Spirit Speaker

I sat at my desk, staring at the spirit messenger floating in front of me, in dismay.

- Instructor Lukas. 

You are to report to the council chambers at dawn tomorrow morning

The Board of Directors. 

I thanked the spirit and allowed it to disperse. 

"What the hell could they want?" I muttered, pacing back and forth. 

I had paced so much over the last nine months that I had left furrows in my bedroom carpet. 

Furrows that I followed religiously. 

It was dark outside, the storm whipping up the ocean to a frenzy. I watched as massive trading ships were thrown about the water, kept in place by an anchor, and a desperate wavespeaker. 

And I resumed my pacing. 

Things had been progressing well, the princess taking to her education far more readily this time around than she had in my previous life.

I didn't attribute that to any particular talent on my part. I simply knew her better this time. 

In my previous life, I had tried to shape her, mould her into what I thought she should be, and she rebelled hard. It took me years before I realised what to do. 

I knew better now.

Now I showed, rather than told. Now I let her experience things first-hand, prioritizing practical over theory. 

She responded much better. 

I had completely covered the basics, and she was growing exponentially. I suspected Gurada had something to do with that. 

I shook my head sleepily, and yawned, feeling my bones creak and pop as I stretched. Tomorrow's problem. I was confident Gurada had the princess's best interest at heart. 

I wandered over to every lamp in my room and manually turned them off. 

The mark of a Master Mage wasn't the ability to use magic, but the ability to choose not to use it when it wasn't needed. 

It was why I never flew when I could walk. I never summoned a spirit when I could talk to it. The reason Ilargia spent most of his time wandering the Royal Preserves, terrifying the rangers. 

Magic was addictive. The more you used it, the harder it was to stop. 

So I extinguished the lamps by hand. Checked my door was locked, undressed and crawled into bed. 

And slept. 

And dreamed. 

*

I dreamed of my Academy quarters, but they were altered, somehow. They were dark and disturbed. The sitting room was destroyed, the furniture tossed about. Tendrils of shadowy ink covered all of it. 

The darkness grew thicker the further I walked into my bedroom, becoming oppressive and suffocating. 

I stepped through the darkness and saw the faint outline of a figure, bent over the floorboards, where the box was hidden. 

I reached out, trying to stop the figure from opening the box, from releasing the shadow, but I was gagged, no sound would come out. 

Shadow, thick and black, grabbed my limbs and pulled me closer to the figure, who now held the box in its hands. 

I watched in terror as the box was slid open, and the book, the black book, the shadow book, the cursed book, was removed from its place. 

The figure opened it. 

And was overcome by darkness. 

I watched in horror as the darkness stripped the figure's flesh from its bones, tore the bones from their sockets, and gripped the white, glowing weave. 

And my horror turned to terror. The shadow gripped both ends of the weave, and tore it apart, strand by strand, consuming each spirit that made up the soul. 

And the shadow replaced bones and muscle and sinew, and then flesh. 

The figure straightened, and the shadows bowed as he passed. He stepped towards me, and the shadows crept from his face. 

It was a face I didn't recognise. 

It's mouth opened far too wide and screamed. And I was rocked as shadows erupted from his torn face and covered everything around me.

They attacked me. And I felt as though I was drowning, my body going cold, numb, my vision fading.

I fell back and kept falling. 

And the figure stared, his face splitting into a grin far too wide for his lips. 

And teeth black and sharp, gleamed somehow in the shadow. 

And eyes, black and dead, glared malevolently.

And hands with fingers that ended in claws, black and jagged, reached out. 

And I reached out to take it. 

And arms, glowing white, pulled me back. And I looked up to see a man, an old man that I knew intimately, even though we'd never met, shrined in light brighter than any I had ever seen. 

And the darkness raged and seethed at his presence. 

And I withdrew my hand. 

And I saw the shadow's offer for what it was. 

And I refused.

And the shadow fled. 

*

I woke in a sweat, my blankets wrapped around my limbs tightly. 

It knows. It knows where the book is. 

I grabbed Ilargia and dived from my window, the black staff tucked into my chest. 

And I flew, the staff holding me in the air. 

Within seconds I burst through the window to my Academy quarters, shards of glass exploding inwards. 

I leapt off Ilargia and dashed up the stairs to my bedroom. 

The door was slightly open. 

I barreled my way through it, almost blowing the door off its hinges, and launched a fireball at the two figures that were moving the bookcase. 

The fireball connected, and the figures, people, screamed in agony as the flames burned away the shroud of darkness that surrounded them. 

The bookcase caught fire in the intense heat, the curtains, and even my bed set alight. 

And the people kept screaming. 

