completed prologue

[maderr]

Unequal Children

Time Long Past

Picture a water glass. Ordinary, tall, the kind you can find just by opening your cupboard. Imagine it full of water. Sitting on a large table

That glass is the wall between the table and the water within. The table is the mind, containing both the conscious thoughts – deciding what to wear or which movie to see – and the subconscious thoughts that control things like walking and breathing.

The water is the part of the mind we don’t use. It is the part that was sealed away. Between it and the rest of the mind lies that glass wall.

Put a crack in the glass. A hairline fracture, nothing more. Barely noticeable, not a drop of water escapes – at least not that we can see. But from that hairline fracture come the geniuses of the world. Artists, musicians, scientists and more, all of extraordinary caliber. The faintest tapping into what lies inside the glass gives them this “genius.”

Say it cracks a little more. A spider web of fractures. Water begins to drip slowly onto the table, into the rest of the mind. These are what most people call “psychics” or more often, “freaks” Those that see ghosts, hear voices, can sense when things aren’t right. In our world, we call them “mildly insane.” Insane enough to know there’s something more to the world than the ordinary mind can see…but not enough to know what to do.

Put more cracks in the glass, enough that water trickles into the mind. This is what we call “moderately insane.” Alchemists, witches, charmers. The weakest in the magic world, but by no means weak. Alchemists especially know how to make the most of what power they have. More than a few of the mighty have fallen to an Alchemist’s tricks…

Break the glass, let the pieces scatter across the table. “Total insanity,” the realm of wizards, sorcerers and necromancers. Magic beyond anything, the ability to tap nearly the full power of that portion of the mind that should be sealed away. Many die young, and one way or another they all die from the magic.

Pretend there never was a glass, or that rather than broken – where shattered pieces still remain – that the glass was simply taken away. “Perfect Insanity” is rare and to be greatly feared. Little is known about the Perfectly Insane, as few survive encounters and those survivors do not speak of what they endured.

Magic is a myth, this is what people say. For most that is more or less the truth. They will never tap into the magic behind the glass, short of being forced into Perfect Insanity. But for those with cracks and fractures, or the shattered remains of the glass scattered across their mind, magic is all too real.

Some love it. Some hate it. But all know that magic is the result of one thing and one thing only.

Insanity.

Every last one of us. There is no exception. Magic is born from the breaking of the wall between the stable mind and the instability that was hidden away to save humans from themselves. We have powers. Powers to move things with a thought. Powers to read thoughts. Powers to change our shape. Some say we even have the power to control the elements. What we can’t do with a thought, we can do with spells and incantations, relics and charms and talismans created by unstable thoughts. We do things that sane people only dream or read about. We can be strong, cruel, wise, kind – all these and more. But we are none of stable. None of us sane.

Remember that.



The scent of vanilla and lime was what kept him alive. Ernest swore he could smell it, mixed with the stench of blood and fire, ash and smoke. Faint, whispery, a lingering scent that kept him conscious and aware of the tall figure that lumbered like a specter made manifest on the far side of the smoke-filled chamber that had once been his mother's sunroom.

It was a scent that he associated with the things his brother did, those things they did in the old guesthouse at the edge of the property, in the latest and earliest hours when their parents weren't around.

He knew the scent wasn’t really there. It was impossible, with the thick smoke and bright flames that consumed what had once been a beautiful house. The vanilla and lime were little more than the scent of a memory, brought on by the creature with white skin and pitch black hair that had attacked them, slaughtered them, left them to burn. The monster with an achingly familiar face but a stranger’s eyes.

Even now he could still hear it moving, walking slowly and heavily through the house, as if it had all the time in the world to do as it pleased. The mad grin in its eyes and on its lips had said quite plainly that, if he could, he would have killed them all at least twice. Probably the sensing of its movements was a thing of his imagination like the vanilla and lime. But it served its purpose, for Ernest remained painfully still in fear of drawing its attention. His clothes were wet and sticky with blood; he could no longer feel his battered right arm.

But as his vision dimmed to a gray fuzziness he knew he could not postpone his spell casting any longer. It was not a spell he should be able to cast, except that he had made it himself in the hopes of impressing his brother. He began to murmur the words, stopping when they came out only as a choked gurgle. Closing his eyes and drawing in a ragged breath, blocking out the heat and smoke all around him, Ernest tried again.

Warmth fell over him, surging and tingling and healing. Just enough that he could get up, and stumble his way through what remained of his mother's French doors, falling to the ground which smelled of dirt and grass, and nothing like vanilla and lime.



Some with magic are noble. Good people. Witches and wizards usually are of this nature. Looking to the earth, studying the stars, guiding and watching from afar. There is no rule saying that a witch or a wizard must be so…there have been some which are not. Magic is not bound by anything except the mind which wields it. Still, for whatever reason, Witches and Wizards usually tend toward “good.” They are most likely the sole reason the magical world has not descended into rampant violence.

