by S. Cameron David
in Issue 124, May 2022
He passed the morning in meditation, communing on the Astral Plane. There he pondered the deeper mysteries of magic and metaphysics and all manner of truth which never could I hope to grasp. And how could I? My master had drawn breath for a thousand years–Sophi Undying, foremost among the wizards of the age. And what meager pittance of lore had I, when weighed against the ocean of his knowledge?
So while my master lay in silent repose, I busied myself with the morning routine. I swept the floors, broom in hand, and cleaned out the cauldrons with oil and rags, polishing away the onslaught of gathering rust. I set the porridge on the hearth and aligned his books neatly on their shelves (and if I sneaked a glance at a handful of pages, taking a sip from my master’s wisdom, surely you’d not begrudge an apprentice his due). It seemed, in short, a typical start to a typical day. Then I heard a crash from my master’s chamber, followed by a shout of excitement, as Sophi Undying came tearing down the stairs, only half-dressed, with all the manic energy you’d expect from a man one-fortieth his age.
He looked closer to sixty than he did one thousand. Wispy white hair formed a halo around his aged head, while skin like old and wrinkled paper stretched across his bones, spotted and stained with the splatters of age. He looked like the sort of man who should have had arthritis in his hands and knees, but there he was, throwing open doors and racing through hallways–an ancient Methuselah in an old man’s body, with all the vigor and health of an unmarried son.
“Corvus,” he said. “Corvus!” He pulled me into a hug and kissed me on the mouth, while a manic grin was threatening to split his face in two. (And believe me, none of this was normal behavior, at least as far as my master was concerned.) “Wonderful news, friend. Exciting, wonderful news.”
And then he was off again, retreating into the hallway, humming some half-remembered song from his youth. He rifled through the cabinets, seeking out my collection of teas, and helped himself to the porridge still boiling on the fire. I waited by the doorway, looking in, while Sophi Undying ushered me forward with a wave of his hand, that manic grin still adorning his face.
“I take it you’ve had a breakthrough?” I said.
Sophi chuckled, and to this day I cannot be sure whether his words were aimed at me or if he was speaking to himself.
“A breakthrough, he says. Breakthrough? That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. No, what I’m speaking about is the pinnacle of achievement.” As he said those words, much of that demonic energy fell away from his face, giving way to a look of sentimentality and reflection. His smile grew smaller and a few more wrinkles crept forth around his eyes. His next words were spoken in a quieter, more reverent tone of voice. “Aye, I haven’t had a moment like this in nine hundred forty-eight years–not since I bested Samira.” He chuckled softly to himself. “I feared I’d never have such a moment again.”
He fell silent, pouring himself a cup of tea while he set to work on his bowl of porridge. I studied my master, as curiosity raised its banners, laying siege within my mind. Because the story was legendary, so much so that even illiterate peasants knew something about it: of the aged wizard who’d wrestled immortality’s secrets away from the Elf Queen herself, and yet there were so many questions that required answers. So much of the story still went untold.
I confess, I couldn’t keep my silence. I took my own bowl and settled in beside him.
“What was she like?” I asked.
“The Elf Queen?”
“The Elf Queen.”
He shared a secretive, self-congratulatory, vicious smirk, as he downed his tea like he was downing a stein of beer. “Prideful,” he croaked. “Vicious. Oh, believe me, she was angry when I bested her–to think a mere mortal could outsmart and deceive one such as herself. Oh, I imagine it must gall her still: to know that I endure, all these centuries later, on account of the secrets I stole from her grasp. Samira the Elf Queen, how she must rage at her humiliation.” He wiped a tear from his eye, before he turned his gaze towards me. In a more severe voice, he added, “A word of wisdom, friend. Never mess with the elves. They don’t take losing lightly.”
“It worked well enough for you.”
He nodded agreeably. “I suppose it did. Yet for every victor, you’ll find a thousand corpses rotting in dungeons or buried in the earth. But enough about the past, we’ve got greater triumphs still ahead.”
“Greater than immortality?”
His answer was an unequivocal yes.
This he told me that morning, as I put away the bowls and cups: that immortality had only ever been a means to an end, and that there were far greater heights he sought still to reach. Apotheosis. Melting into the Astral Plane, becoming as a god, with the whole sum of knowledge, all the lore of spellcraft and cosmic wisdom, all the secrets of existence itself laid open before him. To be able to shape the very building blocks of life, the energies that placed the stars in the skies and set the oceans in their tides–to wield a power not even the elves would dare to grasp.
