If word had reached Roger of his acceptance earlier in the year he might have had more of a chance to prepare for his upcoming tuition. As it was, upon his arrival he had had scant days to both adjust to his new surroundings and then further ready himself for an education in the mystical arts. At 22 years of age, he had long since left his former studies, and as a young bachelor of a well-situated family there were certain expectations. Thus it had been a blessing in more ways than one to receive the invite. It was a potential escape, from a life of tedium and mediocrity among the merchants and nobility, for what was one of the most prestigious institutes in the world, and he had had little choice but to accept even at such short notice.
The Oclenarry college of sorcery was however secretive in every sense of the word. Within an ancient battlement wall, amidst forests which only a single road led into or out of, lay an arrangement of audacious buildings that had lasted out the years - doubtless in no part due to some mystical aid. Outside of its existence, very little about it was known to those who had never been there outside of rumour, and that seemed precisely how the college preferred it remained. Of course, since his arrival, much of what rumour had been filling in for him over the years had been swiftly replaced by the more grounded facts of reality.
It was, primarily, a college of learning; not too much unlike any other. The dormitories were small, but cosy, with a bed and not much else. The hallways were filled with the blind chatter of eager learners. Paper was, as anywhere else, always both in short supply and yet strewn everywhere. Students wore robes, not too dissimilar to those worn by any prospective natural philosopher on any other campus, albeit a bit more drab. Indeed, were it not for the subject matter being taught, it could be confused for any other institute of higher learning in the lands.
Of course, magical obscurantism had had the effect of convincing some that magic did not exist. To them, the Oclennary college was a charlatan ruse, a place to con rich families out of a healthy tuition fee. Perhaps, some gestured, it may rather be teaching the methods by which to trick others out of their money - a none too flattering rumour that was thankfully rare.
While the rumours of the school had turned out to be fantasy, as it had transpired, sorcery was very real. However the plain truth of it was that while undoubtedly the product of study, ultimately the measure of one’s abilities was dictated by one’s own potential. While kinder professors would make platitudes about magical power being the measure of one’s own heart, the will to change the world, there was no denying that there was an inherent limit set by one’s own strength.
Or rather, one’s own weakness.
It was that notion that had, despite his struggling studies, led Roger to spend hours poring over ancient texts and scrolls within the library. Not the library most frequented by students, however, but rather the ancient library which lay beneath the College grounds, in a none-too-often visited dungeon. After classes, after a meal, he would be there tracing his way through books, tomes and more. By then most students had returned to their dorms to practise, study or sleep - or as seemed to be more often the case to screw each other senseless, if the noise was anything to go by.
Neither the solace nor lack of involvement in those extra curricular activities had troubled him over much. Indeed Roger had never too keenly felt isolation; perfectly comfortable in his own company. Of course, with regards to the other kind of ‘companionship’ his fellow young scholars seemingly spent the majority of their free time pursuing, he felt no similar earthly draw. He just didn’t feel attraction in the same way most of his peers seemed to.
Not to say he didn’t find some of his fellow students beautiful, of course. There were no shortage of girls on campus who he found very pleasing to the eye. Yet even if his desire to greaten his power - or overcome what he saw as his own weaknesses - had not been so all-encompassing, he would not have been similarly inclined. His weakness was not a weakness of the flesh… Well, perhaps it was, just not one of pursuing flesh. He was well aware of the weakness of his own. Forays into the world of sensuality had swiftly made clear his own supreme sensitivity, and a yearning for delicate touch as a result.
Rather then he did not feel much of an interest in the flesh of others, not in the conventional sense. He still had yearnings though. While going to and fro during the day, it was impossible not to notice when some female students would remove their shoes from their feet and relax them in the air. Dangling, tantalisingly, he would try not to stare. As if to taunt him, more and more as the summer wore on fresh and naked feet would cloud his view and occupy a greater proportion of his solitary thoughts.
