Difference between revisions of "Ignotus Peverell"

Latest revision as of 21:27, 23 June 2008

Come. Sit by the fire. It is a long and surprisingly dangerous walk from the university to this tavern, and I would not have you think me ungrateful or lacking in courtesy. You are obviously curious, seeing as you've answered my summons, so I will not delay but rather start upon your assignment immediately. I wish you to transcribe something for me: I have watched you and know of your talents. Yes, clearly I can write, I sent you the letter, but...well, all will be clear in the end. Your fee will be generous.

In short, what I wish is for you to write while I speak. I will talk of my past, my life, and you will record it. Most of what I say has never passed mortal lips, nor is it likely to do so again. Why now? You ask. I will come to a fuller answer to that question in time, but for now suffice it to say that my Master, Volonus, named it as an appropriate rite of passage. But I get ahead of myself.

I was born in a manor: or rather, a castle, though my father never called it such for fear of reprisals by his superiors. The time of vast, open estates is, as you well know, ended, and was already drawing to a close in my youth. I was the youngest son of a powerful older man and a young bride: my father had taken a second wife less for politics than for pleasure. As such, I was at best a tool and at worst a burden to the house. My father, shrewd, calculating, a player in the vicious game of politics, leaned ever towards the latter, deeply aware of how easily the matter of inheritance could destroy all those things he had acquired over his life. It was thus with great satisfaction that, when I was six, he listened to our schoolmaster recount my rapid ascent beyond even my teenaged kin in all areas of study. At the time I glowed with pride, perhaps the only time in my memory that my father and I were in perfect agreement.

Nevertheless, I must thank him for fostering my love of knowledge: it was self serving, but as Volonus has said, let others serve you by serving themselves. By the time I was eight, I had mastered everything the schoolteacher could present, and I had read all the books in the manor library and the local churches. The highlight of my young life came three times a year, when an old traveling scholar would traverse the town: his knowledge, it seemed, was bottomless. His stories were the most engrossing, the bitterest and the sweetest, his answers always in the form of a question or a riddle.

It may amuse you to know that when I first laid eyes upon the man, at the age of seven, I was certain that I knew him already. I approached him without the least fear while the other children hung back, and began speaking with him as if we were equals. This seemed to greatly amuse the man, and even pleased my father, who mistook it for a naturally regal and noble bearing, a natural tendency to command and control. The truth was that I, since I had first begun to read, had seen this very same man in my dreams. They are vivid dreams, and I remember each one as plain as any of my memories: we would walk, or sit, and talk, I asking questions, he sometimes answering, sometimes asking a question in return. Thus, when I met him, it seemed only natural that we should continue our conversations. When I later spoke to my mother of this, she found it greatly amusing but also somewhat troubling: I believe she spoke to my father, asking him not to readmit the old man, but to his credit, he dismissed her rather well founded worries as woman's folly.

But I digress. At the age of eight, I had exhausted my supply of reading materials, most of which had been dull and poorly written. When the scholar next came, I asked him for a book. It was brazen, but I was nobility and a child, and he a commoner, so that it appeared a perfectly reasonable request to me at the time. The scholar looked at me for what seemed like several minutes: I did not feel it proper for my noble heritage to drop my gaze. It was at this point that I first realized that the man was not, in fact, old. Certainly not as old as my father, and certainly not as young as my mother. His face was lined, but rather by care and weather and blades than age. His eyes were never the same color, and he wore his face clean shaven, unlike the other men of learning I had met. His robes, though voluminous, were light, silk perhaps, and he did not perspire in the summer heat. In short, he was impressive, and I suddenly felt a strong wish that this man, rather than the brawny noble warrior in the courtyard behind me, was my father.

“Knowledge is Power” The man said. It was the first time of many. “Why should I, a lowly and poor man, share my power with you?”

“It is your duty, I think” I replied after some thought. “I am of noble birth, and a commoner is bound to serve his liege lord.”

“An impeccable line of reasoning, if it were only true. Your father is lord of these lands and, unless I am mistaken, it is unlikely that you will take his place: it will be one of your brothers, I think. You must offer me something in trade, of equal value: and I warn you, books, as your schoolmaster has surely told you, are not cheap.”

“But I am a child” I had decided to take the pouting approach “I cannot offer you anything.”

“We are not trading goods, but Power. You are the son of a liege lord, as you yourself have said, so that I doubt you are wholly without it.” He drew a slender volume from his traveling bag: it had a thick leather binding well worn with age, and was the most tempting thing I had ever seen in my life. “but stay, and see if you can recall what I have just said, and you may gain some insight into what I may trade you this priceless book for.”

I stopped: we had played this game before, in this world and that of dreams. “Knowledge...is Power.”

“Knowledge is Power” he repeated. It was the second time of many.

“You...want me...to trade you my knowledge?” I had no idea what I might know that he could desire. I had heard my father talking about prices paid for secrets, intrigues with his close colleagues, when passing the great hall after feasts. A secret thrill passed through me: was I to enter the dangerous world of politics, for which my father endlessly prepared my brothers (through curses and beatings, no less)?

“I do, indeed. And an equal quantity, no less. If I am to give you this book, penned in my hand, containing my knowledge, you must, in your turn, give me a book, penned in your hand, containing your knowledge. Have you such a book?” Now I was truly shaken. A book? Written by me? Ludicrous. I had my school notebooks: most of them were unfilled, I having gotten the concepts too quickly to warrant study, but writing a book? It would take years, months at least! “No...I do not.”

“Then you must wait. When I return in the spring, I will again offer you the book. See that you have what I ask by then.” And with that, he strode off to meet the local Priest of Sigmar, to attend to the repair of the church manuscripts and maintenance of their records.

I was too stunned to be angry. It is a strange quality of the truly curious that they are nearly insatiable in their determination once they have been told they cannot do something, and in this case it was so with me. I set to work immediately, searching within myself and within the manor for things I might Know. At first it was hard, but soon I realized that in order to write what I knew, all I had to do was take the time to remember. I filled page after page of my precious notebooks with poems, the alphabet, the lay of the town and the manor, arithmetic equations: in short, all the things in my little head. I recounted some of the stories the scholar had told me, including some of those from my dreams. By the time he returned, I had close to 100 jealously acquired pages, all filled. Of course, I had breathed not a word of this to anyone: my writing had been done secretly, while pretending to study the sacred texts in the church of sigmar or in my room by candlelight.