“And you think you can do that?” I will admit, I did not entirely believe such a feat was possible. My master may have been a worker of miracles, but this seemed a task too far out of reach.
“For near a thousand years I’ve meditated, immersed myself in the deeper mysteries of the Astral Plane, communing, listening, trying to wrap my mind around its secrets, searching for the path. And for a thousand years the answer eluded me, slipping out from my grasp like an eel from a net, sinking back into the mystic seas.”
“But not this time.”
“No. This time the net came closed and the line held fast. I heard a voice, you see, while I was immersed in my meditation. Perhaps it was the voice of the spirits, or the gods, or the universe itself, I cannot say, but it offered me answers, planted the knowledge directly in my head. How to achieve apotheosis, taking a seat beside the gods.”
He patted me on the shoulder, kindly and gently like a father with his son. “I suspect I’ll need your assistance in the foreseeable future. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. A project such as mortals wouldn’t dare to dream.” He took his leave, whistling jauntily to himself, as he gathered up his parchments and quills, pulled a handful of books from off their shelves, and sat himself down in the next room over, scribbling down thoughts and observations. I held my questions on a leash. All I could do was await his instruction.
As he worked he muttered softly to himself. He was incoherent as a madman, following trains of logic I would never dare to guess. He would disappear into his study for hours at a time, and when I’d enter into his room, bringing him meals or refreshment, I’d see him huddled over his parchments or his books, still rambling to himself, caught up in the intricacies of his work. Three days passed in this fashion before he emerged from his chambers, once more presenting a portrait of delight. He handed me a list–provisions he expected to require.
I read off his instructions, as curiosity gave way to confusion and confusion gave way to alarm.
I saw poisons in that mix–the venoms of several species of snakes–along with plant and animal components renowned for their role in intensifying magical effects, or for blunting enchantments and dismantling curses. I read the names of several mushrooms known for their bewitching effect on the senses and perceptions, mushrooms my master would often use when accessing the Astral Plane. It made for a noxious brew, one that should kill anyone who’d drink it–burn through their insides as violently as acid. I voiced my concerns. Sophi Undying brushed them aside.
“You understand a great deal,” he said. “Yet there’s so much you don’t grasp. Tell me, friend, have you done much studying on philosophy? On the working of the Astral Plane?”
I told him I had not.
“Very well, then let me explain. The truth is that all magic is derived from that higher reality. It seeps downward from the realm of the spirit, down into our flesh and blood cosmos. This is why any magician worthy of repute must spend a great many hours in careful meditation. Do you follow?”
I told him that I did.
“Good. Then you understand: to achieve true apotheosis, I must cast aside the shackles of flesh and blood–become a being of pure spirit, a creature of the Astral Realm.”
“You mean to die.”
“Quite on the contrary. No mortal before me has spent a thousand years meditating on the cosmos, unraveling the secrets of the Astral Plane, alongside the innermost contours of their own subjective self. No, my body may perish, but my soul… my soul will endure, drinking from wellsprings which even the sages cannot dream of.”
I cast my eyes back towards the parchment, thinking about that noxious brew. “It still seems a bit much. If you wished so badly to die, I’d have thought a vial of arsenic would suffice.”
“Alas, I am more than a little difficult to kill. Given the enchantments I’ve layered upon my flesh and the potions I’ve imbibed, all the spells and secrets I stole from Faerie all those many years ago–they’ll require extraordinary measures to unravel.”
“It will be torture. Drinking such a brew.”
He clapped my shoulder, sharing a friendly smile. “As I am well aware. But all achievements require sacrifice, and the greatest of triumphs carry the heaviest costs. Will you help me?”
I looked upon his old and weathered face, at his gnarled hand as it gripped my shoulder. My skin was itching and my Adam’s Apple was lodged in my throat.
“It just–it seems like so much madness,” I said.
“And yet I ask this of you all the same. Will you help me?”
In that moment, I felt as if I was under a fever. As if I was walking through a desert beneath a blazing sun, with only a handful of drops in my waterskin. In all my years as servant and student to the great magician, he’d never asked much of his lone apprentice. But now he asked for my help in what seemed like madness to my ears–and yet, by the rules that governed the relationship between servant and master, by the obligations shared and favors owed, duty and reciprocity dictated I agree.
He was master and I apprentice. Sophi Undying and the humble Corvus.