Despite these dangling distractions, and despite feeling himself falling behind in both his studies and his own mind, he felt the call of something far stronger. Something calling to him, rather, amidst the bookshelves. He had come to feel more comfortable down there in the dungeon library, away from the distractions above. Between dusty tomes and crumbling scrolls, he was certain it was there somewhere… whatever it was.
*****
The stone kept the dungeons cold. Dark. Occasionally he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, a shadow in the candlelight that seemed to shift beyond the flicker of the flame. As long nights wore on, he could swear he could smell something on the still air. Something sweet, yet tannic, as if someone had just walked through the area with a vibrant scent about them. At first he had ignored it, but then began to follow it when he caught the scent. Eventually, he would find a book, or a scroll, or sheet of parchment that seemed to hint at something he had not yet discovered.
Something was waiting for him, it seemed, under the cool stonework. Each tome presented only bare clues, and the elusive secret he sought seemed only to taunt him, flaunting the barest hints of… well, he wasn’t sure what. The elusive, almost ephemeral promise of great power was all he could discern, enough to overcome any weakness he felt within himself, yet no author gave any idea of how it was to be achieved.
Roger had almost given up hope until, as the candle had burned to almost nothing and he was close to falling asleep in his own arms at an ageing wooden desk - he heard it. A whisper. At first he barely lifted his head, unsure it was anything other than something he had imagined - something from his fast approaching dreams crossing over as he neared unconsciousness.
Then he heard it again, and lifted his head deliberately now.
‘Roger’.
“Hello?” he asked, immediately, yet was met with no answer in the dimming light.
Frowning, certain someone was down there trying to play a trick on him, he widened his tiring eyes and opened his ears, tilting his head as if to better hear the delicate voice.
‘Roger’.
There was no doubt now, he hadn’t imagined it. It was quiet enough, though, that he could gain no bearing on its direction. Hooking a finger through the now warm metal of the candlestick, the wick having worn to a stub, he tilted it forward to gain what little light he could as the flame barely lifted above the rim.
Moving between shelves, he was used to the library being dim and quiet, but never quite like this. The shadows seemed to stretch out, as if reaching for him, and the air seemed colder than usual and awfully still. His breath fogged in front of him as he leaned forward, bringing the sputtering candle a little closer to him for warmth.
As the whisper repeated again, the faintest bit louder now, he rounded one shelf, then another. There was little rhyme nor reason to the dungeon library, its tomes of knowledge and thus their storage having been compiled over centuries. It was more a repository for storage now than any reference. The more well-used literature was kept close to the entrance, yet the further one strayed, the older the woodwork and paper became.
Soon he began to grow concerned that if he strayed too far, past areas he was now overly familiar with, he might get lost and not be able to find his way back for hours. Yet the voice came again… and he felt deep within that this was important. His fears ebbed as his curiosity grew. Somehow, this was what he had been searching for, even if he didn’t yet know what it was.
For minutes he stalked, soundlessly, over cobbles and paved stones which had cracked with age. Whenever he paused, unsure where to go, the voice would return.
‘Roger’.
Sometimes it came from behind him, and he would double back. On one occasion it sounded quite close, and he sped up a little as if to catch up to it, yet when he reached where he had thought it came from the spot was departed, with no sign of anyone having been there.
“Roger.”
The voice spoke as if directly into his ear, and he dropped the candlestick in fright, the gout of flame briefly illuminating his surroundings… before plunging him into darkness. In that instant he could have sworn he saw a face inches from his own.
As his panic subsided, it was replaced by irritance, as now he couldn’t even see where he was going let alone find his way back. Yet as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, it transpired that the gloom was ever so faintly lit. A short step away was a small staircase he hadn’t seen, the stonework having blended together under his candlelight. Yet now in total darkness a pale, red light seemed to glow from it, just enough that it was all he could make out in the dark.
Roger settled himself, and straightened upright in spite of his trepidation - unwilling to feel his way back in the dark for hours without at least seeing what he came here to see. Bracing against the walls of the staircase, he gently stepped down, wincing as every delicate footstep created a comparatively deafening echo in the confined space.