The scholar returned in the spring, in order to complete the will and testament of my father, and to see that the family tree was properly updated. I presented him with my work as soon as we were alone together for the first time.

He looked up from his writing. “Excellent.” He thumbed through my pages, pausing briefly here and there to comment. “Your hand is steady.” He reached into his bag and pulled out the book, handing it to me gingerly.

I seized it and opened the cover, to find a strange, beautifully illumined drawing. Eager for text, I paged on, only to realize with growing horror that the book contained only pictures. “But...” I felt my face grow hot “this is a book for...for...” Words could not express my rage, the slight against me “for a baby!” The scholar paused. “Because this is the first real Book that you have held, I will say the following, but I will only say it once, in regards to a book: never judge anything by its appearance. This book that you would discard as a plaything is the most valuable book you will ever hold in your hands. It is, in fact, so precious that I cannot permit you to keep it: three months of labor by the son of a nobleman will permit you to borrow it, and yet it is still a tiny fraction of what it would be worth to many. If you were, ever, to understand this book, you would be undoubtedly the wisest and most powerful man of the age. Furthermore, allow me to emphasize that though it may seem plain to you, many men, did they know you had it, would seek to take it for themselves, either to destroy it, to study it, or to sell it. Therefore, guard it closely.”

Understand the book. Understand was not a word the scholar used lightly. Often, he would ask the children listening to his stories if they had understood something he had said. Usually, they made the mistake of saying yes, in which case the questions began: Why was the hero's cape red? Why his boots green? Why did his hair blow in a south- and not a northbound wind? Inevitably, it delayed the stories. But in our private discussions, I had come to realize that understanding, for the scholar, did not have anything to do with words, but with meaning.

“Your assignment, if you will deign to study this text, is to understand the first picture within its pages. It is a daunting task, and such I will set you eight months in which to accomplish it. We will talk again when next I visit, and at that time, we will see how well you have progressed.”

You smile to hear a man set eight months into the study of a small picture: perhaps an artist might understand my dilemma, but you are a man of words. Regardless, I will say that even once I had scrutinized every detail of that picture, and could recount what I considered its happenings to the most minute detail, I was certain I still understood nothing. I began to make frequent trips to the library again, to read and reread all the school texts and boring histories: in as roundabout fashion as possible, I questioned the priests, the schoolmaster, and the old men of the village; roundabout, because the scholar's warning, the most direct statement he had ever made to me, stuck with me closely. But much changed even before the scholar's next visit, and by the time he came, the progress I had made on the drawing seemed paltry compared to the obstacles I had been set.

“I am to go to the city.” I said when I saw him. “My father feels that my schooling must be rekindled: he has told me that he intends to send me to the church or the college of engineers, and I must be well prepared for the exams.” “An excellent opportunity. See that you seize it.” And, after my questioning look. “I hope you do not behave so in front of your father. Let others serve you by serving themselves. You go to the city: it serves others' interests that you go to study engineering and religion; perhaps it serves you to ALSO study other things. Now, what of the picture?”

“Eight men, who surround a ninth being, though I think not a man. Each one is strangely attired and changed, like the monsters of Chaos in the stories: but I do not think that they are mutants, but rather that these changes were wrought by the artist to show what sort of men they may be. From some of these towers in the background, I believe they are in Altdorf. The creature at the center is giving each of them a gift, gifts to match each of their qualities.”

“And what sort of men might these be?”

“I believe...”I hesitated. “I believe they are...wizards” the last word was whispered. Wizards were servants of evil, who killed babies and destroyed kingdoms. “but not, not evil wizards. There is, here, a priest of sigmar, who gives his blessing. The artist intends us to believe that these wizards serve Sigmar.”

“Close, but not quite. The priest is apart, and he is portrayed smaller than the others, and with lower colors: the others clearly do not serve him or his purpose. But continue.”

“Volonus, are there eight kinds of magic? If so, here I would guess that they are: fire, prophecy, necromancy, plants, animals, war, light, and darkness.” The Scholar looked carefully at me. “A cunning insight, but one I should now correct. I should again tell you that what I say to you now, is powerful knowledge: many will feel threatened by it, and they will seek to wrest it from you if you let on that you have it.”

I nodded.

“There is only one true magic, but I shall not explain this overmuch: let us say that it has eight reflections, as if eight mirrors were placed about it. These are, not exactly those you say, but Fire, Beasts, Light, Metal, Life, the Heavens, Shadow, and Death.”

I looked again at the picture. Magic! It was only a painting, and yet, at that moment, I could feel it.

“You may continue to study the book while you are in the city. But seeing as you have come far, let me put a question to you: No wizards remain: those that appear are considered too great a threat and are destroyed. If these eight were to come again into our world, which one would you wish to be? Which one might shepherd good magic?”

We continued to discuss the painting, and later, he inquired about the dreams I had written into my texts. He asked only a little, but seemed very pleased with my answers. Only a few short days later, I departed for the city. I was quartered at a prominent school, where the regimens were tough, and the hours long, particularly with chores and prayers, which were mandatory. Yet here, as before, the learning came easily to me. While the other boys struggled, I pondered the images in the book. I had looked at others than the first, but their complexity baffled me: at first most appeared like pieces of a fairy tale, yet each piece seemed to speak to me: I knew, deep down, that each character, each tree, each location, had a name, an important name, and to know these things would tell a story of great importance. My frustration at not knowing these things continued to mount, until the first time I was asked to carry books from class to the school library. So many books! I could hardly control my excitement. Luckily, I knew that knowledge was power, and standing in that library, I realized for the first time that here, as everywhere, those complex games inherent to any power were also played. I changed my attitudes. No longer did I keep to myself, completing my assignments and returning to my thoughts, but aided other boys, gathering favors, and asked for help from the masters I did not need so that i might find opportunity to impress them. It was only a few months before I had a complete run of the library, not to mention a few private libraries of some of my school friends' families.

It seemed that I was finally on the verge of being able to begin to decipher the Scholar's question, and perhaps some of the rest of the slim volume he had lent me. But one other formative experience awaited me. It occurred on one of the first days where I had devoted myself to study in the library: as I turned the first page of a book, several others scattered on the table around me, a strange man entered. He wore armor, covered in symbols of sigmar's church, and he was heavily armed. He handed the librarian a note with a seal, at which the librarian paled significantly.