The least understood of the magic world are the necromancers. Those whose insanity has a penchant for dead and dying things. They are a secretive group, for reasons both obvious and not. Certainly there is something disturbing about a person who is comfortable with corpses and ghosts. But they are, compared to their brothers in magic, relatively harmless. You should not anger a necromancer, but that could be said of almost anyone or anything.

In my opinion, and it is not an ignorant one, the magical persons to be feared are not the necromancers. Alchemists and Sorcerers are the ones to look out for.

For alchemists long for perfection, for knowledge. Many, like Witches and Wizards, are benevolent. But science is a demanding mistress, and magic is born of insanity. Mixing the two is not a natural thing to do. That they make it work is the first example of what alchemists are. They are the rule breakers. If told that something cannot be done, an alchemist will seek to prove otherwise. Often they succeed. Alchemists are witch and wizard and sorcerer, necromancer and charmer and scientist all rolled into one. As I said before – they know well how to make the most of their abilities. The greatest wizard in the world, and he was not one of the nice ones, was killed by an alchemist’s tricks.

But even an alchemist will pause before messing with a sorcerer. Perhaps because they are as alike as they are different. Nothing is more dangerous than a man with single-minded, selfish intent. Sorcerers fall just shy of Perfect Insanity – indeed they most often are the ones who succumb to it – and this makes them the most powerful of the magical world. They live only for the magic. Write tomes, fight each other, create spells and incantations, talismans and relics. Sorcerers crave magic the way alchemists crave perfection. If there existed a book on the history of the world that hides from its sane brother, it would show you a world dominated by battles between sorcerers, between alchemists, and one against the other.

These are the ones to fear.



The fire was hot. Burning, scalding, waves of it chasing them up the stone steps. Steps traversed so many times. They were dark, old, full of loose stones, dipping in places from years of wear. They knew those steps by heart. With their eyes closed, for that had been among their tests.

This was the last time they’d ever have to climb them. Up, and finally out. Never again would they go down into the dark. Chemical fumes mixed with the fire, making the smoky air poisonous.

They continued to climb. Out of the basement. Out of the lab. No more going down. The lab was gone. The scientist dead. He’d been laying in a pool of his own blood. Killed by his masterpieces. “Almost there,” the first whispered, voice rough from smoke and chemicals and fear.

“Yes,” the second agreed. They held to each other so tight, their nails drew blood in the other’s arm. But the wounds would fade; they would not join the myriad scars marking their bodies. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, still able to feel the hand which had held it, pulled hard, had nearly succeeded in stopping him.

His brother’s hair was longer, pulled back in a loose tail. Later he would take it down, brush it out. They would take care of each other. Just like they always had. When they bled. When they screamed. When they cried and asked someone who did not exist why these things were done to them.

But they wouldn’t be done any more. It had taken years, but it had been done. No longer would things be forced upon their unwilling bodies. No more would they be forced to learn what they did not want to know.

They stumbled out of the house and collapsed on the ground. It was wet, soaking through their ragged jeans. Hyde shivered in his arms and Jekyll held his brother close, kissing his brow softly. “We’re free.”

Hyde nodded, and buried his head against Jekyll’s shoulder to hide his tears. “It’s pretty,” he said faintly. “The way it burns.”

“Yes, it is.” Jekyll held his brother and watched their former prison burn, the smoke lost to the starless night. His eyes glowed red.



One of the most fascinating aspects of magic is the language. Were a sane person to glimpse it, they would see nothing but gibberish. The more insane you are, the more it makes sense. Only sorcerers are completely fluent. This is why the greatest tomes and grimoires are written by them. Even a might wizard, rich with wisdom and experience, would look at a sorcerer’s spell book and feel lost. Necromancers fare better, but not by much.

Sorcerers seek magic. Nothing more. Certainly nothing less. They are selfish. Not unlike how a sane man might seek power, except no sorcerer seeks to lord it over all others. All that matters is the magic. No one knows why exactly. Most likely it has to do with being so close to Perfect Insanity. They will help; they will hinder; they will do whatever it takes to improve their skills and learn more. Are all sorcerers like this? Of course not. But remember we are not sane. We do not fully understand why we become what we do. Perception changes when the mind breaks. We follow paths that did not exist until that moment. Like a road that only appears by the light of the moon.

For sorcerers that path is magic. The strongest, the finest, the most complicated. The best. In their own way, they seek perfection. But it is a perfection of craft, not of person. Put another way, they seek complete mastery of their art. They want to control magic.. But how do you control that which is built of instability? Something that relies on a mind slowly spiraling out of control? Sorcerers end up one of two ways. The insanity kills them…or makes them Perfect.