Below he found an ancient bricked alcove which, at length, he stepped into. Within, it was eerily empty, save for a solitary wooden podium. Atop it rested a single, black leather bound tome. Roger felt himself reaching out for it before he even realised what he was doing, and the moment his fingertips grazed the leather… the light was gone.
*****
Roger emerged into the morning light weary and shielding his eyes from the rising sun. How long had he been lost down there? He knew it must have been hours feeling his way back to the island of light created by the candles which illuminated the sole known entryway into or out of the dungeon library.
Clutched under his arm was his prize. A black tome within which lay… well, without light, he hadn’t even been able to tell until now. He eyed it now and found it rather… plain. Drab. Faded black bindings and a frayed edge, it bore no title nor index. Running his hand across the surface he couldn’t even feel any indentation to indicate it had ever been stamped with writing at all. Reluctantly, he clutched it back beneath his arm and headed back to his dormitory room.
It was far too late, or early he supposed, to go to sleep now. He would simply push through the next day and nap later on if he needed to. All the while, subtle curiosity tugged at him as he marched through Oclennary college’s winding paths between overhanging stonework, and while the book wasn’t much to look at, he resolved that whatever it was he would avail himself of its knowledge before the day’s end. If what he sought could not be found within, then Roger had decided he would end his endeavour and spend the rest of his ample free time on trying to catch up in his studies.
This tome would either grant him the power to overcome his weaknesses… or it would simply be the culmination of endless wasted efforts. Those were the darker thoughts occupying him as he walked straight into someone.
“Oh! Sorry!” He exclaimed, making to reach out for them but then clasping his arm back in alarm as he nearly dropped the book.
“It’s okay,” the figure announced, steadying themselves. “Oh Roger!” She added, and chuckled softly, patting him on the shoulder.
“Sorry, Cassandra,” he said, a little quieter. Cassandra, and another girl, Victoria, stood just apart from him. Cassandra was one of the few students he had warmed up to since arriving, yet he hadn’t had much time to really get to know her, let alone Victoria who he had only met in passing.
“In a rush?” The girl asked, brushing herself off as she leaned to one side to not too subtly spy on the book tucked under his arm, at which he slightly turned away to disguise it.
“No, um, just a long night. I wasn’t looking where I was going, sorry!” He apologised again, and sidestepped Cassandra with a smile, walking backwards and nearly stumbling once more before speeding off again. He really would have liked to chat to her given any other circumstances, but he simply couldn’t wait any longer. Something within this book had been calling to him for days…
*****
As he closed his door behind him, ensuring he hadn’t been followed, Roger set the book upon his reading table and delicately prised it open. For an hour he read, and grew more and more morose as he did so. The book seemed to be nothing more than an index of other works, occasionally commenting on the writings of a learned wizard or a respected practitioner. In time, he lost hope, and sank back into his chair as it creaked beneath him on cold flagstone. Slowly he rocked back and forth, letting the chair rest on just two feet, as he considered the true extent of his failure.
“Read between the lines.”
His arms whirled in circles as he rocked back and gravity pulled him inexorably to the floor. Dazed by the fall, he took a few moments to get his breath back. The book had fallen with him and now lay open upon his chest
With blurry vision, he stared as the words seemed to swim in his view, until… ever so faintly, he could see something. Words that hadn’t been there before. Coming to his feet, he held the book to the light, and they were gone. Puzzled, he thought perhaps he had just been seeing things given all the wind had been knocked from him when he hit the floor. Yet he had a thought. Experimentally, he lowered the book to the ground, out of the light from his window. For a moment he felt foolish when nothing happened, but then faintly he thought he could see the outline of a letter between the lines of text.
He shut the window, drew the curtains, and looked back at the book resting on the floor. A faint glimmer now rose from it, and a few letters seemed visible. Excitedly, he leapt into his bed and drew the blanket over him to block out as much light as he could. Then he cursed himself… how could he read it with no light at all!?