“You know, your holiness, that I have been of deepest and clearest service in all such investigations in the past. You know, also, I hope, that the previous librarian was burned for heresy and witchcraft: surely, this book must be one of his! In this place, with scholars constantly bringing books in and taking them out, I can keep nothing organized long enough to do a thorough survey!” He looked close to tears.

“We are aware of your complicity, and you are, currently, free of suspicion. Let us find the book.” They headed into the stacks, the armor of the strange man clinking loudly. They passed my table, and were about to enter another row, when they stopped. I looked up. Both were staring at a book on my table, situated furthest from me as it had slid off of one of my piles.

The strange man reached out, slowly, never taking his gaze from me, and picked it up. “It appears” he said, still staring hard at me. “That your explanation may be right. Someone certainly has been reading this banned and evil text.”

I could feel my insides begin to shrivel up. The Scholar's words came flooding back upon me. I realized with the deepest fear that my precious book was with me.

“Boy. Did you see who last sat at this table? Who might have left this book here? It is of great importance that you help us in this, for it pleases Sigmar greatly.”

I shook my head no. The man stared at me a minute longer, never blinking his steely blue eyes, and then walked away with the librarian in tow. I overheard only one more piece of their conversation: “Don't be silly, librarian, he is far too young to read classical.”

I swallowed hard; I did, in fact read classical.

But at that moment, the game began in earnest. The scholar's words were true: knowledge was power, and some men were hoarding it. Not just any men, jealous or desperate men, but cunning men, perhaps even evil men: clearly, men who did not wish to do good with that power. My plans, from that moment forward, changed. I scoured each of the libraries at my command for books on magic, books on ancient history, on arcane language. Whatever small snippets I found, I collected, stealing the precious books after careful planning. By the end of my two years in the city, I had four precious books to add to the Scholar's. And though none of them had revealed much insight into the small book, I had come to understand each one well.

As has been typical with my master, he found me far sooner than I had expected to find him. Three days before my departure for home, the boys at the school had arranged to meet at an inn notorious for selling even to whelps such as ourselves, just reaching our teens. I agreed to join them, hoping to maintain my ties with them and not particularly relishing the idea of drink.

“why not join me here?” a familiar voice said.

I would have jumped, but I had already trained myself to remain cautious and impassive: the training had begun with my father, who always advised us to 'play with our tiles close to our chest', but I had mastered it here. Men like the armored one in the library were more common than I had at first anticipated, and most were not so obvious.

After seeing that no one observed me closely, I sat. “I have your answer, master.” I had not addressed him as such before, but he was more worthy of the title than many men I had called such at the school. “I would be the man in the shadows, who's face is masked, and who's movements are hidden behind those of lesser men: for he might safely practice his art.”

“might not the student of life, or the student of the heavens, or the student of the beast, find some place safe for his study?”

“yes, but there are other considerations. First, it is a problem of beginnings: a wizard today would must seek long and hard to find the first threads of his magic, and at this time he would be passing vulnerable. And even if these others might learn from trees, or beasts, or the heavens, their magic, how would they have learned these languages? Again, they must needs study. And even if they were lucky, and did these things, how might they pass on their knowledge? How create safety for his magical flock? Only by knowing the ways of men, only by having the ear of other powerful men, and only by having the means to impart his knowledge to others.”

The Scholar sat, and said nothing for a moment. “you have the book on you?”

“Yes. I rarely leave it. They search our rooms.”

“I think it is time you passed it back to me.”

It was not what I had expected, but I obeyed. He seemed to sense that I was a bit crestfallen.

“Do not judge things by their appearance, child. I have shown you the ocean, so that you might learn to love the water, but now that I see the love in your eye, I send you away to the rivers and lakes to learn to swim, lest you drown in your enthusiasm. And beyond even this, I will tell you: no knowledge is so precious as that which you have won for yourself. You have felt it in this book, I think: the power of it, the currents and eddies beneath the images. Let your intuition guide you. So might you uncover many of the secrets that have been lost, and shepherd them, lest lesser men corrupt, destroy, or bury them.”

“And when will we meet again?”

“When you come to altdorf.”

“And where will I find you?”

“In the last place you look.”

At that moment a classmate, drunk and vomiting, stumbled up to me, and I was forced to depart as suddenly as he had appeared.

My return to the manor was with no fanfare whatsoever. My father listened to the words of the messenger impassively, grunting at the honors i had received. At the end, he asked me two questions:

“Is it good enough for the priesthood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it good enough for the engineers?”

“Yes, sir”

He grinned his wolfish grin. “Then I'll leave you the pleasure of making your decision. They'll take you at 16, so have it figured out by then.”

After that, I was once again forgotten, but now it did not bother me. I began to dress like a commoner, to go out at twilight or dawn. When I ate with my family, I smiled and laughed, joked: in short, I was like everyone else. It is a funny thing, that one is most invisible in the open: for it is easier to convince a man that he is not, in fact, looking for you than to convince him that you are not where you actually are.

With my freedom won through my hard study, I began to travel the countryside. It was not without its dangers: bad weather nearly drowned and froze me, I fled from bandits twice, and was robbed at least five times. But, as my master says, all knowledge is worth having, and my travels learned me how to survive, how to foresee danger, and that there were other parts of the world, particularly the darker, knife-carrying side, that I did not understand at all.