But if asked, a sorcerer would probably say there is no better way to go. Death by magic, or Perfection at the price of their threads of sanity. Over and over again they pay, simply for the chance to add new pages to their grimoires.

A grimoire is a sorcerer’s life. They contain everything. Experiments, quests for new spells, fights with other magic users. Old spells. New spells. Stolen spells. Alterations of spells. Written in a language that only a select few understand.

We call the language the Fractured Words.



Dupin wept. The rain was cold; he didn’t doubt there was more than a little ice in it.

He didn’t particularly care.

Dead. He was dead. The police were dead. Every last one.

It had happened so fast. He’d seen violence before. This wasn’t violence. It was…madness. Impossible. No one could kill that fast.

And the laughter. He retched into the bushes, though his stomach had already emptied. The freezing rain could not dampen completely the smell of blood and puke, excrement and fear. So fast. He would never forget that haunting laughter.

The creature hadn’t sounded mad. No…it had sounded happy. As though there was nothing better than killing men and damn near bathing in their blood. He’d looked…completely normal. Handsome, a gentle smile. Though his eyes glittered strangely. An animal shine. There was nothing human about the creature that had killed his best friend and several police officers.

And he the only witness. Dupin couldn’t stay. No one would believe him. He looked down at his hands. A camera for night photography. It had seen everything. Trembling, Dupin stood and placed the camera where it would be safe from harm but easily found. Then on shaking legs he turned and began to walk out of the park.

No one would believe him. The pictures would only confuse them. He couldn’t stay. No one else knew. Would believe. He was the only one who had seen the creature. Everyone else was dead.

Dupin fled the park, chased by death and fear and a wild determination to find and kill the monster who had wrecked his life in…he looked down at his watch. Started crying again.

Fifteen minutes.

It had taken the creature fifteen minutes to kill ten men with his bare hands. Fifteen minutes to ruin Dupin’s life.

But if it took the rest of his existence, he would find the creature. That handsome, twisted face he would never forget. Pale skin, long dark hair. And as he walked in the rain, behind the smell of a world dark and half-frozen, Dupin smelled something else. He’d thought he’d imagined it; that scent of vanilla. Vanilla and something else.

He pulled his hood up as he hit the main streets, keeping his head down and walking quickly. The garish lights of a loud Mexican restaurant and bar made him flinch, as if the neon senor above the entrance watched him. But it also made him think of tequila, drowning his sorrows there. Surely none of this could be real?

Tequila. Lime. That was the scent. The creature had smelled of vanilla and lime.



Alchemists are Moderately Insane. This puts them, technically, on a level with witches and wizards. Insane enough to understand magic, even use it in the case of wizards and witches. However alchemists can’t actually use magic. Going back to the Fractured Words…let us use a healing spell for example. These are fairly common; even a witch or wizard could read that much. But the manner in which that glass wall fractured does something different to those who become alchemists. They don’t see a spell. Were they to look at the healing spell, they would see only a formula. To them a grimoire is nothing more than a collection of formulae.

But here is where Alchemists become dangerous. Pretend that rather than a healing spell everyone is looking at a spell for invisibility. This is a hard spell…only the best sorcerers can cast it. So it’s impossible for anyone else to see anything more than gibberish. Except Alchemists. They see an incomplete formula. And begin to experiment to fill in the pieces. Now do you see?

There once was a great wizard. Even amongst sorcerers he was respected. He was brilliant. Like an alchemist, he made the most of what little he had. He put to use every last shred of genius and magic at his disposal. It would take an age to relate all that he did. But even sane people have heard of him, though they understand not what they hear. I will his identity to the imagination. But the mightiest of men have fallen to the humblest, and this wizard made the mistake of offending a man who was far from humble.

He died slowly, in great pain, and his screams were heard by the entirety of his village. I will not relate the condition in which they found him. There are things best lost to time. The only evidence of who or what had killed him was the lingering smell in the air. Alchemy always leaves a trace of itself, for they rely heavily on chemicals and other ‘spell components’ to do their work. With experience it is not hard to determine the nature of the spell that was created.

Healings usually leave a metallic, citrus scent. Other spells of this nature, healing, protecting, calming, sleeping and so forth will frequently smell like lemon and honey. Should you smell violets and ash, or mint and copper, it is likely that alchemical sorcery was recently worked. Vanilla and lime is the scent attributed to alchemical workings of necromancy. Where do these scents come from? Only an alchemist could say, and Alchemists guard their scientific journals as fiercely a sorcerer does his grimoire.



Something rough touched his cheek. It almost tickled. Warm and wet. Lapping steadily.

It began to vibrate. Loudly. He opened his eyes and stared into the bright green eyes of an orange cat. Not brown or yellow or gold – orange. “Mreow.”

He blinked, and struggled to sit up. A cry of pain shot up his side, and he grabbed it, toppling back down to the ground.

