once more and he stopped chanting, silence filled the room and he smiled at the old cat now lying dead on the bed.

Leaving the finished piece of velum on the desk, he walked over to the window once more and throwing back the curtains, pulled the sash to allow the warmth of the morning sun to warm up the frigid air in the room. The sunlight filtered through illuminating the motes of dust in the air making them sparkle like diamonds and shaking off his fatigue, Medim turned back to the piece of paper; it was a message from someone called Astin, to the man Gatherer. He trembled with excitement; throughout his life, he had hero-worshiped the master mage Gatherer, fervently emulating him both in his studies and in his desires and he much admired the way he had been unafraid to use illegal magic to gain what he wanted out of life. If this note is a genuine relic from the Gatherer’s time, it’ll be extremely valuable, he thought. The message itself on the strange piece of velum talked of the mage wars, it spoke of the man Théoden, and told of a trap, a subterfuge to ‘capture and separate’ the Gatherer, effectively ending the war in the schools favour. Confused by the unfamiliar words and historic phrases, Medim dressed hurriedly and taking the document with him, went down to the library in search of a professor of history whom he felt would be able to enlighten him or at the very least point him in the direction of the books that would.

Unable to find a tutor at so early an hour Medim spoke to the head librarian. He was as intrigued by the piece of parchment as Medim had been and enthusiastically explained in detail the final attempt that Medim’s own ancestor, Théoden and his family had made to end the war and save the planet from destruction. He explained that the schools had been like the colleges of today, places of learning and as far as he could remember from his own studies, Astin had been the catalyst that had enabled Arotia’s ultimate survival, enabled the Gatherer’s downfall. He told Medim the history of the Twelve not thinking that Medim and every Arotian on the planet was familiar with the story, told as it was to every schoolchild on the eve of the Renewal Ceremony. The ceremony itself commemorated the dead of the mage wars, the death of the twelve men who gave their lives willingly to save the planet from destruction and re-enforced the laws of magic and balance. Of the separation of the Gatherer however, the librarian could only say that as a punishment his still sentient soul, was cast into the void and his body destroyed by fire.

‘What’s the void?’ Medim asked.

‘The void…’ the librarian answered in hushed tones, ‘the void is that infinitely vast dark place between time