I said yes, and he grinned, embracing me like a father with his son.
“I knew I could count on you,” he said, kissing me on each cheek.
In that moment I loathed him, almost as much as I loathed myself.
So we began our noble work. We did a complete inventory of his alchemical stores, and as I compiled lists and figures, Sophi Undying disappeared into his lab. He mixed compounds and components with mortar and pestle, checking their alchemical interactions, writing notes and observations on scraps of parchment. He read through the thoughts and musings of great sages who’d lived and died centuries or millennia long ago. He consulted tomes on alchemy and treatises on the Astral Plane, to determine which components might be substituted for a better (or more practical) alternative, and which ones might be excised altogether, and which ones his project incontrovertibly required.
As the days marched on, frequent were the times he cast me out from the Tower to make new acquisitions. Then I’d drive out in his carriage, searching my way through forests and beaches and caves, wandering cities near and distant, inspecting markets and apothecaries, striding forth with my pockets weighed down with gold. In a matter of weeks, my master’s stores were filled. Then the books were closed and put back on their shelves while the cauldron was set on the fire.
We were ready to proceed.
We began by mixing water with milk, and into that broth we sprinkled leaves of asphodel, thyme, and peppermint. Next came the more powerful ingredients–the kind that could be used to break enchantments and curses, hurtful and helpful alike. We threw in powdered secretions of rare beetles and wasps, mixed with the grounded hoof of a unicorn deceased. We added the wings of a pixie and one strand of hair from a dryad’s head. Then into the brew went the mushrooms freshly picked, at the peak of their ripeness and hallucinogenic power. The mixture boiled and bubbled on the fire. It made for a brownish sludge. Here we stopped, for only a moment, as Sophi Undying leaned over the mixture, giving it a whiff.
His hand settled on my shoulder. “You’ve done well,” he said, before he pulled out the last of the vials. They came filled with the venoms of cobras and asps, along with arsenic and cyanide just for good measure. He smiled grimly at me. “Great magics require an abundance of preparation. Apotheosis cannot be achieved through mere half measure.” Then he uncorked the vials and poured their contents into the brew, bubbling and steaming and promising death.
I tugged on his sleeve as he stared over the cauldron. He looked like a starving man faced with a decadent feast.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said.
My master turned his head to look upon me. I saw pity and disappointment in his regard. “All my life I have worked for this moment. Dreamed of it. So many centuries unraveling these secrets, seeking to delve so much deeper than any wizard before me.” He took up his ladle, dipping it into that noxious mix. “For this I risked the anger of the elves, and stole the secrets of the Elf Queen herself.”
“You’ll die.”
He laughed, barking and half-mad, and in that moment, as I looked at him, I wondered if he’d ever been truly sane to begin with.
“Die? Not at all. I will transcend the limitations of the flesh altogether, become a being of unbound spirit, a creature of magic akin to the gods.”
He bent his head over the cauldron and set the ladle to his lips. He blanched when the liquid touched his tongue and forced himself to swallow. He coughed, loud and violent, as if he’d just poured a glassful of hard alcohol down his throat. He shuddered, falling backwards, struggling to find the nearest chair. His limbs were shaky and weak, as all his strength and vigor fled out from his body. New wrinkles crawled across his skin and his breathing grew raspy. Soon he was gasping for air. He looked up at me with hollowed eyes in an old man’s face. He resembled, at last, the Methuselah he’d always been in truth.
He was looking towards me but he did not seem to see me. He was looking past me–looking past me over my shoulder. I assumed it was the mushrooms beguiling his brain, while those poisons and venoms shut down his body one system at a time. His hand was outstretched and trembling, grasping out towards nothing, and his face was haunted, filled with sorrow and terror.
“No,” he whispered, reaching out towards that space behind me. For a brief moment, I felt the phantom sensation of a feminine hand brush against my back. Tears fell from his aged eyes, and his voice was little more than a croak. I had to strain to hear his last utterance. He whispered a name, then laughed miserably as the last of his life blew out from his lungs.
It was an unworthy death for so great a man, whose life had been the subject of legend and song.
I sent out letters, to his former students and colleagues among the mighty of the world, relating the news of Sophi’s passing. Over the next few weeks, they arrived at the Tower, to share their respects and admiration, to gather for the wake. There arrived great sages from the deserts and magicians who served in the courts of kings; there were grandmasters and scholars from universities and schools, along with poets and minstrels seeking new stories to tell. They scattered themselves through my master’s halls, in small pockets of fraternity, often with plates and glasses held in hand. And all the while, I wandered the floor, inserting myself in their varied conversations, taking up the formalities which hosting entails.
