1.7
The table had been cleared and now it supported a large silver bowl with runes adorning its wide lip. One lit candle stood at either side, each nestled in weighted holders. Sûlmain lifted a pitcher, held it high and began chanting. As he continued his incantation, he held it above one candle, then the other, and then returned it to the center. After repeating this ritual several times, he began to slowly pour the water into the basin. Steam began to rise as if the cold water were landing on a hot iron rather than a silver bowl. He set the pitcher aside and ceased his incantation.
As the vapors arose, Sûlmain inhaled deeply. Immediately, his head began to spin. He placed his hands on the table’s edge to steady himself. Scrying was a dangerous thing, and he didn’t want any room for error. He had already told a sailor to prevent any entrance and bolted his door for ensured privacy.
As he inhaled the fumes more deeply, he felt his heart begin to slow. He knew that there was a point of no return which he must not pass. To do so would mean death. But this was not his first time, and he was determined that it would not be his last.
He inhaled deeply one last time. Then, opening his eyes, he peered deep within the waters. From the moment that his lids parted, he could not see the waters. In their place he saw only a foggy hole, a window into another dimension. On the other side he could see movement. Incomprehensible shapes, some darker and some lighter flowed. Then came the voices.
“Why do you intrude?” they hissed.
“I wish to see with eyes not mine,” Sûlmain replied.
“Begone! We do not serve you. We do not know you.”
“I am Arche-Sûlmain,” he replied using his full title. He knew they would reply to his title of Arche—the greatest title a sorcerer could attain—before they responded to his name.
“You are no arche. You are feeble” they hissed.
“I am ARCHE-Sûlmain,” he repeated. “Do not anger me. You will freely allow me to see, or you will be my slaves for eternity.”
Moaning and grumblings came from the portal. They rose in intensity, and then subsided. It was as if the spirits were in conferring before returning en masse.
“We will respect the wishes of an arche. But we do not yet know that you are one. How shall we know? Tell us more.”
“I studied under Master Dalin, sorcerous master of the runic way. I have read the Tome of Muzdenbar, and it is in my mind. I have come to this portal before, several times. Your kind knows me as Arche-Sûlmain. I have much more to speak of, but I will say no more.”
Again, the hissing and moaning. This time a bit longer. “Tell us more. Prove to us your identity.”
Sûlmain could feel his heart slowing even further. He realized that the spirits were stalling. If he were to spend too much time in the trance, he would die. Then, he would belong to them. If they wanted to know who he was, then know they would.
The arche raised his right hand and began to inscribe a sigil—his own identifying sigil—in the opening of the portal. Then he opened his mouth and a hollow, ominous, nearly non-human sound erupted from his throat. The word of power burst into the very fabric of the spirits’ dimension. A curdling shriek erupted from the bowl. The Spirits swirled anxiously. The voices returned. “What do you wish of your faithful servants, Arche-Sûlmain?”
The sorcerer knew that his time was greatly limited. “I wish to see the ghost ship in my path.” The background of the dimension blurred and the ship came into view. Slowly, the vision moved toward the craft, until Sûlmain could make out the details of the deck. There was no sign of life. And more disturbing, there was no sign of death. The ship seemed sturdy and in tact. A single door led below deck.
“I wish to see beyond that door.”
Hissing resounded. Moaning began. “We cannot do as you ask, Arche-Sûlmain.”
“Why not,” he asked sternly.
“It is a forbidden area to us. Powers greater than us guard that door and bar our entry.”
“Try harder,” Sûlmain demanded.
The moaning turned to wailing. Wailing turned to shrieking. “We cannot go farther. Does Arche-Sûlmain wish to see elsewhere.”
Again, they tried to keep him here. But there was no longer a need to stay. His life flow now was nearing a dangerous pace. “No. You are free…for now. Be on your way.”
Sûlmain closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. With two puffs, he extinguished the candles. He rested in the darkness, relishing the increasing speed of his heartbeat
As the vapors arose, Sûlmain inhaled deeply. Immediately, his head began to spin. He placed his hands on the table’s edge to steady himself. Scrying was a dangerous thing, and he didn’t want any room for error. He had already told a sailor to prevent any entrance and bolted his door for ensured privacy.
As he inhaled the fumes more deeply, he felt his heart begin to slow. He knew that there was a point of no return which he must not pass. To do so would mean death. But this was not his first time, and he was determined that it would not be his last.
He inhaled deeply one last time. Then, opening his eyes, he peered deep within the waters. From the moment that his lids parted, he could not see the waters. In their place he saw only a foggy hole, a window into another dimension. On the other side he could see movement. Incomprehensible shapes, some darker and some lighter flowed. Then came the voices.
“Why do you intrude?” they hissed.
“I wish to see with eyes not mine,” Sûlmain replied.
“Begone! We do not serve you. We do not know you.”
“I am Arche-Sûlmain,” he replied using his full title. He knew they would reply to his title of Arche—the greatest title a sorcerer could attain—before they responded to his name.
“You are no arche. You are feeble” they hissed.
“I am ARCHE-Sûlmain,” he repeated. “Do not anger me. You will freely allow me to see, or you will be my slaves for eternity.”
Moaning and grumblings came from the portal. They rose in intensity, and then subsided. It was as if the spirits were in conferring before returning en masse.
“We will respect the wishes of an arche. But we do not yet know that you are one. How shall we know? Tell us more.”
“I studied under Master Dalin, sorcerous master of the runic way. I have read the Tome of Muzdenbar, and it is in my mind. I have come to this portal before, several times. Your kind knows me as Arche-Sûlmain. I have much more to speak of, but I will say no more.”
Again, the hissing and moaning. This time a bit longer. “Tell us more. Prove to us your identity.”
Sûlmain could feel his heart slowing even further. He realized that the spirits were stalling. If he were to spend too much time in the trance, he would die. Then, he would belong to them. If they wanted to know who he was, then know they would.
The arche raised his right hand and began to inscribe a sigil—his own identifying sigil—in the opening of the portal. Then he opened his mouth and a hollow, ominous, nearly non-human sound erupted from his throat. The word of power burst into the very fabric of the spirits’ dimension. A curdling shriek erupted from the bowl. The Spirits swirled anxiously. The voices returned. “What do you wish of your faithful servants, Arche-Sûlmain?”
The sorcerer knew that his time was greatly limited. “I wish to see the ghost ship in my path.” The background of the dimension blurred and the ship came into view. Slowly, the vision moved toward the craft, until Sûlmain could make out the details of the deck. There was no sign of life. And more disturbing, there was no sign of death. The ship seemed sturdy and in tact. A single door led below deck.
“I wish to see beyond that door.”
Hissing resounded. Moaning began. “We cannot do as you ask, Arche-Sûlmain.”
“Why not,” he asked sternly.
“It is a forbidden area to us. Powers greater than us guard that door and bar our entry.”
“Try harder,” Sûlmain demanded.
The moaning turned to wailing. Wailing turned to shrieking. “We cannot go farther. Does Arche-Sûlmain wish to see elsewhere.”
Again, they tried to keep him here. But there was no longer a need to stay. His life flow now was nearing a dangerous pace. “No. You are free…for now. Be on your way.”
Sûlmain closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. With two puffs, he extinguished the candles. He rested in the darkness, relishing the increasing speed of his heartbeat
posted by irreverance @ Sunday, May 15, 2005
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