A Delayed Deposit

Oliver Midwinter liked to spend his time doing two things. The first involving reading. A lot. It did not matter what it was that he read. The pursuit of knowledge, of new worlds prescribed was enough. The second was to learn. It was fortunate for the young sorcerer that one typically lead to the other. Since his apprenticeship came to its investable conclusion, he had taken to studying Artifacts as per the request of the other suits of the Tarot. He rose early each morning, ate a hearty breakfast, walked the streets of Radasanth to explore the early markets, and then returned by noon to commence his academic pursuits.

Almost three years went by before he noticed that he had heard nothing, not a peep, from his colleagues and employers. It began to gnaw at him. Niggling doubts swift turned to anxious precipitations, downpours of anger and confusion and, for the first time in many a year, moments clouded by his lack of insight. Knowledge was his power. To have none on something so important left the sorcerer bereft.

“It’s too blunt, isn’t it?”

He scratched his head. The pokey hovel atop his library, a crooked tower with dusty windows and little remorse over its studious state of disrepair, replied with looming silence.

“Of course it is, you oaf.”

He put the quill back into the inkpot and slouched. His spine, aching from hours stooped over parchment straightened out against the woodworm wingback of his former master’s chair. Nostrils flared. Eyebrows raised.

“Well. Too late.”

With a simple gesture, he incited the winds to life around the envelope, which bore the address, and name of the woman who had recruited him into the ranks of the dazzlingly complicated hierarchy of the Tarot. It lurched left, and then as though it were a bird, took flight.

Oliver watched it flutter about the study and spiral towards the crooked doorway. Down it went, caring little for the handrail that clung precariously to the dusty inner walls of the tower. It took in the sights of the alchemist chamber and the library floors (of which there were four), before prancing out into the kitchen and then to the glorious sunshine of Radasanth come heated afternoon.

“Leona will be sure to remind me of my place come suppertime.”

He closed his eyes just for a moment, and quickly found the sleep that had eluded him for days. He dreamt of runic sorcery and mystical maladies, as every good sorcerer did through misspent afternoons.

“Who…” Vincent Cain trailed off as he stared down at the letter in his hand. He squinted for a moment, as if some new mystery would be revealed by blurring the words. His free hand carelessly ran through his messy mane of hair, as if untangling the knots would help untie this mystery.

“Who the fuck is Oliver Midwinter, and why is he writing a letter to a woman who seems to no longer exist.” The scholar grunted and set the letter aside, sinking back into his plush leather chair with a sigh. If it wasn’t one thing causing a ruckus for him, it was another. One day he could be chasing down a mischievous starling hopped up on chocolate, another could be spent wrestling with a man practically made of metal. Today seemed like it would be spent dealing with the mysteries of his predecessor, Leon Stevvains. The woman had kept many secrets from Vince during his time as her underling, ruling with an oppressive no stupid questions policy that had declared all questions to be stupid. Vince was expecting answers when he’d been crowned the Emperor, instead she’d just vanished.

Typical.

“At least he left a return address.” The scholar mused sitting up. “Radasanth?” He asked himself sitting up. He reached into his robes and pulled out a pocket watch. Chewing his lower lip the scholar paused for a moment. “I might as well try to catch him during his supper.” With that the scholar leaped to his feet and stretched for a moment, muttering all the while under his breath. Satisfied he was limbered up, Vincent snapped his fingers finishing the sorcery he’d been channeling, ripping a portal open in the space in front of him. Grinning, the scholar stepped through the teal mass of writhing energy and arrived in the streets of Radasanth just as the sun seemed to be setting. In front of him seemed to be some strange sort of tower, which after a second glance to the letter seemed to be the residence of Mr. Midwinter.

Taking a breath to calm himself, Vincent stepped forward to the wooden portal and raised a fist, rapping loudly three times. “Mr. Midwinter?” He called out, perhaps hoping the man could hear his voice if he hadn’t heard the knock. “Ms. Stevvains has sent me.”