Only then did the letters make themselves visible. Glowing faintly, just bright enough to be read, were lines that instantly got his attention. He read through the page, then the next. When he turned the page over it continued, yet when he flipped back a few pages it felt as if he were continuing where he had left off. No matter where he looked he found what he had been looking for all this time.
*****
It took him the better part of a day, during which he missed two lectures he had been otherwise quite looking forward to, but his patience paid off. He had pieced it together.
It was a ritual. A summoning ritual. A ritual to summon… a demon.
When he had finally understood what the pages had been telling him, he swallowed at the gravity of it all. Staring at the tome, now folded shut on his lectern, it seemed to radiate a dark aura which he hadn’t felt before. Perhaps he had simply been too caught up in excitement, but it was unmistakable now.
It all slotted into place. The hints, the clues. Now he knew what all those writers had been referring to, in subtle ways, and it made much more sense. Phrasing and wording that had seemed awkward or difficult to parse now spoke more clearly. That was that, then. Some dark magic ritual of summoning was what the clues had led him to. Something no weak minded person would ever attempt, no matter the need.
Of course… he was not so weak minded. Quite the contrary, in stark contrast to his weak flesh - much as he hated to acknowledge it - he knew he had a keen mind. He eyed the piles of notes he had taken for weeks in long study in the library, the product of that very mental acuity. Now it all made sense, what those tomes had been describing. The precautions they had advised… and the warnings given.
He knew he shouldn’t. Couldn’t. No matter how tempting.
*****
It took him a few hours to assemble everything he needed, and by the time he was finally done, the sun had set once more. His dorm was at the end of the hall, and at the edge of the building. There were no classes the next day, so most students wouldn’t be back for a while. They were likely enjoying themselves erstwhile. and many had likely made their way to the pub.
Roger, however, had far grander plans. Meticulously he prepared his dorm room. Ordinarily he might have taken a few days to prepare himself, but he reasoned that he had already done more study on this subject - albeit unwittingly - than any other living sorcerer, prospective or accomplished. He had, he realised, been preparing for this moment his entire life…
Indeed, he was probably better prepared now than he ever would be.
Precaution after precaution was in order, though. When some writers contradicted each other, or otherwise discredited one another, he simply reasoned the safest bet would be to undertake all of their instructions at once to the best of his ability. A circle of chalk, surrounded by salt, candles of all shapes and sizes in all configurations. If symbols had to overlap he would do so, or squeeze them in. One way or another they would be correct.
Only when he was certain he was as prepared as he could be did he begin the ritual.
He inscribed the runes within the circle in chalk, and began to speak. It was far simpler than he imagined a dark ritual would have been, but then, he reasoned, so had a college for teaching magic turned out to be far less pretentious than his life of hearing rumours had led him to believe until he arrived. Magic, true magic, was about discerning reality so that one could control reality. To know the rules so that one could bend them as much as was possible, with as much strength as one had.
Strength. Weakness. To abolish one he would attain the other.
“Siloba senkew musnoc sunert.” He droned, ultimately uncertain if anything would happen. He spoke words in a tongue he didn’t know, seated at the edge of the salt circle, when at last he saw one of many candles flicker out. He paid it no mind until another next to it did as well. Considering the odds that of dozens of candles by each other only those two went out, he thought maybe there was a draft. A third, and a fourth, proceeding clockwise around him, sputtered out in turn. As he turned, he saw the candles flickering out all around him, until only those on the edges of the circle remained lit.
Promising, if perhaps a little unnerving, thus he continued.
A red glow now rose from the circle, the only light in a dim room other than candlelight. The candles which had not been extinguished burned taller now, their flames licking higher. However he would not be daunted.
“Nommus edige. Reappa nithow.”
So concerned had he been with the burning of the candles that he hadn’t checked what the next line was before he came to it. He quickly scanned his parchment to see that the rest was blank. He had, he realised, reached the end. Checking back over the page he was certain he hadn’t missed a thing.
Only as he did so was he aware that the candles had begun to burn as normal. Two feet filled his view, not far from where he sat, as a figure now stood within the circle before him.