I watched, breathing heavily as the figure to the left, the smaller one, disintegrated into ash. 

The larger one was not so lucky. 

I doused him in water, putting the fire out, and then paralyzed him with another spell. 

I ensured that he wouldn't die, asking the spirits to keep his body intact, even though he was barely recognisable, covered in burns and ash. 

I pulled at the air in front of me, and the body floated from the ground. I directed it to the doorway and returned my gaze to the inferno that was once the entire left side of my bedroom. 

I doused it in water.

And walked to the bookshelf, which was little more than ash at this point, and ripped away it's burnt-up remains. 

The protection spells hadn't been disturbed yet, and the alarm spells had not been set off. 

I breathed a sigh of relief, dismissed the spirits in charge of maintaining the spells, removed the floorboard, and opened the safe.

There the spirit prison sat, dull and white. 

I lifted it up and held it carefully ahead of me. 

And then, with burnt, nearly dead would-be thief in tow, I made my way from the Academy to the Temple district. 

It was only when I was halfway there that I realised all I was wearing was my undershirt, and it was covered in shattered glass, blood, ash and soot, and sparks and embers had burnt it to tattered rags. 

I was essentially naked. 

And I was holding a spirit prison, which meant that I couldn't summon magic nearly strong enough to create clothing out of thin air. 

So I made do and conjured a group of lesser spirits, who then hugged my lower body, a skirt of lights, barely protecting my dignity. 

The storm was still raging, but there were still guards, and the occasional late night traveller out and about. I ignored them both and continued my journey towards the temple district, naked, with a burnt-up body floating behind me. 

*

The abbot was not impressed when I dragged the body into the Weaver's temple. But, judging by my unorthodox outfit, the ash, blood, glass and soot, and the fact that Ilargia was darting around me, agitated, he held his tongue. 

"I need to speak with her," I said. "Urgently."

"She's not a dog that you can just call on a whim, Lukas."

"I know that. But she will answer this."

"How do you know?"

"Because in your prayer, you will tell her that I just caught someone trying to steal the book."

The abbot looked at me for a long moment. "What do I do about the body?"

"You will leave him here."

The abbot studied the body and went white. "By the gods, Lukas, he's still alive."

I nodded grimly. "Though that may change when the goddess gets her hands on him. Call her."

An initiate brought me a robe to wear, and I released the spirits that were gathered around my lower half. 

I put the robe on and tried to scrub at my face, failing to remove the soot and ash from my skin. 

The initiate tapped my shoulder and handed me a brass bowl, filled with water. 

"Thank you," I said and began cleaning my hands, face and neck. 

The abbot stepped out of his chambers. 

"She will see you, Lukas. Just as you said. Bring the body with you."

*

The Weaver sat on the altar, beneath a giant statue of her in her traditional form, a white spider. 

I pushed the body into the sanctum ahead of me and shut the door. 

She watched as I dragged the body up the stairs, and presented it, floating, before her. 

Her expression softened when she saw the soot, and ash, and blood, and glass. Exhausted, I fell to my knees in front of her. 

"You did well, Lukas." She said, her voice uncharacteristically kind, soft even.

"Goddess," I whispered. "I stopped them."

The Weaver raised an eyebrow, and that crooked half-smile flashed on her face before being replaced by one of dispassion. 

"Yes. And you even brought one for questioning." She kicked the body, and the man screamed. 

I gagged him with magic. 

"Yes, goddess." 

"Would you like to be present for the interrogation?"

I shook my head. "No."

The Weaver nodded. "Wise. I'll hand him to my brother, The Seeker, and he'll have answers for us in moments."

I nodded. 

The goddess waved her hand, and the body vanished. 

And as soon as the body was gone, her expression softened further. to one of concern, and tenderness. 

She stepped closer to me. 

"Strip, Lukas."

"Ma'am?"

"Strip."

I obeyed, removing the initiates robe, that was now slick with blood. 

"You should be dead." She said, examining me. "You have a shard of glass in an artery here, and another just inches above your heart." She gripped the shard and pulled, and blood sprayed from the wound.

"How are you still alive?"

She put her hand on the wound, and the bleeding stopped. "I'm going to have to do this by hand, Lukas. Go, lie on the altar."

I struggled to my feet, and when I did, a wave of exhaustion nearly knocked me off them. 

The goddess swore under her breath, picked me up in both arms and lay me down on the altar. 

"You're stubborn, mage." She said, "This is going to hurt. A lot. But you're not going to die. Not while I'm here."

She started at my legs and pulled at a shard of glass. A white spirit floated from the wound.

"Interesting." She murmured. And she pulled out another. 

Another spirit floated from the wound. 