A sleeping sorcerer, quite like a domesticated cat, is seldom best pleased when awoken abruptly. Opening a single, sleep-encrusted eye, Oliver Midwinter stared at the archway that began the short hallway leading to the front door of the tower. A circle of light, daylight, unwelcome as much as his visitor, told the boy all he needed to know about the length of time he had slept at his desk.

“Stevvains…”

He peeled his forehead away from the middling pages of Rhythmic Fluctuations and Bonding, a weighty tome on binding wild magic to mundane objects – a posh way of saying ‘how to make a wand for dummies’, and began to make himself presentable. This involved, quite like the grumpy woken cat, careful pruning, wetting of fingers, and flattening of errant curls.

If you have even seen a cat arriving at the conclusion that it is feeding time, and it is free of charge, you will be able to appreciate the sudden calamity that befell Oliver as it dawned on him to whom the visitor was referring. The nobbled, walnut oak chair fell backwards and banged against the floorboards as he skidded and bounded towards the hallway. Here, past met with present.

“Leona, bloody, Stevvains.”

Straightening himself out, he applied a brief knack to his robes to do away with the creases a night on his desk bed ironed into the cloth. He glanced sideways at the oval mirror fixed on the wall next to an overburdened hat stand resembling a tree of cloaks and hats. A dozen alchemical satchels hung from its prongs, like medicinal fruits.

“It’s been two weeks.”

There were doubts in his mind as to wherever or not the Tarot Hierarchy still existed. Many organisations in the blisteringly complicated echelons of Radasanthian power came and went without fanfare. Sorcerers and wizards, and to some lesser extent, mages and witches all belonged to more lists and obligations than most could remember.

Hoping that this would be a new life, a worthy beginning to a slow year finally free of his master, Oliver turned to the panelled door, broke into an uneasy smile, and turned the wild knob of sanded driftwood. A heave pulled the door inwards, and the magic that separated the inner sanctum of the tower to the roughshod, red brick exterior brought the Midwinter boy before his hopeful saviour.

“Oh,” he said softly, when it appeared the master had no titbits. The man, noticeably male and not female, was not Leona Stevvains after all. “I’m he. Who, though, are you?”

Presented as a studious youth, Oliver may not have fulfilled the messenger’s expectations of a member of the Tarot. He did not appear to be any more of a magician than your common street urchin was. All the same, if one were to look closer, there were vestments of power in his eyes – sparkles of potential, and a winged shadow behind him that lingered even in the furiously warm sunlight of midmorning.

Vincent smiled at Oliver for a moment, caught slightly off guard by the appearance of the boyish man in front of him for a moment. ‘He kinda looks a little like I used to…’ The scholar mused internally. He took the young man’s hand and shook it. “I am Vincent Cain, pleased to meet you.” He broke the handshake and smiled. “I am an associate of Ms. Stevvains, filling in on her duties in her current absence.” He paused for a moment, reflecting on what exactly he should be saying and what he shouldn’t. If Oliver was already a fully-fledged member of the Tarot, he would be skeptical of a stranger marching up to his door and wanting to know very secret information. However, if he wasn’t a member of the Tarot, or perhaps just a partially inducted member, Vince had to be careful not to let anything slip.

A light breeze filled the air, causing Vincent’s robes to flap slightly in the wind. Behind him the busy street life of Radasanth was bustling with energy as people went about their daily tasks. Vincent paused for a moment, and then decided to speak. “Leona has recently taken a leave of absence from her duties, and did so rather suddenly. The woman was rather secretive about a lot of things; even though I was her equal she kept a great deal of things secret.” He paused for a moment and thought about how to put the words together. “Thus, I do not know a great deal about her interactions with you, and what work you were doing for her.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, “That being said, would you be willing to help illuminate the issue for me?”

