Accidents and Appearances

There she lay, beautiful and dead. Her eyes had been the softest green, and her hair had shone of copper, just as the old ones liked best-and she bore no small resemblance to his old teacher, and that had been well to his own liking. She had been a nobleman's daughter, a vain, witless thing. He had subdued her with words and charms alone, needing no other force, for she had been of the manner of woman who likes best-a rogue. Even when she had seen the room he had prepared for their * wedding * night she thought no harm would come to her, imagining this to be some playful dalliance-an "alchemical" mingling of essences intended to plumb the philosopher's stone. No innocent, she sensed an intent behind his words, but knew not his secret cause. Long ago, his mortal lead had been refined to Immortal gold-now the workings he desired would be those that changed her blood for his dreams.

At last, he found himself ready to speak the words-to give them force, he would use the Voice. Perhaps through his practices even * they * could not resist him now. His eyes watered from the smell of the sulphurous incense prescribed, but he dared not lift them from the words on the page. The hour was at hand and the sacrifice had been made.

He had toiled long and hard for this moment, searching out those dread scrolls of legend and lore that spoke of names that bore no repeating, some in languages so obscure he wracked his brains for all * she * had taught him-she who knew the ways of those letters writ by centuries-dead infidels, having herself traversed the centuries. How she had mocked him when he first made mention of those skin-covered tomes written by sorcerers so depraved the very illusions conjured by their words would drive men mad! Haughtily, she had told him men needed no demon-inspired works to make them act in depraved fashion-greed, wrath and appetites alone untended might drive them to acts to make a demon's pale in comparison. But then, what did she know? Instead, she taught him her simple arts-her ways with herbs and rocks and tongues-those she said would do no harm.

And now all these would be brought to bear in this great work. Her own undoing might as well have come from her own hand-for was it not she who taught him how to select those resins which burned even now? To look into the heart of a crystal, or gauge the paths of the stars, to select this dread hour? To teach him those dead languages which would bring the old ones to life before his altar?

Yes-if it rained the fires of hell, blame the witch, he thought. Even knowing the thirst for truth that once scorched his heart, she had declined to tell him of his own nature. In her selfishness, would she have denied him eternity? Would it have pleased her to watch him grow old before her, decrepit and weak, until the strength of his voice was the mere croak of a locust? Would she have taken his mortal life then, to have forever at her beck and call some pathetic pet? Would she keep him in a basket like a wrinkled Tithonius? Or perhaps, torture him in answer to crimes against herself-a vengeance she could not wreak on those who made her what she was-those stronger than herself? Or-worse, would she have watched him die of old age, slipping peacefully into that sleep of no return?

His impression leaned most strongly on that last, and that was why it pleased him when he watched her be burned for those * reprehensible arts of necromancy she had nearly lured him into. * (As, of course, he was only too pleased to tell those authorities concerned. He wondered even now had she had fared.) And that was why he did this now-try to insure his own success at this Game she informed him only too late of. Two hundred years did he study, watch and gather, carefully seeking out the appropriate rite.

He chanted, his voice carrying on the smoke-thickened air, echoing off the walls. Almost without consciousness, his body began to shake from the effort of his endeavor to invoke the old ones. He called their names, offered them gifts, beseeched them, swore his allegiance and aid to them. At the peak of his concentration, he drew forth the black-handled dagger he had kept close to his heart and then made his blood to flow-and lastly, most dreadful and serious of decisions, he wrote his own name on the parchment document he had prepared and consecrated with the seven seals and thousand names. This would be the pact that bound them to him and him to them. Would it only be found pleasing, any man who would come before him would be defeated.

And then! A breeze blew through the open casement, and his heart quickened madly in anticipation! Now, now was the time! And then, the heavy brocade curtain brushed the candelabra, which fell onto both book and blood-signed pact. The fire spread rapidly, and he beat out the flames. The last words of the spell-obliterated. The pact-a blackened mess, leaving only one thing legible-

* Roland Kantos. *

Suddenly, in a great rage, he cleared the altar of all its trappings of magic. The smoldering bowls of incense fell to the floor with a clatter, sprinkling ash and greasy residues. The altar itself he pushed away, and then, with manic energy, he grabbed up every book in sight-some purchased at great price, some stolen, some he had even killed for-and flung them into the fire. He watched them burn, panting, eyes wild. If they would not respond to proper offerings, perhaps this blasphemy would get their attention!

Silence was their only reply. Sick at heart, he retired to bed.

****

Years had passed, and Roland imagined himself recovered from his diabolical madness. Surely, the lack of attention from the old ones might well mean the very obvious-the lack of the old ones themselves. For two hundred years, he had chased the tail of a chimera, and found only the horns of a dilemma-how now to find success? In his own strength? He had forgone the study of the sword, preferring the study of spells, but it seemed that in the sword alone would be his salvation…only the sword would deliver him from those who pursued him in the Game. Only by defeating others would he grow strong, and so he took up the ways of a hunter. Young Immortals, old, gentle, belligerent, deep in their cups, unawares-it mattered little to him. They died, and gave their power up to him.