A hand reached out to tap my shoulder. I spun around to find a young woman, holding a wineglass in her hand. Her eyes were as mirrors–they were the kind of eyes in which you could spy your own reflection staring back at you–and her hair was as spun gold. Her teeth were white as ivory and her ears were so ever slightly pointed.
“You may call me Samira,” she said, holding out her hand for me to kiss. My mouth was dry while my palms were moist. I felt much like a drunkard in that moment, though I had yet to partake of any drink. I recalled my Master’s last dying utterance. A name roared like thunder through the quiet of my mind.“Samira,” he had said, as the life was fading from his eyes.
Samira’s rose-colored lips quirked into a smile as she took a sip of wine. “You were with Sophi when he died, yes? Your master and I have much history with one another. I was quite irked, you know–I would have thought I’d have deigned an invitation. Of course, I took the liberty of rectifying things myself.”
My eyes darted furtively across the hall, towards all those wizards and sages milling about the premises. None paid us any heed.
“They can’t see us,” the Elf Queen said. “It’s a simple trick of perception. They might as well be deaf and blind, where the two of us are concerned.”
She held out the crook of her arm. I took it, as she led me towards the tables stacked with refreshments. We ghosted our way past the milling crowds, through scattered pockets of conversation. Not a single guest noticed our comings and goings.
“It’s a pleasant little gathering you’ve put together,” Samira said, stacking up the cheeses on her plate. “I do think Sophi would approve.”
I observed her warily, watching as she picked at her assortment of cheeses, and I felt much like a hapless rabbit suddenly asked to entertain the company of a hungry, black-eyed dog. I wanted so desperately to ask why she had come, and yet I found I could not speak. I could barely even breathe.
She answered my unspoken question, setting her plate back down on the table, swirling her wine glass around in the air. “Is it so surprising that I’d wish to pay my respects to an old friend? You know, I’ve waited near a thousand years for this day to arrive.” Casually, in a conversational manner, the Elf Queen added, “He died in torment, if I recall.” But even as she spoke those words, something in her expression shifted and darkened, turning viciously intense. “Tell me of his death,” the Elf Queen commanded, taking a sip from her glass. Her eyes were like magnets. I could not avert my gaze. “Recall for me the agony of Sophi Undying, broken and weeping upon the floor.”
Then I stared at the Elf Queen–she who could walk through rooms unnoticed–while my master’s last moments replayed across my mind. He’d been looking over my shoulder, not at me but behind me. I recalled the phantom feeling of a woman’s hand against my back.
“You were there,” I said. “When my master died.”
The Elf Queen giggled in reply. She sounded innocent and wicked both at once–in the manner that only the truly capricious can be.
“Yes,” she said. “I was. His death was exquisite. The finest entertainment I’ve had in a great many years.”
“Why?”
“Because he bested me,” she said. Her voice was severe and her body tense and trembling. “Bested and humiliated me in front of all my subjects, and stole away the secrets the elves hold dear. Tell me, were you in my situation, would you be satisfied to let him live?”
She set her hand on my shoulder, even as she continued speaking, not interested in hearing my reply. “Of course, you would not. It would not do, you understand. But I can be patient. I can wait a thousand years, biding my time–spying my enemy from the Astral Plane. Spying on him and speaking with him, giving him answers to questions he was foolish to ask. For someone who thought he was so wise, he really knew little to nothing at all.”
She laughed as she finished the last of her wine, her anger banished swiftly as a summer storm. Her cheeks were flushed with mirth while her golden curls were bouncing at her shoulders. She took up her plate and, with a dancer’s grace, she ambled her way across the room. Before my very eyes, she vanished in the throng. It was as if she’d never been there at all.
I cursed beneath my breath and stepped out of the room, seeking a moment of peace and quiet. I collapsed upon the nearest bench. I bowed my head and shut my eyes. Scorched behind my eyelids, Samira was smiling, holding a wineglass to her upturned lips. I smiled with her, a smile as bitter as the poison my master had taken.
These words, once spoken, echoed through my mind…
Never mess with elves.
They don’t take losing lightly.
©May 2022, S. Cameron David
S. Cameron David is a speculative fiction writer living in New York state. He can be found online at https://scamerondavid.wordpress.com/. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.