Treacherous Brethren

Chapter 1-1

CHAPTER 1

Be like the graceful willow

Which bends and does not resist

When the wind blows strong;

For in truth,

Strength lies not in resistance

But in the power others

hurl against you.

-FROM BE BOOK OF ST. ALBANS-

Destiny.

-One’s destiny is never the route anticipated.-

-Destiny is the Mistress of Obfuscation; one never knows where it might lead.-

-Random serendipity, or maleficent opportunity, are like the strikes of a blacksmith’s hammer on the glistening surface of Destiny. -

-Destiny may be formed with random thoughts, or an idle turn of a word; it is a virulent force fed by ideas. Or as weak as an old man’s passing whimsy.-

-One needs not seek Destiny. Destiny will find you.-

Destiny.

I remember these words vividly. Spoken to me by an old man who walked with a firm stride, hands clasped behind his back, his dark brown eyes taking in the beauty around us as we made our way through the gardens of St. Rolla’s Monastery. Even then, as a young initiate in the midst of my training in wizardry, Master Breen was old. As old as the Bretan Brotherhood was old some said. Others whispered Master Breen knew Saint Bretan; learned from the sect’s founder the Bretan Ways of a warrior monk. Still others said the old man had witnessed the final climatic battles against the onslaught of the Dragon which drove the remnants of humanity into the High Kanris.

It does not matter. I know not the truth. All I can say with certainty is that Master Breen was very old. Yet, in many respects, very young at the same time. He did not walk with the gait of an old man. His stride was slow, deliberate, but firm and unhesitating. He was old and wise. And gentle. This I remember this the most. His gentleness.

His dark brown eyes were sharp and clear and filled with a mischievous merriment quite captivating to behold. He loved the cloistered gardens of St. Rolla’s with a passion. After every arduous training session, whenever a task in training a warrior monk to become a wizard had pushed me to the brink of exhaustion or frustration, I would find Master Breen kneeling at a rose bush and carefully working the flower beds around it in an effort to make it bloom more beautifully.

“Ah, the young wizard has suffered another defeat?” he would say, a smile working his thin lips, his voice quiet, yet compelling to hear. “You need not worry, boy. Tasting defeat in a trial of skill is but a thin layer added to the eventual lustrous shine. Patience is the key. Patience and endurance. Yes… patience and endurance.”

He would come to his feet, wait for me to join at his side, and we would stroll through the gardens for hours on end talking about my difficulties. Ah, to be honest; I would be the one talking, and he mostly listening. He would smile, make an amusing comment about something or the other, and it all seemed to come together by the end of our stroll. I always felt better, and even prepared, for the next day’s difficulties after these talks.

Master Breen was neither a monk nor a servant at St. Rolla’s. He had no official position there. Yet he was much revered by monk and servant alike. Even the abbot himself demurred to Master Breen’s wishes whenever the old man voiced an opinion. It was, in retrospect, all very curious that such a one as he would come to live in a Bretan Monastery. Not that our monasteries are reclusive hideouts for the devout. In all of the surviving monasteries my brothers occupy, our doors are open to any who made need our assistance. The weak, the poor, the dying, the young, the destitute come to us seeking our aid. We turn no one away.

But in Master Breen’s case it seemed quite odd such a man would choose to live the simple monastic life of a Bretan monk. Neither rich nor poor, Master Breen was neither common peasant nor exiled nobleman. He was not an inhabitant of any of the standard class systems found in most of the societies in the High Country. He was a non-entity. A ghost who lived among the living. A ghost with very special skills.

As a young initiate I learned much from this old man. Important concepts a wizard must accomplish if they wish not to be seduced by the powers of the Netherworld. Power is corruption. Power is an enchanting seductress who lures her victims into a sensual oblivion which knows no limits. Once lost into that oblivion no wizard ever comes back. They are gone forever.

The Netherworld was the ultimate seducer, the ultimate power. A wizard who consciously played within its confines would, in the end, would find himself standing on the precipice of his own destruction. In the end the seducer’s sensual call would become too much for the wayward magician to resist.

Think of the Netherworld, Pilgrim, as a vast river which stretches off into infinity. Standing on its lone banks and gazing onto the river was like looking into Infinity itself. There are no boundaries. Only the unwavering flatness of water everywhere. Standing on the banks before the Great River of Time is an intoxicating liquor in itself. One’s senses are bombarded with exciting stimuli. But this sensation is nothing when compared to sliding into the water itself. The water in the River of Time is warm and titillating. The water is filled with an electrifying power which surges through every pore of your body with a breathtaking alacrity. Suddenly every atom of your body is filled with a sense of infinite power. Of infinite knowledge. Your eyes and mind can see into the Past as clearly as you can see into the Future. All things are known to you.

In the waters of the Netherworld all who have come before you, and all who will come after you, can be summoned. With stunning clarity, not only do you see the current of Time, but you also reside in all of its stunning detail. You see all of the currents of Time which make up the River of Time. Suddenly parallel universes spring up before your eyes. Universes uncountable and unimaginable. You see… You. You as You were in the past. You as You are in the Present. And You as You will become in the Future. You in all the different universes which might dwell in the River of Time.

For a wizard to summon the soul of someone who has, or will at some time in the future, tread the paths found in the Outer Realms is a dangerous liquor to taste. But the power to summon yourself… summon the You of your Past, or of your Future, and discuss with them what is in store for you, is a power destined to make you slip into the clinging arms of Insanity.

Terrible is the power of the Netherworld! Frightening are the dangers found in this River of Time. The allure of manipulating Time, of controlling the accidents of Fate which are destined to befall you, or anyone, is an addictive drug which lures the wayward wizard to his eventual destruction. Wizards become intoxicated with the power. This overwhelming intoxication convinces them they can manipulate Time itself.

Ah, Pilgrim! Foolish is the wizard who becomes thus seduced into believing this madness. The terrible truth is Time cannot be manipulated. The Future is too nebulous to clearly see. Too many currents weave a complex tapestry we call the Future. Certain threads within this tapestry may unravel and break. Others will fill in the gaps and make the weave even stronger. The Future is never a constant. It is always in a state of flux. Too many currents, too many variables, make up the Future. No wizard, however powerful he may be, can use the powers of the Netherworld to shape what is to come.

That I learned while at the monastery of St. Rolla. The powers of the Netherworld were to be used only when necessity demanded it. A wizard’s power came directly from the Netherworld. If one wished to be more of a wizard than a warrior-monk, one would eventually succumb to its lures. Into the abyss the wizard would fall. An abyss which there was no path available in bringing him back into the Light.

It was Master Breen who taught me about the seductress of power. In his soft and gentle ways, he showed me the pitfalls.

“To live with the Netherworld, Bretan, means to always look at it as a potential enemy. It never reveals its true purpose. It is neither Good nor Evil. Honor or morals means nothing to it. Because it cannot, or will not, consider the Good from the Evil it becomes the perfect residence for both. In the Netherworld never, ever, take anything felt or witnessed with your own senses for what it appears to be. The true nature of the Netherworld is to deceive.”