“I wouldn’t try to move again, if I were you.” A soft voice spoke, the tones even, level. Emotionless. But he found it comforting all the same. Blearily he looked up. Opened his mouth to speak. Couldn’t make it work.

“Injured rather nastily, my friend. Looks like someone tried to do you in and nearly did a proper job of it.” The man knelt and gently pushed aside the hand covering his wounded side. He began to mutter softly, words that at first seemed incomprehensible and then began to make a strange, dreamlike sort of sense, buzzing in his head. Warmth spread from the wound through his body, like being lowered into a hot bath.

“Magic,” he croaked, then coughed as the cold air finally struck him.

The man froze, then relaxed. “Yes. So I’d be willing to bet these injuries weren’t acquired in the normal manner.”

He thought. And thought. Went cold with fear as he realized there was nothing there. “I don’t know,” he said hoarsely. “I—I can’t remember. Nothing.”

“Nothing?” The man’s brows went up. He looked older than he probably was, and that had to be somewhere in his mid twenties. His hair was a medium-brown, cut short and made messy by the wind. Green eyes watched him sharply, as though they never missed a single thing. He wore faded jeans and a blue wool sweater overlaid with a dark grey down vest. There was a look about him. Something familiar… “Perhaps that explains your hair.”

“My hair?” he repeated, and with aching slowness reached up to touch his hair. He was both surprised and not to see it was longish, just past his shoulders.

And stark white.

“Looks like you had quite the nasty scare, whatever happened,” the man said. The orange cat butted against his legs, purring, and he petted it absently “Can you stand?”

“I think so,” he said, and though it took him a few minutes he at last clambered to his feet.

“Do you have a name?” the man asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, licking his dry lips. He shivered against the chilly autumn wind. “I don’t know anything.”

“Hmm…” the man said. He eyed him thoughtfully, as the cat jumped into his arms and then up to his shoulder. “My name is Shelley,” he said at last. He lifted a hand to the cat. “This is Jinx. She’s my familiar.”

Something flickered in his mind. A sputtering candle. This is my familiar. He held the flickering memory tight, willed it to burn bright. “Sorcerer,” he managed, before it burned out.

“…Yes.” Shelly said slowly. It was impossible to tell if he had startled or shaken him. “That you know and yet you have no name?”

“No,” he said, and looked at the ground. “I only remember magic.”

Shelley grunted. “I guess that really shouldn’t be such a surprise. Well, come along. No sense in leaving you here. No harm in seeing you back to town. Can you walk?”

“I’ll manage.”

They walked slowly along a faded path, until they reached a road. Paved, well used, long neglected. A highway abandoned for reasons unknown. Not a place many would go. Questions and questions, but no answers.

“We should give you a name, I guess…” Shelley said into the silence.

More memories, like whispers in the dark. Should I name you? Yes, I should. You’re a success, after all. My first. His lordship will be pleased…but what name? There are so many which would be fitting, but I like to keep things simple. No fuss. How about…

“Jack,” he said suddenly, and it felt familiar on his tongue. “I think my name is Jack.”



I remember a story. A man told it, years ago. A fairytale he called it, and laughed as he said it.

It was a story about children. A vast number of them, of every shape and size. One day their mother learned that a great man was coming to visit, to see her children. And so she had them tidy up the house and then readied them for the visit.

The beautiful ones she dressed up in their finest clothes, and combed their hair and wiped their faces with sweet soap. They shone, these children, and were a delight and pleasure to look upon. And when the man came, he looked at them and smiled and bestowed upon them gifts. “This one shall be a King, and this one a Lord. She a Queen, and this one a Lady. A Scholar, a Merchant, and a Wiseman you shall be for as long as you live.”

The ugly children the woman had hidden away, considering them unfit for her noble guest. But upon hearing the wonderful gifts bestowed upon her beautiful children, the woman brought out the ugly ones in hopes of seeing more grand gifts bestowed. But when the man looked at them, he said to each. “You shall be a farmer, and you a weaver. You a fisherman, and you a shoemaker. A tailor, a potter and a scullion you shall be for as long as you live.”

“Why,” asked the woman. “Do you give your gifts so unfairly?”

“There is a need for everything in this world. Not everyone can be a king.”

And with this the woman was satisfied, and thanked the man for his visit and generosity. Eventually he departed, and each child took on his or her gift.

So goes the story. But the man who told it to me added more.

“Is it so hard to imagine,” he said. “That she still kept some children back? And he let her? If they both were willing to treat the children so callously, could they not be completely cruel? I think they left some children hidden away in the dark, and those children went insane from grief and anger. The kings and the queens and the bakers and the farmers might complain of unfairness but the truly maltreated are those of us who were left down in the dark.”

We are the unequal children of Eve.