Oliver scrunched his nose. Unexpected guests, most unexpected. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, trying to remember if he had bothered to tidy his study at all since he moved in. He looked back at Vincent and tried to smile in a normal banner. The broad, slightly perturbed grin betrayed his discomfort.

“Of course, I mean, I’m not sure even I can remember what we discussed.” There were a lot of ruminations, promises, and ridiculously cryptic allusions to ‘promises of power’ when he had become a part of the organisation. “Please come in. Mind the mess, I’m not often found with visitors.”

It did not take long for Vincent to stride past the sorcerer into the hallway, leaving the growingly noisy and grumbling sights and sounds of Radasanth behind. Oliver watched, growing panic churning his stomach, and shut the door when the Tarot was safely inside and hanging up his cloak on the rickety hat stand.

“Quaint, do you live here alone?”

“Sort of. There are a few dozen intelligent books and a nasty infestation of gremlins in the rafters, but they don’t make polite conversation.”

The books made very impolite conversation, usually when Oliver was trying to study. He walked ahead, gesturing for Vincent to follow into the room at the end of the hallway. Two doors on each side of the passage stood locked. The house smelt of old books, lavender, and a faint trace of sulphur.

“It is a step up from some of the residences our members call home.” Vincent spent a particularly dreary afternoon in a cave in the mountains north of Radasanth, trying to decipher texts amidst a damp that still flared up in his lungs when it rained. “I hope I am not imposing?”

“No no, don’t be silly. Take a seat,” Oliver pointed to one of the wingback chairs surrounding what Vincent supposed to be a table at the centre of the room. “Just moved things until you can sit.”

His guest took to the task delicately; glancing at the titles on the spines of the pile of books, he picked up and set on the table edge. The Eldritch and the Divine, the Sorcerous Mantle, and a weighty, dusty volume on the topic of crystalline resonance all seemed perfectly at home. He sighed when he sat, the weight off his shoulders and his tired feet at rest at last.

“Your study?”

“A reading room, suffice to say, Pavel collected books from the first day of his apprentice to the last day of his mentoring. This is one of three in the tower, and the only room you can safely occupy without risk of quantic vortices or potions exploding in your face.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear.” Vincent looked nervously at the bookshelves, which covered the four walls floor to ceiling and took stock of the various blackened vials enticingly locked beech wood boxes scattered amongst the library. “I can see why Leona might’ve sought you out.”

“We met in the Citadel.” Oliver sat opposite, visible from the breast up behind the mounds of scrolls and book lecterns holding open tomes on pages he was still trying to understand. “Her request, some sort of grand design to impress me.”

“Did it work?”

“It took a week or so to make sense of everything she said, fond as riddles as she is, but eventually.” Oliver laughed, still nervous, but better now he was able to think. “Tea?” He pointed to a side table, the only thing in the room not covered in documents.

“Absolutely!”

“Our arrangement was that I joined as, ‘the Magician’, I think she called it.” He clicked his fingers and the teaspoons rattled. He split his mind in two, visualising the tea set preparing drinks in one, keeping the conversation with Vincent in the other.

“One of the suits. It’s a little grandiose, but I imagine she saw potential and that you would be suitable for the role.” Vincent tried to keep eye contact with Oliver, but the sight of teaspoons dropping sugar lumps into stoneware cups and water in a pot coming to boil of its own accord proved too curious.

“I’ve no doubt I am able to do what she wanted, yet, well…”

A little jug of milk, glazed green at the brim, floated into the air and poured a dash into both vessels.

“No books, artefacts, or scrolls arrived for me to work on.”

It was all left open-ended, a fact which irked Oliver. Since he took over Pavel’s role in the Radasanthian Circle, his responsibilities had increased to the point where even he, cumbersome and erratic, had to set himself strict goals and attempt to meet ever-tightened deadlines. Not knowing when a parcel might arrive containing yet another mystery to solve put him on edge. The water jug poured steaming spring water into the tealeaf strainers and set down with a rattle.

