NOTE:

This is sample portion ONLY. To request this manuscript, click here.

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New Magic

by

Jason R. Peters

1

Jarus wasn’t insane.

But breakthrough lies at the very edge of sanity, in the great void of ‘if’ that precedes drop itself.

Of course, that irritating inner voice asked, If you were insane, would you really know it? But that was just wordplay…ridiculous semantics, easily dismissed. Even laughable. (Right?) After all, “You’re crazy,” was one of the naysayers’ favorite mantras.  Their everlasting refrain was, “It’s impossible.”

It was possible. It was even probable. And the longer Jarus studied, the more it began to seem inevitable.

That’s what so terrified them. Why should his failure be cause for alarm? A crazy old kook with a wild idea could be found anywhere in the Empire. But his success…that would be tragedy.

But in truth it was salvation.

If he could make them see.

But that would come after. For now, there was only the Project, and the Project was almost finished. Jarus stared at the flame of a single candle lit over his desk. It stared back, gyrating to its own alien rhythm. Ever so carefully, Jarus reached into himself, an exercise now as familiar as walking and talking. With a feather’s touch, he moved Beyond, until he could feel the pulsating of nearby souls. These he bypassed as well, and now, leaning physically closer to that one lit candle, he somehow…stretched…still farther. This time he could feel it.

There was no mistaking it – there was a third source. The ultimate weapon, the cure for all ills, and the very fountain of youth lay there, in that tiny flame. Its music was foreign and its life felt somehow cold. But it was there.

Jarus reached.

The candle went out, plunging the study into total darkness.

Silent and invisible, he remained seated, staring through the blackness as though he could see the charred wick, its base sagging pathetically to one side as though tired. Sightless, he stared, hardly daring to hope or breathe.

The flame reappeared, and shadows fled to the perimeter. The outward effect was laughably simple; a child’s exercise. It would have impressed no one.

But it had worked.

2

He tried first with the Black; greed was an easier sell than idealism.

“You’re a damned fool,” Kenlaar said.

“It works,” Jarus said simply and without showmanship. “I can teach you.”

“Who cares if it works?” Kenlaar sneered. “We’ve conquered death herself, not to mention the world.” He gave a dismissive wave. “What else is there?”

“Freedom from your dependence.”

“Dependence?” Kenlaar laughed. “On what?”

“Them,” Jarus said, pointing into the valley.

Kenlaar’s lip twitched – with anger? – but he made no reply. Instead, he descended the path from the tower; Jarus followed, curious. Presently they came across a farmer working a field, and left the path to approach him.

The farmer dropped his hoe and fell to both knees as soon as he spotted them. His eyes fixed firmly on the ground before him.

Kenlaar addressed him: “Give us your name, civilian.”

“Jacob, my Lords.”

“Jacob,” Kenlaar repeated, as though sampling it. “Answer truthfully: Can you think of any reason why I might need you?”

“No, my Lord.”

“What about your wife? Your children? Do I need them?”

“No, my Lord.”

“What about your friends and neighbors? Or even your enemies, if you have any. Do I need any of them? Do I -” Kenlaar’s eyes flicked to Jarus, “depend on any of them, or on all of them as a whole?”

“No, my Lord.”

Without warning, Kenlaar’s booted heel flashed out and he kicked the kneeling man in the jaw, sending him sprawling. The farmer scrambled a hasty recovery and resumed his kneeling posture without so much as brushing himself off. Kenlaar bent to one knee in front of him and spoke softly.

“I’ve injured you, Jacob. Other times, I’ve hurt your wife too. And you’ll be dead before my face ages even a day. You have every reason to resent me. Do you wish to strike me?”

There was no hesitation, no anger. “No, my Lord.”

Kenlaar straightened and looked at Jarus, his point made.

“It won’t be like this forever,” Jarus said.

“We don’t need them, and we don’t need you.” He chewed his lip momentarily as if considering, then added, “And we never will.”

3

Jarus tried next with the White; altruism was less stubborn than power.

“You’re a bloody fool,” Edmer rasped.

“It works,” Jarus insisted, a trifle exasperated now.