Thus, although at first i sought out wise men and women and stores of books and records, by the time I was fourteen I spent most of my travels going to inns, or taverns, or even brothels. Not to savor the wares, though my brothers certainly did, but to learn. I listened to how they spoke, of what they talked, and to whom they said their words. I bought men drinks, or food, or even whores, and in this way, I learned how to walk among these people as well. And then I began to ask questions. It was surprising what they knew. Magic? Of course they had heard about it. Each one could recount a thousand tales of the magic done in his hometown alone. My list of hedge magicians and witches quadrupled in a fortnight. Powerful men? They knew of many that I knew, and then two fistful more besides. Here was yet a third web of power, orthogonal to that of the nobility and that of knowledge, and none of the three acknowledged by one another. Could I not, with a little practice, swing between them and thereby move more easily in my own web? But not all things I heard from them were good. For every man they spoke of, each one had a dozen vices: greed, cruelty, cowardice. It was well that I knew these things, for it might give me leverage on them, and yet it frustrated me that even in my father's lands, which I had forever thought at least well, if somewhat cruelly, managed, there was no end to the corruption. There were other troubling news from these people, things that the official channels did not disseminate. Beastmen, creatures not seen for decades in the forests. Disappearances in the night. Bodies in the river, either without sign of injury other than a look of abject terror in their eyes, or horribly mutilated. The common people growing desperate, listening more and more to revolutionaries and taking to desperate measures to attempt to preserve their own safety. Six months before I was to depart for Altdorf, I rode into a hamlet three days travel from the manor. It was situated in a mountain valley, and thus difficult to reach. I was no skilled rider, having spent most of my childhood being either chased from the riding yard by my brothers or hunched over texts inlibraries, so that it had taken me almost 4 days to traverse the rocky path. What met me was a scene of chaos. A screaming crowd, almost a slithering beast in its size and undulating movements, surrounded a young woman, pelting her with rotten food and stones. She looked to be in very poor shape. I admit, I panicked. I still labored under the illusion that my status at a noble would give me sufficient authority to move such a crowd. Yet my shouts barely carried, and I was not skilled enough with the bridle to get my horse through the crowd. When the woman stumbled and fell, and several men rushed forward, binding her and dragging her towards what looked very much like a pyre, I became desperate. Yet, in that moment, my mind cleared. I looked around swiftly for a magistrate, or a man who might be a witch hunter (though hoping it would be the former). It was not hard to pick him out, a stocky, brutish man overseeing the proceedings. I rode towards him and shouted myself hoarse. “who are you and what do you want?” “I come from Lord Gorodetsky! I am his son, sent to see to the affairs of this city and to make sure all is in order!” The man was thick, but he was not a fool. Although the situation clearly had the mark of official sanction, there was no doubt that at this point it was well beyond his control without powerful measures. I had learned many things from my father, and one was the power of suggestion. Let others serve you by serving themselves. He paled considerably. “All things are well, your lordship. We are proceeding to punish an acknowledged heretic.” “I see.” I had lowered my voice to a speaking volume. It was a sign, a sign that I would not deign to shout, that it was beneath my dignity. Show me your power, make your move, it said. My words mattered to him: let him work to hear them. “And where is the magistrate?” The man stared, trying to read my lips, and then, with an irritated wave, two trumpets blared. The crowd did not stop seething, but voices fell and eyes began to turn upon us. “What, my lord?” And then, when I acted as if I had not heard him, casting a critical, haughty gaze over the crowd. “Silence! Bind the witch and behave yourself! A messenger from his lordship is here, would you have him think us savages!” The crowds movements became more contained. “My lord, you asked me some question?” “The Magistrate who tried the witch, where is he?” It was a simple ploy: my father's lands were not wealthy, and he increased his income considerably by reducing his support staff. There were no magistrates in our holdings, not even at the manor. “My lord, I am so empowered to act as a magistrate for the town.” He was an old hand, and not so easy to confound. “It was I who determined her guilt.” “Well done, sir. The witchhunter Feuerwald is currently about in our lands: I am sure you have all your evidence in good order so that I might report it to him.” The man's hard expression quivered. “certainly.” “Good. For I have heard from many commoners that vile rituals have been reported, vile rituals of human sacrifice. Feuerwald is not a forgiving man, and the last thing Lord Gorodetsky needs is for good countryfolk to be accused of burning innocents. Now, if you would be so good as to prepare the necessary documents for me, I will oversee the delivery of justice to the foul witch.” “documents? My lord, I will recount gladly for you the necessary proceedings.” “A fine idea, but alas, it will be difficult for me to keep it all straight. When I was a boy, I had a fall from the horse, and I must oft repeat myself several times before my report is correct. For a matter of such great import, I would prefer if it was in your writing, or, if you preferred, you might journey with me to the manor to make your report.” He was trapped, I knew it. Leaving his village in late fall for a week could be catastrophic, and preparing official documents was, almost certainly a nightmare he wanted to avoid at all costs, if for no other reason than the sheer cost of paper. “I see that you are hesitant, and I do not doubt that these are odious solutions. I have, perhaps, another option, though your people will not like it. I can take this witch to the manor, where she may be examined by a man of your choosing, and judged at my lord's house.” I had moved my piece. How would he respond? It was quicker than I had expected. “you there! Unbind the servant of chaos! Bring her here. I have learned Lord Gorodetsky of this creature's existence and he has sent his man to take her! Let all the land know that we are foremost in vigilance and purity!” It was a good play. He acceded to my demands while both improving his appearance to his people and making a veiled demand of me: make sure Lord Gorodetsky supports me in exchange for giving you this political tool, a witch to prove both our purity and loyalty. Not a country bumpkin, this one. Two men tied the woman loose, and began to lead her to me. “My lord, if I might speak?” It was a strong voice, like cold steel. My stomach turned to ice. I turned to see a man, in simple travelers garb, but beneath his hood I could see the gleam of chain. “identify yourself: you bear not the arms of my lord's house yet you go armed. You commit a grave offense.” I knew who this must be, knew that all my efforts were in vain, wanted to scream with frustration: but my only option was to play the fool and attempt to at least escape myself. The man raised up the sigil of sigmar, the sign of a witchhunter. “My name is Albrecht Feuerwald. I am an agent of divine justice empowered by the emperor to assure the safety of his flock. I believe that I am best suited to see to the guilt of this