Joarn flipped through the pages, back and forth through the book, rereading his favorite parts, or simply any part at all that zoomed up at him like an angry hornet. He found himself returning to the section about the Paradox.
…Another attribute that furthers the Paradox of Magic is the verbal formulation of spells. In order to weave a spell, man must utter the arcane word for the exact opposite action that he intends. For example, in the opening of a barred door, one would use the command “Lock” or “rikh” in Magic’s tongue, and, coupled with a sample of blood, the door will unlock. If one seeks to light a candle, he or she must speak “Darkness” or “Zulum” to ignite the wick. Given that this book was not intended for the teaching of the arcane language, little or no background on the functions of the language (in terms of grammar, pronunciation, or a list of definitions) have been compiled here…
He twirled the pages in his hands as if playing with an enthralling but altogether fragile flower. After reading sparsely as he was, he began to grow tired and sleepy. He flipped to what he decided would be the final page for the night.
…the learning of Magic is a complex art that comes more easily to some than it does to others. Certain individuals possess the ability to learn it; others, usually men of greater practicality, do not. Generally speaking, the lands of Vashiinmere harbor greater potential for Magic users, whereas the Rufuslocke Kingdom (particularly the royal capital, the Red City) hardly contains any. It is not necessarily impossible to learn simple Magic if one does not possess the inherent Gift, but it is considered difficult, as Magic often bars itself from the minds of men it does not like, such as Kings [Magic is disgusted by royal blood, and this is fortunate, for Kings have an inclination to evil as events may have it, without the added advantage]. Content and happy individual normally cannot practice Magic either, for happiness is a vibrancy that contests with Magic—the Vashiinmere proverb is accurate in its saying: “music and prayer cannot both be carried in the heart; a crown and kiss cannot both be borne on the brow; a sword and hand cannot both be held in the grip”. Magic is often a sign of a troubled heart that is unsatisfied with life in its current form, and leaves the conjurer when he is in sweet tranquility.
The Merfolk of Endulee cannot practice Magic, chiefly because they do not bleed as humans do and the contents of their bodies are almost inseparable from ocean water. Little is known of their ways and Magic itself does not speak of them in its compiled history. It was once briefly mentioned that a Mer-Chieftain attempted the wiles of Magic by devouring human flesh then causing injury to himself, but the results of his barbaric experimentation was never recorded….
Other ailments or physical abnormalities that may prevent the use of Magic include a Stunting Curse, the Bleeding Sickness[1], or similar rare maladies.....
Joarn paused.
He reread the line. “Other ailments or physical abnormalities that may prevent the use of Magic include a Stunting Curse, the Bleeding Sickness, or similar rare maladies”. His eyes immediately realized the annotation and slid to the bottom of the page. The footnote read: “Refer to Appendix B”. His mind on fire, Joarn tore impatiently through the pages, searching for Appendix B at the end of the book. It wasn’t there.
He turned them to and fro, realizing that the final pages, probably containing all the Appendixes after A, were missing. They’d been smoothly removed or had fallen out of the book during one of its many obvious adventures.
Joarn shivered with curiosity, holding the open page in his lap and staring at the two words intensely: “Bleeding Sickness”. He stared at them for a long time, his brain tying itself into knots, until he heard a gentle tip-tapping at his wooden door.
He started, like a man struck by cold water in the middle of a pleasant dream, and with a frantic motion tossed the tattered book beneath his bed. The intruder did not wait to be invited, and lightly pushed the door inwards and took a soundless step into the room. Her black, rigidly straight hair swished down her back, and the manner in which the small candlelight climbed her features made her appear ghastly and ominous.
She closed the door behind her with little more than a breath, and into his view came a white, fair-skinned face, with a dangerously pointy nose that resembled a sharpened weapon. Her mouth was small and curt, like an angry sparrow’s beak, and her eyes, being not as large a girl would have liked them, were accentuated with elaborate black shadowing. She was a master in her face-painting art, for she neither put too much, as to appear unreal, nor too little, as to appear unskilled. Her eyebrows were plucked neatly into an eagle-eyed curve, and it did much to her features, for when she glanced from side to side, she became a bird of prey.
Joarn relaxed as he recognized her, and he smirked. She did too. “Liss,” he said passingly.
They stared at each other for a time, but suddenly, there was no longer a distance in between, and they were entwined and undressed, and the night had taken on a different shade. Despite the cold, they felt the world to be simmering, and when at any moment any part of their naked bodies touched a cold surface, such as the bed post or the floor, they felt it burn. For the first half of the night, the simple servant’s chamber had turned itself to Hell.
Soon, however, when their excess energies were spent and their passions grew quieter, Joarn padded the wall with his palm and felt its cool, smooth surface. She placed her small, white hand beside his on the wall, and so thoughtful was her expression that one might have thought she was feeling the cement for a pulse.
He slid his arm down, and lay silently in bed like an exhausted carcass. She sidled next to him and extended a long, slender arm across his chest. She might have been expecting reciprocal affection as she toyed with his short hair, or kissed the side of his face, or she might have not; she was hard to read, her face was always halfway between pleased and upset. He was lost in his own thoughts, however, the same thoughts that had filled his mind even throughout their love-making.
Appendix B. He needed that piece of parchment; and he would have to get it. There was a nagging curiosity in his mind, similar to an illness begging to be cured, that made him desire the missing pieces of paper. The Bleeding Sickness. The question mark in his head was much too daunting—much too…. familiar.
There was only one answer. He would have to return to the man he’d acquired the volume from: the illicit book-merchant that trafficked forbidden books across the Rufuslocke Kingdom like a crook would traffic hallucinatory drugs.
The Selling Sage.
Chapter FIve: The Secret
Start from the beginning