This was real power-a gift no demon could give. He would call them to him with his Voice, and claim them. With every success, he could see that death was his calling and the Prize itself perhaps was his to claim. He had no name for what he imagined that Prize to be; he only knew that his mouth watered when he thought about it.

It would be Knowledge, certainly. It would be Power over men, far beyond that which he now had. It would be the answer to every hunger pang, every thirst, every denied wish or postponed pleasure. It would be seeing Cassandra finally dead. (Oh, but would he touch her first, as she once refused him-denying the boy he was that taste of the thing he almost loved, oh, he would never forgive her that…) It would be…

It would be all he ever desired, beginning with tiny joys and ending with oblivion, because when he imagined power without limit, the very limitations even of that appalled him. Only darkness would satisfy.

But no one would imagine him melancholy on seeing him walk down the crowded street in his fine suit of velvet. He had cast aside a student's rags and student's cares to be a man of the world, to wear as best he could the face of a gentleman-some part soldier, lover, man of games, wealth, taste. In a way, he wanted to make up for the years he'd thrown away-sacrificed to shades and shadows and old wives' tales. In another way, it was his armor-he was a man one did not wish to cross. And yet…

His confident stride was shortened by the sensation of a fumbling hand touching his cape as he turned down an alleyway. What was this? Was it some urchin thinking to make off with his purse? Hardly looking, he swirled, one hand on his sword hilt, and then, perceiving it to be someone (thing?) not quite elbow-height, he made to cuff the creature, which ducked. And then he stared. It was a dwarf.

"Roland Kantos-I accept," the small man said, his voice tinny, but almost hypnotic.

Recognizing one of his own tricks-a fascination, Kantos shook off the effects of the voice and responded, "Accept what? My backhand blow? A kick in the arse?"

"Your contract," the dwarf answered, producing a piece of parchment. At this, Kantos' skin crawled, and the hairs on his neck rose-he recognized it. It was the contract he had seen burned-and the signature at the bottom was his own name, just as he had signed it. His heart raced, but he remained leery.

"I can't recall having made a contract…with you," he said, with a sneer. In his studies, it was clear-be haughty with them, show them no fear. Let them know who is the master.

"Perhaps you don't recognize me in this form," the being said, transforming. Its shape shifted through many forms-a wolf, a man, a woman, and finally, a great satyr, snorting smoke and beaming baleful light from its inhuman eyes. Kantos resisted the urge to fall to his knees.

"Why hadn't you shown yourself sooner?" he demanded.

The creature raised itself up, and breathed a stream of fire. "Some of us don't care to be at the beck and call of mere…ephemera. But you have something to offer me…so I will give you certain gifts. In exchange for one favor."

Visions of what the demon might require of him passed through Kantos' mind, and evaporated into mist-he could not conceive of what some supernatural beast might ask in the way of a "favor." Suddenly, it seemed clear-chanting, circles, incense, all these, even blood, might not be quite enough. What would that leave?

"Wha-what would you have of me?" he breathed, stammering in spite of the control he tried desperately to maintain.

"There will be a Champion. He will be born in…the Caledonian highlands…in the time of the winter solstice. He's destined to cause me quite a bit of trouble. I want him eliminated."

"A Champion?" Kantos asked, puzzled.

The being nodded. "Just kill him. But if you fail me…"

Kantos did not need to have that sentence finished. Being beheaded was one thing-having his soul devoured was something else altogether. Finally, at the request of his straining nerves, he gave in and sank to his knees. "As you wish…great…Ahriman." Then, in a flash, the demon dematerialized before him.

"What tha--?" Kantos then asked, and struggled to his feet. "Wait! The winter solstice-the highlands of Caledonia…but when?" He paced up and down the alleyway, searching for a sign of the beast, but to no avail. He pondered at the unexpected turn of events-they * did * exist-the old ones! He had spoken to a demon-in the flesh! (Or…whatever passed for flesh with a demon.) Damn Cassandra and her lies-they existed!

He figured he would need to do a bit of research in astrology-perhaps the stars would tell him when the time was right.

****

Ergot, toadstool, and a few buds of that old assassin's helper to keep it down-well, there were some things to be said for a little herb craft, Cassandra thought to herself, weary, but happy to be done with the practical joke. Impersonating a shoggoth was an amusing, but genuinely tiring bit of work, but it was worth it to watch Roland make such a fool of himself. Her potion, and the simple shamaness' trick of creating a glamour were all she had needed and his runaway imagination and silly pride did the rest. A more alert magician would have sensed * something * was amiss.

She sat back in the chair stretching and yawning. She would sleep like a * bear * tonight. Strange, about the joke, though. She had been meaning to say, "In the deepest jungle of the Orient, when the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars." Odd how it didn't come out that way. She'd been rather hoping he'd traipse off to be head-hunted and parboiled.

Oh well. There were corners of the world where Immortal births were strangely * thick *, and that area seemed to be one of them. Odds were, eventually * somebody * would be born on the winter solstice. The way she saw it, Kantos was sure to get his irritating little self killed before the Age of Pisces was up. Possibly before the end of the millenium.

"Winter solstice," she muttered, before sinking into sleep. Surely, she would recall the significance of it in a bit. But right now, she was tired.

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