witch.” It was not a question, not even a statement: it was a command. I got off my horse, making the sign of sigmar, and knelt before the man. “As you wish, my lord. It has always been the command of lord gorodetsky that we should defer to the agents of sigmar and the emperor, who are one and the same, in all things.” Feuerwald ignored me. “bind the witch and bring her here. I will hear the evidence against her.” Many villagers had evidence against her: what shocked me somewhat was the strength of the evidence against her. It seemed that here, in front of me, was perhaps the first practicing mage I had ever seen, albeit a servant of chaos. And to think that I had almost escorted her out of the village! She would almost certainly have made short work of me. She had been found over a sacrifice, and when seized, had spit in the face of a man: a man who now had a crater for a face. As the evidence was given, she even seemed to smile defiantly. Finally, her breasts were bared, to reveal the marks of a chaos god burned there. And yet, as the proceedings continued, the shouting, the outrage of the crowd seemed to fade into the background. I was in the web again, the three webs, and now I saw a fourth web, again in another plane: a web of raw, unchecked, seething power, a web of Chaos. And within that web, two small, venomous spiders, one bearing the sigil of sigmar, and one the sign of a chaos god. I knew what the hunters were about: had seen them execute men on little more than hearsay: more than a dozen old men and women killed in our holdings alone. Against him was arraigned a dark servant, a true practicioner of magic, a single lapping wave in the tide of darkness slowly swallowing the land. It was striking, though, that this tide should be opposed by a tide just as dark: a tide of ignorance, fear, cruelty, and oppression. I could not articulate it at the time, but in the end, all the webs woven around us are just games in comparison to the one I saw for the first time on that day. For while we might ignore the others, or wander freely in them, that web alone holds all of us whether we wish it or not, and will destroy everything we hold dear. Now, I agree with Volonus that on that day I set myself on a path I would not acknowledge for many years yet. That decision began as the rashest of thoughts: what did it matter if she was a chaos servant? If a true magic user was to be found in such a small village, in such a meaningless place (or was it?), what greater threats must be all around us? If I were a player in this dark web of power, how would I move, theoretically? The witch hunter cared not a whit for me: he was inspired by the Divine, he owed no allegiance to any man. The chaos worshipper...she was a wild card. Wild, sloppy, desperate...in short, a perfect piece in any play. I still do not know how I had the presence of mind to act as I did. As the trial drew to a close, I positioned myself as one of her guards: it was an honor I could claim. The sentence was pronounced, and we moved forward to seize her, to bear her to the pyre. I was nobility, so I moved first. I stepped up to her and beneath my cloak, I slid my dagger out of it's sheath and slipped it into her hand. Her eyes grew wide. “stab me.” I said, and braced myself for the worst pain of my life. As I perhaps should have anticipated, she was more enthusiastic than I had intended. She struck, once, twice, three times, shearing my cloak, my forearm, and finally my thigh as I tried to dodge out of her way. I collapsed screaming: it was not an act. I looked up to see her slit her gag, then she muttered and the air condensed around her, the air grew cold: suddenly, it felt as if I was alone, endlessly alone. It lasted only a second, I driving the strange thoughts from my mind, but suddenly the air was filled with screams as the entire village mob fled. All save the witch hunter, who was drawing his blade. For a moment I thought they might engage in some sort of mystical duel, but the woman only laughed, dashing from the village with surprising speed, the witchhunter giving chase until she reached the forest: it was as if she had disappeared. My healing was slow and painful: for a moment I thought I might suffer infection when a fever began to set in,but it was only minor. To my surprise, my ruse had an unexpected benefit: Feuerwald, before so cold to me, believed that I had valiantly fought the witch, falling in battle with her, and now offered his hand and looked at me with what I hoped was respect. You look at me with disgust, but you do not see the bigger picture. Mayhap you will see it before the night is through. Regardless, I recovered within the month. Now I could only watch, and wait. I was not mistaken in my hopes. Walking in the market, I was suddenly pulled into an alley and felt a knife at my throat. “You serve the dark masters, then, lordling?” It was a woman's voice, heady with passion as if the threat of murder was arousing to her. Yet there was desperation in that tone too. I was calmer than I had been during the congratulations of Feuerwald: this one would not kill me. “I serve no one but myself.” I willed myself to meet her gaze. She smiled. “then you will go far. But tell me, child (she was only perhaps a few years older than I), how do your wounds and the enmity of the witchhunter serve you?” “You have power in which I might share. He does not. If I am to rule these lands, I must make unconventional allies. It is obvious that you can do the things the villagers speak of. With your help, I might be the lord in place of my pigheaded brothers.” Rivalry, greed, arrogance, with just a touch of daring: it was a recipe I was sure she would find delectable. And devour it she did. She cast me back in the street, saying that she wanted gold, and a safe place to stay. I gave her access to a dilapidated hunting cabin in a forest, and most of the gold in my chambers, a hefty sum. It was enough. Although I am disgusted to say it, I think I learned more from her than from any of my other sources. She was like a dam: once cracked, she poured forth everything she knew, eager for others to take up the cause she had sold her soul to. It was, I hate to admit, tempting. So much power, for such a small price. Yet I remembered Volonus' words at every meeting with her: things are not what they appear. She was a spider, a terribly poisonous spider, but tiny and feeble compared to whoever might have taught or initiated her, a source that, despite my best efforts, she refused to reveal to me. Her magic was, it seems to me even now, a gift. She had not displayed a love for knowledge as a child, she was not of the sharpest mind. But she was sensitive enough that, when she pledged her allegiance to her lord, he, through means I still do not understand, gave her the gift of magic. It does not surprise me that the gods of Chaos win followers so easily. Her magic was ruled by her passions: she did not weave spells, they simply happened. But nevertheless, I consider Serrafina a companion tome to the small book of pictures: riddles and puzzles and prophecies she spoke to me, each steeped in meaning deeper than even she realized, and which I have understood to 10% or less, yet that is already a trove of knowledge. I could see that many challenges would face me with her, not the least of which was the depth of her physical desire. If her powers were stimulated by her passions, how mighty might she become in the throes of sex? Yet how might I avoid it without revealing myself? And thus, I approached this problem as I had done with my challenges in the past: through study. Using my contacts and tales of the depravities of various nobles, I visited the brothels that catered to the strangest desires, and submerged myself in their wares. Thus, when Serrafina threw herself at me, the surprise I might have felt