“Ah, then perhaps I can help.”

“I am still required, then?” He put his mind back together as the teacups and saucers floated across the room precariously. Vincent took his with a nod of thanks, and Oliver set his on the table edge to brew until it was Jacobean.

“Very much. Let me tell you about what we are working on – then you can tell me if you might still be interested.”

“What do you know of the Forgotten ones?” Vince asked raising an eyebrow. The magician across the table let out a slight hiss as his eyes shot from his tea to his company. Such knowledge was rare for a reason, very few pieces of text had survives the memory curse that had made them “forgotten,” and whatever was left was incredibly rare, and incredibly taboo. What had been left of them was whispers, tales of all powerful magicians who brought the golden age of magic to an abrupt end. A small band of evil individuals who faces off with the whole world and arguably forced a draw.

“I’ve read a tome or two…” Oliver replied cautiously. If anyone else were to overhear this conversation, the two faced serious ramifications. This was not your average conversation over tea. “Why do you ask?”

“Recently I’ve found myself…” he paused for a moment and took a sip of his tea. “…cleaning up after them. Chasing their legacies around, stomping out any last traces of them. Hell, I even helped in putting Pode down once and for all at the Red Forest.” Oliver’s eyes widened slightly at the casual mention of the dark one’s name, and even more so at his bold claims.

“I see…” the magician muttered as his eyes locked with Vincent’s. “What does any of that have to do with me?” Vincent let out a chuckled and ran a hand through his messy hair.

“Well, currently I’m working on reversing the long lasting effects of the Corpse War. The plague that causes Raiaera’s land to fester and rot, and the accompanying hordes of the damned wandering about it as well. The heroes who so wholeheartedly rallied to kill the foul necromancer seemed to do nothing about the after effects, in essence, failing where it mattered most.” The scholar chewed his lower lip ever so slightly as he thought carefully about his next words. “I’m working on reclaiming the land of Raiaera for the living, and in order to do so I need some of the brightest minds this world has to offer.”

“So you’ve found some device to reverse the plague and need my help to understand it?” The magician asked cocking his head to one side.

“Negatory ghost rider, I need your help creating a cure.”

“Is this a joke?” Oliver’s curiosity turned into defence. He set his cup down and folded his arms across his chest.

Vincent frowned.

“Why would I joke about that?”

“It’s…,” the sorcerer sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s close to the anniversary of my parent’s death and, well, let me tell you a story.”

He clicked his fingers again, and the teapot refilled and started to boil itself. The details of the incident in Albion began to form in his mind, fragments painful and precise, vivid memories of Oliver Midwinter’s only regret in life.

“I am a witch. Was a witch. Want to be a witch again. My family were a coven in a hamlet on the isle of Scara Brae, the eldest and most powerful witches ever to practice the Old Ways.”

Vincent, realising he was no longer accused drained his cup, set it onto the saucer to await a second, and settled into the chair with numbing buttocks. Diplomacy sometimes took the form of listening to windbags, but this particular wind sounded like a summer breeze, less an award storm.

“Although a matriarchal society, particularly prospective males are allowed to enter the Circle and practice witchcraft under the tutelage of the coven’s leader, my grandmother. I was good. Not as good as my sisters, but with a hint of sorcery in my blood I learnt quickly.”

Another click of his fingers brought the bookshelf in the east westerly corner to life. Two tomes drifted across the room on uneasy and ghostly updrafts. The first dropped in front of Vincent, closed, and the second hovered in front of him, inviting him to take it and read.

“When a witch comes of age, on his or her twenty first birthday the entire village celebrates. A family banquet precedes the Binding, a Grand Circle where every witch in the Circle combines their powers to take the witch to the Spirit World.” He gestured at the book before his guest. “Page twelve.”

Of Angels, a book written only three times and reserved only for the Midwinter line, started to spill its secrets to the herald. He turned the pages until he reached the indicated and took in the double-paged picture that greeted him. Winged beasts and archaic magic circles covered an apocalyptic scene.

