Episode Nine: In The Master’s Grip
Hamar made up his mind to form his own conclusions and learn his lessons even faster. But in every class he enlarged his plan to one day outsmart Aktiarh, and at least for awhile, before his years of long seclusion, resurface in daylight in Al Musar to walk through the town as if he owned it – mightier than the Chief Priest of Marduk or whatever big man ran things then.
He imagined it, him being twenty, free of rules, astounding them all, sending demons to chase every egg-seller who scared thieving orphans. That the Master had not chosen to exert all his powers in the same ways seemed like one more mystery that time might reveal, or was probably what befit the sober mind of adults, it didn’t concern Hamar at fifteen, – so many subtleties at work in the Priest’s handling of him.
A month after the spinning ordeal, High Priest Aktiarh entered Hamar’s trance class and with a word cancelled all trances, halting the lesson. Aktiarh graciously apologized to the teacher, announcing to them that Hamar would not be continuing the assignment but would now be taken into the Royal Archives where he would be taught the Highest True Names. The class sat stunned, the teacher gasping, “Most Noble!”
To learn from the book of Highest True Names was reserved for the elder Conjurors, and even then for only a few after decades of noteworthy achievement. To know the true name of a thing gave power to forever call it up at will, the name like a box containing all that was in it, and all conjurors guarded their own school’s book of names, but the special names in the Academy’s sacred book of Highest Names were the primordial ones, – mightier than all others. As Hamar arose to join him, the last of his recent bare-bottomed fame was suitably dropped from his schoolmates’ minds.
In the Archives the Red Priest told him to sit next to him on a rug as he unrolled an ancient scroll. On it, as a preliminary, he began showing Hamar the Priestly line, the ancient ancestry of the majic master race, and watched him for his reaction.
Inked across the scroll were drawings like ornate trees, the limbs labelled with unpronounceable names. “You come from this line,” the Red Priest said. Hamar tried to follow the sense of the lineage, but couldn’t see any names of relatives he recognised.
“This is not your human bloodline, Hamar. It follows the spirit-line you have in you. Each Master in the line inherits from the one before him.” Aktiarh furled the scroll and rose to put it back in its case. When Hamar started to haul himself up to join him, Aktiarh’s cold stare dropped him back down.
With great presence Aktiarh lowered himself down in front of him. “Listen to me, young man. What you are set to learn is beyond that of anyone else in this academy. I am not talking of the High True Names, – I said that for secrecy’s sake, you will learn those soon enough. No, what your preparation is for, all that you will be shown, – as you now know – is for enabling you to handle the Great Death. It is far more than you or anyone else understands!” He leaned forward to peer deep into Hamar’s eyes.
“The continuation of all that we know, all that we are, depends on, – you. The Master’s supreme knowledge must be passed on just before he exits, and you must have understandings that will enable you to grasp the meanings of the words in those scrolls, – and the strength to handle the powers he imparts.”
Hamar’s eyes were fixed on him as the Priest again got to his feet. Aktiarh clearly was not comfortable with this level of revelation.
He paced slowly. “Death is not so easy for a Master, – not The Grand Death.
It isn’t the dying that’s difficult.” He turned to regard Hamar. “The Master can manage recovery from death by fire, by drowning, by strangulation, just as you will be able to do before long. No. The difficulty is that this will be the final death. No returning possible!
He will go beyond earthly death of soul, out of his astral body, to attain the highest level beyond all that we know, into a realm unseen or heard of, so high as to be unimaginable to any of us! For a Master, the final severance from all he ever was, is eternal, – on into an extreme realm of power we cannot even imagine.”
He faced Hamar squarely. “He cannot do it by himself. It requires assistance, a kind of midwifing only a fellow Master Majician can do. Only the apprentice Master at the peak of his strengths and skills can conduct the despatching ceremony, or, more importantly, can be trusted to do it.” His face was more grim than Hamar had ever seen it.
“The lesser deaths are for witch doctors to perform, – or adepts, yogis; that kind of death is undone in days. But the Master’s death is of a different order.” He moved along looking at the line of sacred scrolls that were nevertheless too ordinary, too limited for this. “That day will mean…”, he flashed around to the boy, “warfare!