was gone, though her skill in the darker pleasures far exceeded that of simple whores. I was not mistaken that her power waxed in that moment, and she asked me one question “What do you desire?” Her spell was like a glistening parasite, burrowing into my mind. My study was not without value, for I was able to tear my mind from the mixture of pleasure and agony and open my inner eye: I gathered my strength and seized that burrowing worm, feeling a surge of triumph: I could master her power! Yet my thrill turned to terror almost immediately, as I realized what I was doing. Was I to reveal my hand so willingly, so easily? She was a witch, I a boy of fifteen, she could still snuff me out like a candle. This wave I would have to ride, rather than weather. I released my grasp and let her into my mind. At that moment, the word “knowledge” came to my lips, but, almost in the same instant, a tiny voice within me asked “Knowledge is Power: is this not, then, a better answer?” and so, following my intuition, I angled myself just off the straightest road to her answer, and said, instead “Power”. She laughed, and then came in great shuddering gasps as I screamed from the pain of the razor sharp nails she dug into my chest. If she was wise, she would have asked me “to what end?”: how might I have answered? Part of me wishes that I would have said “to save the innocent” or “to protect it from evil men”, but perhaps it may have been as base as “for my own greatness.” But I digress, she was, as I said, wild, and no more than a pawn, and she asked no such thing: my answer was sufficient. In the next three months, she revealed, as I have already said, much of value to me: the greatest of which, and the most terrifying, that she was but a tiny part of a great, deadly web of deceit and chaos. If only I had more time! What I had learned so far was careful planning, study, diligence, but it was clear that I would have to act, and act without much of a plan. I return in my story again and again to intuition. It is, as Volonus has said, the wizard's greatest and simplest tool. Perhaps this is why Shadow magic is the wind he chooses to teach: for shadow magic consists not only in moving in shadow, but accepting that other things move in shadow as well: thus, the shadow wizard accepts that much, perhaps even most, cannot be known, but only guessed at. If I was to escape this and help to protect my father's lands, I would have to depend upon a series of wild conjectures. To my surprise, the vicious scratches on my body did not need much hiding from my family, in fact, they seemed to garner me more respect. Thus, it was easy to increase the frequency of my meetings with Serrafina. I pushed my limits, delving ever deeper into her world. She was mad, perversely mad in fact, and to be near her was to risk madness every moment. Looking back, it was a terrible risk I took, much greater than I had ever considered. But I survived, and my devotion was well rewarded when she informed me that she would take me to her master at the next new moon. It was time to put my plan into action. Using a barber's razor, I made slight changes in the scratches Serrafina had left. They were minor, but what had been only battle damage before suddenly took on much more obvious signs and symbols, tattoos that any sensible witchhunter, or his agents, might recognize. Oddly, this was not a part of the plan I lost much sleep over: spies were thick in the manor, for every power in the land, and I was certain that someone would notice something. The new moon arrived, only three weeks before my scheduled departure for Altdorf. I snuck out of the manor and headed to the cabin. My arrival was greeted with a taste of the power I was dealing with. She subdued me with dark energies, and bound my eyes, hands and feet. She mocked me, laughing at my fear. She prepared to drag me from the cabin, to the designated meeting spot (her strength always amazed me), when lights appeared outside, and the door shattered. There was much shouting, a very bright light, and then my blindfold was removed: Feuerwald stood over me. My plan had, so far, worked. Now for the hard part. I was tied up and made to stand before the witchhunter. He raised the sigil of sigmar. My timing would be critical. I could feel power building there, great power. Serrafina had had ten times my power, and this man clearly had ten times hers. It was coming at me like a great maelstrom. I opened my inner eye, and could see the faint pale nimbus begin to play around the sigil. Again, it was a storm I could not weather, only ride out. It was building, it would shatter my mind and strip out the choice morsels of truth: and I was certain I had done enough to be tortured before being given the mercy of crucifixion or burning at the stake. “Do you recant! Do you admit your service to the dark lords?” It was my moment. Hesitate and it would be gone. “I do! By sigmar's divine mercy, I do! Ahhhh, Sigmar, have mercy on this soul, though I deserve to burn!” I collapsed into wracking sobs. You seem surprised that a witchhunter would be taken in by such an act. You are mistaken: if I had been lying to him, he would have seen it immediately. But I was not: I simply was not telling the whole truth. I had committed great sacriledge under serrafina's tutelage, and her black tendrils had not left me unstained. I had allowed it, pursued it even, but now, in this moment, I could allow my shame, my disgust out. I let him see the truth of my self loathing, and it was a truth he hoped to see: after all, he had come to like me more than even I had thought possible. “She...the knife, my blood...” I was not sure if it was only a folktale, but if not (and I suspected not), Feuerwald would know. In this case, the breadth of his knowledge played into my plan. His eyes widened, and I knew I had hit upon something. “She, she threatened my family, told me they would all die unless I gave in to her. She entered my Mind! She debauched me, tortured me, laughed at my cries of pain...a woman! Ah, sigmar, I am not worthy to stand in the sight of your priest! Oh, the shame, the ignominy for the house of Gorodetsky! That I should bring such sorry to my father's house! Please, sigmar, strike me down now!” “Demons! Begone!” I could feel the power of exorcism approaching me. I hoped that I had kept Serrafina's influence sufficiently from me that it would not burn me to cinders. But it's cleansing flame passed through me without effect. “Vladimir. Did she say anything? Anything that might be of use to us?” The trap snapped closed. “A meeting, she wished to take me to a meeting, some vile ritual. Her master is there. It must be within walking distance...” I do not know what happened to Serrafina. I do not know what happened to her master, or his other disciples. But, a week before my departure for altdorf, Feuerwald approached me, and a satisfied message passed between our eyes, though both of us bore obvious scars and injuries. To this day, no one knows of what transpired that night, but serrafina was never seen again. The day of my sixteenth birthday was cold and rainy. I had packed all my things the night before, and I bade my mother goodbye early, in order to give her proper time for it. My father gave me a strong handshake, less for my own sake and more to congratulate himself on a burden well relieved. I had recovered quite well from my ordeal with Serrafina, and I was already busy hatching a new scheme. Within my bag I had my clothes, as well as two letters, one accepting my post at the school of engineering, the other accepting my place in the Sigmarite seminary. I also had two ancient family seals, taken from old chests I had found after long search. Only my treasured books filled the rest of my case. My journey to altdorf was uneventful, and upon arriving, I set out to find the