“Oh my…” Vincent muttered in admiration.

“There are rules to witchcraft, it is a ritualistic form of magic so precise that the slightest misgiving, or hint of wrong intent can corrupt it and backfire with such force it can be world breaking.”

The herald ran his index finger around the central circle, which covered both pages in a light azure. It bound the aspects of the picture together, though what it meant was beyond him. Though written in old Common, context eluded him.

“My mother was a witch, my father a sorcerer. A forbidden relation tolerated provided I never dabbled in aspects of Witchcraft that might corrupt the energies and harmony in Albion’s secluded valley. The one thing I was not to do was to look into the moonlit pond in our family’s gardens.”

“You looked into it, didn’t you?” Vincent smiled weakly. He knew that allure all too well. The same zealous curiosity brought many like-minded scholars to the gates of the Tarot.

Oliver nodded. The kettle came to boil and the rattling procession of teacups leaving the table and steam spiralling into the rafters filled an awkward silence.

“I couldn’t help it. When lit by the moon, the pool shows a witch potential futures. I was never to know which side of my heritage would triumph – sorcery and witch craft never works together long, and when I saw…I fainted.”

Vincent looked closer at the photo when he connected what he heard to what he saw. A silvery pool, surrounded by revellers took centre stage. A face formed in the ripples, winged, and golden.

“What did you see?”

“One day I will tell you. However, I fell into the pool. I did not tell anyone, because I knew the anger my grandmother would unleash and that exile was punishment. No family tie can break the Rule of Three.”

Vincent knew a little of witchcraft, of everything, to know that it was a rule of kinds. What you dealt, if misdealt, came back at you tripled. He winced.

“When the Grand Circle formed, my family, and the elder witches of Albion travelled to the Spirit World. Imagine an Orrery, in which every star and planet can be seen from an endless Void, and a glowing, translucent magic circle large enough to hold twenty people floating at its heart.”

“Beautiful, I’d wager.”

“Mesmerising. No sooner than we caught our breath, the Angels came.”

The picture on the pages continued to make more and more sense. The winged creature in the pool…

“No, not that sort of Angel. They are not righteous and good. They guard the Spirit World, and in turn, protect the laws of Witchcraft. They slaughtered everyone. Every. Single. One.”

Vincent dared not mutter a word. Sorry did not seem to express his remorse at the story’s sudden turn. He traced the circle again, growing desperate the silence to stop. Oliver sighed, but smiled weakly when the teacups returned, steaming and sweetened by good timing to their saucers.

“My punishment was not only exile, but to never practice Witchcraft again. If I ever so much as draw half a circle and try to use those skills the Angels will return. So when I say that I want to help…”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

Oliver picked up his cup, foregoing polite mannerisms to slurp. “Oh, I didn’t say I wouldn’t. It is just the help I can give is knowledge, advice, guidance. Whatever herbalist skills I still have locked away in here,” he tapped the side of skull, “will have to suffice. I cannot. I will not as much as look at a pestle and mortar.”

“You will?” Vincent looked up, hopeful.

“Perhaps it will help me face my dae…Angels, and finally come to terms with the responsibility of killing my family.”

“The resources of the Tarot are at your disposal!”

The sorcerer expected as much. He relaxed, head spinning at the recollections he had for so long avoided. Not even his Mentor had been fortunate enough to learn of his origins. He doubted it would help, unless the Tarot had the means to kill what amounted to the agents of the Midwinter’s own Thayne – Hecat, the goddess of the Old Ways. Perhaps…

“I fear I’ve overwhelmed you so, please, tell me a little more about Pode, and what it is she did to this Red Forest.”

He cleared his mind, locking away the urge to cry in one-half of his mind, and opening the other to the prospect of a goal, a purpose, and a new distraction from the ever-increasing lunacy of Radasanth’s Magic Society.