She then looked at the huge gash on my legs, and moved her hands up it, sealing the flesh. 

"Would you like to keep the scars?" She asked, "You kept the ones on your chest."

"No, ma'am." I said, wincing. "The ones on my chest are special. You can get rid of the others."

She nodded and hummed a playful ancient tune. 

She reached the top of the wound, and another spirit popped out before the wound was sealed. 

"What are you little guys doing in there?"

I winced as she moved to the gash on my stomach. 

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. This has to be done, some dirt got in this one." 

She sealed the wound, and three spirits popped out. They danced around her. 

"Do you know what the spirits call me?" She asked, moving on to my chest. She gripped a particularly large shard of glass and pulled.

A larger spirit hovered out and began telling her off. 

The Weaver chuckled and batted it away. "Yes, yes I know. But if I don't do this he's going to be in pain."

"What do they call you?" I grunted as she closed the wound. 

"The Fatemother." She answered and moved up to my neck. "This is a burn, not a cut." And she pressed her finger to her lips, drew out a string of saliva, and rubbed it on the wound. 

"How close were you to the fire?"

"A few feet. I panicked and launched a fireball."

The goddess shook her head. "Reckless." She examined me critically. "Do you feel any pain anywhere?"

I shook my head. 

"This isn't the time to be tough, Lukas." She said reprovingly. 

"There's a sharp pain in my foot." I said. 

She hit me and moved down to my feet. "Ah, you must have stood on this one. It's deep. Grit your teeth, this is going to sting."

A shock of pain lanced up my leg. 

"Ooooh, pain, I know, sorry." She said and removed a large spike of glass. 

Another spirit pushed its way out and began fussing over me. 

The goddess shooed it and sat beside me on the altar. 

"Look at me." She said, and put her hand on my face, leaning over me. "Hold still, I need to see your weave."

I did as she told me, and the goddess stared into my eyes.

She was beautiful. Her eyes a deep gold. I concentrated for a few moments, and I saw her weave, shining, unending. Glorious. 

She grinned. "Have you seen all you want to?" She asked.

Instinctively I reached out, put my hand on her cheek, and stared deeper into her soul.

And saw her. Not the goddess, not the Weaver. No, I saw her. 

And I uttered her name. 

And tears sprung from her eyes, golden and warm, and they fell freely onto my skin. 

"Yes…" she whispered. "It's been millennia, but yes…that is my name."

And she leaned into my hand, her eyes closed. And I felt my spirit shake, and my weave expand. And I knew, in that instant, that she had taken part of my soul. Or rather, I had offered her part of it. 

No, I offered her all of it. 

And she only took part. 

And I didn't care. Because I possessed part of hers.

She smiled brightly and opened her eyes. "And now, you're mine." 

She pulled away from me, wiped the golden tears from her eyes, and brushed her hair from her face. 

"Sit up, Lukas. And tell me your plan."

I sat up, still weak and woozy. 

The goddess caught me as I fell back down. 

"Come, come, you've got this. Sit up."

I tried again, this time righting myself, and staying upright. 

"My plan?"

"For that over there." She pointed to the spirit prison, which I had placed carefully on a bench nearby. 

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know how they knew where it was. There were protection spells and camouflage spells. I did the best I could."

The goddess looked at me thoughtfully, "How did you know they were trying to take it?"

"A dream."

"Explain."

And I did. I told her the dream. I described the darkness, I described the face of the shadow man. I described the old, shining man that had saved me. I described it all.

And when I had finished, she looked surprised.

"You know who the old man was, right? You're not that much of an idiot." 

I nodded. "I'm not stupid, Weaver, I know who it was."

"And you saw the book, taken?"

I nodded again.

"So what do you want to do about it?"

"I need to find a better hiding place." I shrugged, and an idea struck me. "And I know the perfect spot." 

"Spare me the details. Just hide the damn thing. And hide it well. I'll go and see if the others wouldn't mind helping out." 

And she was gone. 

I lay back down on the altar and stared up at the statue of the giant white spider. It had caught me. Or rather, I walked willingly into it's web. 

The abbot stepped inside, a broad smile on his face. 

"Shut up," I said, pushing myself up.

"I didn't say anything…brother."

He handed me another white robe. "Here, you're still naked. Looking a little better though."

"Not covered in blood you mean?"

"That too. No, your eyes, they glitter."

"A side effect of being in contact with so many powerful spirits." I shrugged. "Old mages, if left unchecked, end up blinding the people that they look at, their eyes glitter so brightly."

"No, no. Not that." The abbot said dismissively. "They glitter with her mark."

"Her mark?"

The abbot hopped up on the altar and kicked his legs against it, staring up at the white spider. 

"They glitter gold."