haunts of aspiring students. It did not take long to find the rich and ambitious, since they were often ringleaders or boisterous. It took little to find two who desired nothing better than a guaranteed spot at their choice of institution, despite slipping grades. With the seals, the letters fetched me even more than I had hoped. Coupled with the traveling allowance my father had given me, with which I had been exceedingly frugal, I was ready. Ready, you might ask, for what? Volonus had said that there was no better learning than that which you earned for yourself. I had discovered that there were layers upon layers of knowledge in the Empire, whole worlds that were unexplored. If I was to gain knowledge truly worth having, I needed to be independent, needed to have the freedom to go where my researches took me. I had nearly forgotten about Volonus, to tell the truth. Not forgotten him, but forgotten that he had anticipated a meeting between us. Volonus is a master of riddles: it was, in the end, true that we met in the last place I would look, because, in fact, I never began to look for him: entering a book shop in Altdorf, I thought I saw his gray cloak, remembered what he had said, and followed the man into the back room. It was a familiar face that turned to face me. “Come, sit, Vladimir. I have heard a bit of what has transpired and I am most eager to have a firsthand account.” It took the better part of three hours to tell my tale, and at the end, Volonus sat quietly. “You are dangerous.” He finally said. Once again, I was dumbstruck by what he had said. “No, no, you mistake me. Not dangerous to me, certainly. But...your analogy of the web is quite appropriate, except that you fail to see that you, too, are a spider. And one that can weave, no less. I had many plans for you, your love of knowledge would have served in many capacities, but it seems that I have made a slight miscalculation. I have underestimated your cunning. I do not fault myself: cunning is a rare commodity and usually misapplied. But as I always say, let a man serve you by serving himself. And thus, it is imperative that you follow your own path.” My confusion must have been obvious. “Not to worry, my boy. All will be clear. For now, it is time to give you...a few new weapons for your arsenal. It is clear that you are ready. He pulled a familiar, slim volume from his robe. You will study pages 2-24 while we travel. When you have mastered them, you will be ready.” Ready for what, I did not know. But from then on, as if my childhood dreams had been answered, we were companions. We began our travels in Altdorf itself, visiting temples, ancient buildings, ruins, even some of the catacombs. How Volonus gained access to some of these places, I am uncertain, although I have my theories. In each place he would ask me to observe, to conjecture, to face him in rational debate and rhetoric, pulling me bit by bit sometimes through history, sometimes through magical theory, and, eventually, through the weaving of spells. Although this thrilled me to no end, I should say, it was not as mind boggling as I had imagined it would be: I had already seen and felt enough of magic that while manipulating it felt otherwordly, it was not an entirely new feeling to be immersed in it. I have heard that some with magical apptitude manifest their abilities in strange, disturbing, and often uncontrolled ways as children. I believe that my dreams of Volonus were perhaps things of this nature, but that was all that I experienced. It may be that, I being a shadow mage, that such things might have expressed themselves in subtle ways: perhaps I had always had such luck in hiding my plans and intentions due to such manifestations? It is worthless to speculate. What is clear is that I entered magic as a field of study, not as a struggle to control burgeoning power. We visited several other cities, the most impressive of which was L'Anguille, with the great tower: I begged my master that we might visit it, but he told me flatly that he had been forbidden to enter, and that we had best avoid it. In each we found great works of art, architecture, and, inevitably magic, much of it hidden within other masterworks, or disguised, or simply left in ruin from Sigmar's cleansing flame. The webs I had perceived as a child, I could now see extended ever outwards, intertwining themselves in all things and in each other. And yet mightiest of the webs was still the dark web, for in every place we visited, there was corruption, poverty, violence, and malice. And by all evidence, things were getting worse. In each city, this topic took up much of our discourse: where were the weaknesses? If we do not know them, where would we search first? How might the city have come to such a state? Was it merely through shortsightedness and greed, or were dark forces at work here? In these discussions, my time amongst the seedy parts of my fathers holdings served me well, as well as the strange things Serrafina had said: only here did Volonus stop, one moment, and ponder me with an inscrutable look. “an interesting point.” he would say, and then continue to debate, or to question. After the cities, we left the roads and travelled to four places more in the empire: the great forests in the heart of the empire, the foothills of the world's edge mountains, the bitter northern ocean near Erengrad, and the edge of the badlands. Though we spoke as normal in each place, I studying and he teaching, mostly, in each place he posed to me one question which he said was the crux of what he wished me to learn there: In the forests: We have said that man fears the unknown. We have said that only the God's know Man's soul. How then might Man conquer the fear of himself? In the mountains: We have said that the chief weapons of the empire are faith, steel, stone, and gold. In one sentence, tell me how they might fail? In the crashing, ice flecked surf: Had you all the gold, and men, and magic in the empire, how would you build here a wall to hold back the waves, and the fierce northern storms? In the desolation of the badlands: If you offered up peace, who would pay most dearly for it? And, as we stood once again upon a hill overlooking altdorf, soot blackening the sky from ten thousand furnaces and a thousand workshops, he sat, and drew from his cloak a small traveling board for the game called The Game of Thrones. I had seen him play it with wise men in many villages: it is, as you surely know, an immensely popular game, and I tell you there is truth in the tale that when you come to a town without a Thrones championship, you will know you have left the empire. I knew little of the game: it took years to master, unless you were a genius, with its 16 unidentical tiles, each of which had different strengths and vulnerabilities. “Sit” he ordered. I prepared myself for a series of thorough thrashings in the game before we took shelter in an inn. But instead of dealing the tiles, he instead laid out an early move that even I, ignorant though I was, was familiar with: Mueller's Gambit, conceived by the current Grand Master of the game of Thrones. 