Attacks from the Master’s worst enemies will have to be warded off as he exits! Enemy curses at that moment can cause everlasting damnation! High spells exist which they can use to sever him from all control so he’ll stay sailing forever into dead existence.”
“He has enemies?” said Hamar. The idea astounded him.
“My dear Hamar,” Aktiarh said with a wry smile, “all majicians have enemies. Majic is not a realm for friends! In matters of life and death, and highest power, each practitioner is ultimately on their own, – going up against all else.”
Aktiarh slowly walked on, choosing his words. “A Master must not be secretly heard when using the spells; other great men of majics most certainly will try every trick they can to get them, even going out-of-body to attend the process, inhabiting insects on the wall or sending in special demons to steal his knowledge as he’s using it.
He must also be perfectly protected and undisturbed as he’s bestowing all his lifetime’s abilities into the next in line. His concentration has to be exquisitely focused for that.
Somehow,” his eyebrows lifted in awe, “the Master must see to this while at the same time losing all, leaving it behind, – yet simultaneously using everything he’s amassed within his lifetime in order to accomplish it. And both of you gaining more,” he mused to himself at the impossible demand of the task.
“Once all is in place, the Royal Mystes attending him will be able to take on the final revelation of the warfare as he reads of it; nothing must interrupt the flow of the final instructions and the transfer of powers for carrying it out. After that, the Master’s transit through death must be smooth, his concentration absolutely unbroken as he transforms into what lies ahead.”
He looked down. “I can’t tell you what that will entail. It’s not something I know. Nor do any who aren’t Masters. To take the force of all he’ll be putting into you, and do the warfare at the same time…” he shook his head, “…even you won’t be able to do it unless you’re bonded together in soul by then. Once you’re apprenticed to him you’ll seal yourselves for the great work!”
So, Masters never shared the supreme ritual with others while they yet ruled, Hamar saw the sense of it. Whatever this warfare was, the secret skills of it meant that even the biggest attack against a Majician wouldn’t succeed at the end. And conversely, the special Grand midwifery meant that no black curse on earth, no death spell or grand attack afterwards mattered at all during the lifetime of the heir who remained behind. This knowledge was indeed the ultimate ability the Academy could give, – a power over everything of earth!
Hamar felt a burning on his body as if he was being fiercely stared into. He gasped in the heat of it and reeled to one side, looking anxiously to the Priest. Across from him Aktiarh swayed against the wall before pleading out, “Master!,” and then he too crumpled all the way to the floor!
Waves of energy hummed over them and the many scroll jars rattled on the shelves. The acrid smell of burning flooded the room. Then the walls began disappearing as the place dimmed with a grey smoke that kept getting darker! It got thicker and denser till they couldn’t see anything, could hardly breathe because of the stench! After unbearable minutes the force finally died down and the lamplight grew brighter than the smoke, the room coming back into view.
They coughed in fits as they lay there. Hamar gradually braced himself into sitting up.
The Red Priest, too, lifted himself slowly as if his robes were too great a weight for his depleted body, and he staggered to stand up straight. He didn’t look at Hamar still there on the floor. When he spoke it was as if he was talking into the far wall, – and the voice wasn’t his!
It growled, a powerful voice full of menace! “YOU, SON OF THE EARTH! HARKEN WELL! NOW YOU WILL BE READIED. IT BEGINS! NOW THE YEARS COME!
YOU, HAMAR MI-SHA BALTSHAZAR, ARE THE CHOSEN WARRIOR!
Aktiarh! THIS I COMMAND: LET HIM SEE THE EWEH!”
The Master’s presence suddenly left Aktiarh and he gripped a shelf with both hands as his body slumped. Then the pressure left the room altogether, in the light the walls seeming to step back to the sides.
Aktiarh groggily turned his head toward Hamar. “The Eweh,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and breathed deep as he forced himself to stand straighter. In a few more seconds he was again chief tutor, but a spent one, as he turned around.
“Tomorrow, Majus Minor. You will go there tomorrow.” He seemed to be looking at something far away. “It starts. You will see something of death ritual. Get your sleep.” As Hamar left the Archive the boy couldn’t tell if it was weariness or sadness that made Aktiarh turn his face back to the wall.
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