“Well, that’s interesting, it truly is,” Edmer said, sounding as if the opposite were true. “But you’re wasting your time.”

“I could show you-” Jarus began.

“That won’t be necessary,” Edmer assured him.

Jarus narrowed his eyes. “You’ll never beat them. Not in a million years. Not while you continue to destroy yourselves.”

“We don’t need to beat them,” Edmer said. “We’re better than they are.” He squinted at Jarus through ancient wrinkled eyelids. “Why can’t you be?” he pleaded.

“You’ll die before you make any difference,” Jarus reasoned.

“The fact that I die makes a difference,” Edmer replied.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Jarus said sadly.

“Yeah,” Edmer conceded with disgust. “That’s what they say.”

4

Jarus won no disciples.

After speaking to the leaders, he tried the elders; then the councils, then the members, and finally the initiates.

He won no allies.

Eventually, in quiet desperation, he even tried the civilians. But they were almost as terrified of Jarus as they were of the nobility. They cowered, or ran, or even responded politely without an inkling of hope or interest. But nobody called them slaves.

Jarus won no friends, among the White or the Black. Those of the White claimed that Jarus was as evil as the Black. Those of Black claimed that Jarus was as weak and foolish as the White. Those who never agreed on anything agreed on this: Jarus was insane.

“You must stop,” Edmer told him one day, his hands atremble and his eyes blind. “It’s unnatural. You must stop.” The following day, Edmer died, ancient at the age of twenty-seven. Albrin, his successor, was twenty-five and appeared to be sixty.

“Give it up,” Kenlaar advised him a year later. “Join us and we will teach you the true nature of magic.” Kenlaar would soon be celebrating his second-hundredth birthday.

But Jarus did not stop. He would not destroy the innocent, and he would not destroy himself; not while there was another way.

As the months rolled by, his affinity grew. Gradually he substituted snuffed candles for extinguished lamps, which gave way to roaring fires, suddenly doused without so much as a whiff of smoke. Soon, he would be able to tap the very sun and stars.

He was resolved to one purpose: If he could not convince them by reason, he would convince them by power.

5

“The White aren’t so bad,” Kenlaar remarked to his understudy one day. “A bit sanctimonious, I’ll admit, but on the whole, they’re a lot like us.”

“Certainly,” Markus agreed. “At least they understand the nature of magic.”

The same week, Albrin addressed the elders among the White, saying: “The Black may be bad,” he said, “But at least they don’t pretend to be good. There’s a right side and a wrong side. But to stand in the middle and do nothing – that’s evil.”

So it was that when Albrin received a letter from Kenlaar, he did not discard it out of hand as he might once have done, but instead read it curiously. It said:

We may not always see eye to eye, but we all respect the balance of the natural world. He who does not is a threat to us all, and must be stopped. Your power is checked by the measure of your lives. Our power is checked by our relationship to our flock. His power is checked by neither.

Therefore we humbly request your assistance in handling this matter. I encourage you to view this as an opportunity to win some of our members to your cause, and will not hinder such attempts in any way.

We would be greatly grieved if harm were to come to your or our flock as a result of inaction. If we act soon, we may yet be in time.

With Respect,
Kenlaar Duross
Chief Advisor to the Emperor

Albrin’s lips tightened with distaste at each mention of Kenlaar’s ‘flock’ (nobody called them slaves) but otherwise he found the letter quite reasonable. Clearly the opportunity to convert more to the cause of justice and righteousness was too good to pass over. When he presented Kenlaar’s request to the Council, they concurred.

6

The leaders of the White met with the leaders of the Black, and they agreed that inaction was folly. They agreed that surprise was best. They agreed that their best chance was at night. This was more than they’d agreed for a thousand years.

They chose fifty of each faction’s strongest, one-hundred wizards in all. (They agreed that overkill was better than underestimation.)

They spent two weeks drawing as much power as they could, the White from within, the Black from the life of civilians, many of whom died – nobody called them slaves. (They agreed that it was best to be prepared.)

They agreed that Jarus Lightkiller must die.

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NOTE:

This is sample portion ONLY. To request this manuscript, click here.