4 moves to seize both the throne and the enemy king: it was inescapable and bitterly simple to arrange. I stared at the board, studying the defeat I had not even had the pleasure of stumbling into myself. “What” Volonus began, his face a jagged puzzle of shadow and orange light in the setting sun “do you see?” “Mueller's gambit” I said, but immediately continued: it would clearly not suffice as an answer. “defeat for white is inevitable. It is a simple maneuver” As I looked carefully, I began to gain insight into mueller's genius, began to have even an inkling how he might have conceived it. “Rather than attack, all the pieces are played into a cascading defense: it is like the snakes told of in Araby or the far Western Jungles. The enemy sees his chance, he struggles and strikes, but each step that he drives his enemy back” I motioned with my finger “is like a rope, tightening the noose around the throne. The white king must be here, or here, or here: if white attacks, he must open at least two files on his king. Once the noose is tight, two squares or less, the fast pieces: archer, knight, or assassin, that form the tail of the noose, lash out and strike. The game is won in four turns, if White realizes his mistake: three if he is a fool.” “Clearly, I have cheated: I have put you into the Gambit, which you surely would have avoided” I swallowed. “But stay, I will even the score: Make you three moves, which is what it might take me to set the Gambit: in those three moves, can you escape? Can you, perhaps, even win?” I pondered the board. I knew little of the game, but I had often heard the Gambit discussed. It was considered foolproof: as I had said, struggle, and destroy yourself. But fail to attack, and concede defeat. The frying pan, or the fire? Was it another unanswerable riddle? I had spent many days and sleepless nights wrestling with problems set me by Volonus that he would then reveal to be unsolvable. Once again, it was intuition, my inner eye, that saw the chink in the armor. I stopped looking at the pieces, but looked rather at the board. To take the throne, that meant victory, if you could hold it. The king was important, no doubt: but you could recover him, I knew, by at least three methods, if he fell. The throne was in the center: how could I separate black from it? “Volonus...” I was not sure of the Thrones terminology “is there, is there not a trade I might make...ah, the fool's trade, I believe it is called? Volonus smiled “and not poorly named: the trade was once a significant part of the game, oft used by sly masters to force a tie if they had miscalculated. It allowed several men to gain the title of Grand Master with swift, daring, and risky play. Not an image, incidentally, the church of Sigmar or the Emperor wished to have associated with one of the best past times by which to pacify the populace. Thus, the cost of the trade was increased, only by one piece, but it was enough to cast it into ignominy. But I digress: yes, it is a legal move: it makes this piece, or this one, of the black, a traitor, at the cost of those four. But see how it exposes your king? And it destroys your advance: your new piece is isolated.” I swiftly switched the pieces. I had chosen my path. I would follow it to its end. “I have, I believe two more moves?” There was curiosity in his eyes. “Proceed” he said. “This piece, the battle priest, which you said once was a wizard, it may move like so?” “Yes, but only once in the game, then it reverts to a friar.” My inner eye opened. I had sensed the answer, but now it came to me. I thought of Feuerwald, of Serrafina. It was not a question of pieces, but of position. And what did I care for the pieces regardless? Priests? Friars? Knights? They were all the same, merely agents of White, rather than Black, but agents of destruction all the same. I moved the wizard piece, and switched it with the friar. “you have not yet chosen your traitor.” I was silent. “Two moves, and the traitor, of course, remain me?” “Yes.” His brows were furrowed. “The wizard piece returns to my hand?” “Yes” I picked up another two pieces from the board. My knight, gone, slain. My archer, fallen. “And now I may place him here?” “Yes” And move him, again, thus?” “Yes” Again, the wizard moved, with the friar on the board, he reverted to a scholar. I picked up my last two militant pieces. Pistolier, drowned in the mud. The cannon a twisted wrechage of bronze. I placed the wizard again on the board, moved him, and replaced him with a peasant. There was my royal court, the house of the corrupt, huddled around the king. I picked up the wizard, again, and put him in the center, adjacent to the three ex-wizards, my traitor piece. “Your move” “You make an interesting point.” He looked briefly at the board. “I take it, that you see where this will end?” It was my turn to be curt “Yes” “Then show me.” “The noose is undone, here, by the wizard and the peasant. The three pieces protect him from attack for this turn. My king is vulnerable: to prevent a white victory, you will slay my king, thus. But thus the snake uncoils; the noose unravels. The assassin moves here. You slay the Friar, or the assassin. The Princess and the Duke move together, to here. To prevent the Duke from reverting to King, you take the piece. The princess moves here...and the throne is blocked: I sacrifice the princess to make the peasant king. You cannot reach him: you might take whoever remains, friar or assassin. Victory to white.” “You are dangerous.” He did not smile as he said it. “There is, you know, another solution to the problem?” “None that I saw.” “I shall not trouble you with it, then.” He rose. “Tell me, Ignotus, why did we play this Gambit?” The name by which he called me had begun as a joke: I had mentioned at the beginning of our travels that if there were two of me already in Altdorf, studying at opposite ends of the city, that it might perhaps be pushing my luck to wander about as the third. Ignotus, he had dubbed me, a famous wizard who's name, oddly enough, had the meaning “unknown” in classical, and it had stuck. “It is the world, is it not, master? The Gambit is played: Chaos has placed its pieces, the noose is tightening. Yet the Empire will not look nor listen, nor make sacrifice of the things it must let go. It would rather struggle, laying waste to itself, than suffer shame and ignominy.” “But your play was victorious.” “But all shame, all sacrifice. And at the same time so callous: all one's own useless pieces laid waste, all one's hopes hung upon a traitor. Few men, least of all the men who lead the empire, could make such a choice.” “Could you?” “I have, and I will and would again.” Volonus faced me. “Do we understand each other?” I said no more, but walked away from him, never looking back, into the slums of Altdorf. I would wager that you do not know the name of Ignotus Peverell, but I don't doubt you will hear it yet after today. A smuggler, ruthless, a slave to profit. Devious, cunning, and callous. his abilities to avoid the sheriff and ply his trade with impunity sometimes even seem to be guided by more than just his skill. I do not doubt that his works have drawn the attentions of many watchers, men of power, who know what an excellent pawn he might make in their games, because he has no use for morals other than his own betterment. And now, my friend, you know a secret none other knows. I am Ignotus Peverell, born Vladimir Severus Gorodetsky, a student of the dark magic of chaos, a shadow mage, determined to be player and not piece, spider and not fly: so that, when the villains, white and black all, converge upon the throne, I might break their gambit. You are afraid. Of course. I have only one final request of you, and then you may go. Throw these pages into the fire. I will recompense you for them. What I have told you, it needed saying, but now, none shall utter it again. No, there will be no need for promises of silence: for nothing will remain for you to say.

Thank you for coming on such short notice. Sit by the fire. It is a long and surprisingly dangerous walk from the university to this tavern, and I would not have you think me ungrateful or lacking in courtesy. My name is Aberforth, I am a young scholar of a noble house, and your talents have impressed themselves upon me. It is my wish that you proceed to the university, and i will supply you with these 40 crowns here, so that you might continue your education. No, no, no need to thank me now: I will call upon you, some days, and then, you may express your gratitude to me...