"Pity If you find yourself there again someday would you mind keeping an eye out for it?" Gwurm chuckled.
Newt bristled at the notion.
"Three trials left," he remarked. "Which one was that anyway? Combat, I imagine."
"It might have been magic," I replied. "Chimera are magical. Or it might have been peril. Chimera are monsters. And it might have been strength, a test of physical might."
Newt sighed. "Don't you know?"
I merely looked onward enigmatically.
"Fine. Three trials left in any case. When is the next one?"
I kept staring into the distance.
"You don't know. Just admit it."
"It doesn't really matter what I know and what I don't. Things will progress in their own way."
"Meaning you don't know."
I wasn't about to admit anything. No one but Newt expected me to, which was precisely why I didn't. I enjoyed tormenting my familiar as much as anyone. Well, perhaps not as much as Gwurm.
Several hours upstream, the River suggested we part company because it no longer knew anything about our quest except that traveling north seemed the right thing to do. Newt couldn't help but point out that we'd been going north before following the River, but quests were traditionally filled with detours. This annoyed him, but so many things did.
"Do you at least have some idea what this sorcerer is up to?" he asked.
I closed my eyes and lowered my head. "I have seen a crush of phantasmal goblings sweeping across the world, cleansing it of all genuine flesh. And in its place, another world has been made. A world of shadows and glass. A perfect but hollow reproduction."
"You make it sound as if it has already come to pass."
"Perhaps it already has." For the first time, I understood what Ghastly Edna had meant by the past that was yet to be. Time was neither now or later, then or after. Time simply was. Tomorrow was found by walking the hours, one minute at a time. None could know for certain what waited farther down the path, not even the magic. The only way to learn was to make the journey.
"But why would anyone want to do that? Destroy the world just to remake it?"
"Sorcery is illusion. It's potent, but never quite real. But in a world of phantoms, illusion is reality."
"Madness," Wyst said.
"Magic and madness often walk together, and sorcerers have always been especially prone. Theirs is an art that blurs reality and illusion, and most eventually stop noticing the difference."
"Can he do it?" Newt said.
"Where great magic is concerned, anything is possible. But in this instance, I wouldn't worry much. The world is not so delicate. If we fail in our quest, then most likely, someone somewhere will stop him."
Newt was disappointed. He wanted to be the world's savior. It would only confirm what the demon in him already knew: that the universe existed only for his glory. This wasn't true, but I offered him a nugget of self-importance.
"We are the first though, and if we fall short, there will be much more death and suffering before his plan is ended."
Newt would have grinned from ear to ear if he'd had ears. He was now the center of the world. Rather, he had always been, and I'd merely confirmed it. He was content to indulge in his hero fantasies. Without doubt, he imagined himself a sorcerer slayer. The rest of us were mere accessories to his destiny, which was really my destiny. He was enjoying himself, so I didn't point that out.
Northward, the forest thinned to a sparse wood, then a grassy field, then hilly plains. I hardly noticed. Wyst of the West occupied my perceptions. Newt may have been the center of his own universe, but the White Knight was the center of mine. I understood little of love, but I thought this normal. The obsession of fresh love. Time would soften its edge to something more manageable. I could only hold it in check by forcing myself to think of other things. I closed my eyes, lowered my head, and muttered nonsense under my breath. Ghastly Edna had often said, "Everyone talks to themselves, but if they truly wanted to learn anything, they would listen. A one-sided conversation rarely does anyone any good."
So I talked, and I listened, though not very well with Wyst so near. Even with my eyes closed, I could see his pleasing face, those dark eyes, those lean shoulders, delectable ears. I could smell his warm breath and feel my fingers running across the short hair atop his head. I could still taste his skin on my lips. My lust was stronger than ever. As was my appetite.
"You know what must be," I whispered.
I glanced at Wyst. He was watching me. Perhaps he had been the whole time. Neither of us turned away. We just stared into each other's eyes. And then, at the exact same moment, we smiled. I would have kissed him or bit off his soft, chewy lips if I'd been close enough. My body spoke to me in a hundred wordless ways, and I knew what I would do . . . what I must do.
I lowered my eyes from Wyst and pushed my lust aside. The ravenous beast was content to lick its lips in anticipation of the meal it knew was coming.
Newt's hero fantasies ceased being distracting. "This sorcerer, does he really have enough power to do that shells and darkness in your vision?"
"Glass and shadows," I corrected. "Potentially, yes."
Newt whistled. "He must be one of the greatest sorcerers alive then."
"He is, I believe, an Incarnate."
Newt was so taken aback that he slipped from my lap and fell to the ground. He hopped to his feet. "An Incarnate! You didn't say anything about an Incarnate!"
"You didn't ask."
There are many who study the ways of magic, and a select few have the talent to be great. Of these elite, there are an even smaller group who have the power to shape history, to alter the world (and sometimes even the universe) in ways that are never forgotten. To become legends that will live until the end of time.
And then, there are the Incarnates. They are magic given flesh. Or flesh given magic, depending on how one looks upon such things. There is only ever one upon the world, and in whatever craft of magic they practice, they are unequaled. Strangely, they were a mixed lot. Many never accomplish anything of great note. Such power doesn't always go to those who have a desire to decimate kingdoms or better the world. The magic chooses its Incarnates by its own reasons, and none are privy to those reasons.
Ghastly Edna had mused on occasion that Nasty Larry might have been an Incarnate. If so, I was all his awesome wizardly might in one accursed form, but I was not an Incarnate.
Gwurm picked Newt up and deposited him on my lap. "A sorcerer Incarnate," my familiar said. "Then it can only be one man."
"Soulless Gustav," said Gwurm.
I hadn't heard the name before, but I didn't need to ask. I only had to listen.
Newt's eyes grew wide and fearful. "Not so loud. He'll hear you."
"That's just a fairy story."
"No, it's not. I knew someone who knew someone who said His name and attracted His attention." Newt spoke with hushed reverence. Apparently, even pronouns weren't safe enough distance from Soulless Gustav.
"And what happened to this friend of a friend?" Gwurm asked.
"What do you think happened? The poor bastard died. Miserably, I might add. His tongue swelled up. His skin turned to maggots. His heart jumped from his chest, grew arms, and beat him to death."
"That is horrible," I agreed.
"Superstitious nonsense," Wyst remarked.
"No it's not!" Newt nodded at me. "Tell them. Tell them an Incarnate can do that."
"I suppose it is possible," I said. "Of course, it's also possible his heart was upset with him for reasons all its own."
Both Wyst and Gwurm laughed. Penelope shook with her own silent giggling.
"I wasn't aware you had so many friends," I said.
"I wasn't always a familiar, or just a duck. There's more to my past than you'll ever know."