This Week’s Prompt:82. Power of wizard to influence dreams of others.
The Prior Research:I Dream Of Mages
It is said that nothing lives on Mount Moni. To even a casual observer, this claims is false. Birds land on the mountain, and some grasses grow along it’s base. But the idea of anything more than the most determined creature surviving the raw stone cliffs is unheard of in the lands around Mount Moni. Knowledge of what rests on it’s summit exists only far from the land—and from such a land came Morgan. The cliffs were hard climbing for the young man, a scholar by trade. But months of travel to the mountain had prepared him for the climb up the path. A path that was often covered by mist—sleek and smooth like a river. And the top of the mountain itself was halo’d in a great cloud.
Yet up he had to go.
As he climbed, Morgan felt strange things. He saw shapes in the fog, floating off the path. Glowing shapes, that looked like faceless men with outstretched hands to embrace him. Those who knew the mountain can still point to the patches of strange white dust, where men have lept to their deaths pursuing the misty guardians. Some even saw the strange creatures, a band of thirty, gnawing at the bones to render them to dust.
Morgan, however, was a man of knowledge. He passed ahead with effort, reciting prayers to the shining chariot and to the brilliant spear and the cleaning waters of the river. The mist did not part, but the ghostly images let him bee, soaring ahead and around as they left. They whispered and hissed as they did, but there was little they could do now.
Atop the great mountain, through the clouds, Morgan beheld the great crumbling edifice. Pillars rose to support a long collapsed ceiling. Torches still flickered, and the broken paintings of glory were still visible, their faded eyes and hands marking the stones. At the center was a great statue—its top worn down by time and space, it’s lowere body coiled like a serpent. And beneath it, sat the sorcerer.
His hands were bedecked with jewels as the moved up and down the long ivory pipe. A mask rested over his head, his two eyes focused on the colored smoke of his fire. His tune was soft—audible only from here, as he swayed—as if to dance with an unseen cobra.
Morgan approached, and fell on his Knees across from the magician.
“I have traveled far and braved many things to speak with you.” Morgan said. The sage continued on his flute, but his eyes raised slowly to meet Morgan’s own.
“I have heard the sage enjoys a block of tea, from the lands of Shilab—or so they say in Kahal. So I have brought with me tea to his liking.” Morgan said, removing a block of packed leaves and placing it beside the fire. The magician played a few notes—and a thing with the torso of a man came, lifting the tea and taking it into the darkness. Green steam rose around it, and the music paused as the sage inhaled the smell of sweet green tea.
The sorcerer put down his flute and stared expectantly at Morgan.
“I have traveled far and braved many things, to ask but one request. It is said that the sage of Mount Moni may weave dreams and passions with better skill then heaven itself—that even the greatest of interpreters may believe his words. The lord of my land has no children—I wish to endear him to me, that I might inherit his lands with his passing. I am a wise man, schooled in many classics and laws, with a good mind and soul. Only the vagaries of fate hold me away. I ask the great sage, if he should right this injustice?” Morgan said plaintively.
The sorcerer made a noise like a droning goat, until his tea was brought to him. Taking a long drink of the green tea, the magician spoke.
“To mend dreams and omens and set them in motion is within my power. But I must have an offering to preform this task from your king.” He said slowly, eyes glittering on the lonely mountain top.
Morgan paused for a moment, before reaching into his coat and producing a small, iron ring.
“The sages at Kahal warned of such a request. Here is a ring of iron the king wore on his wedding day—the only ring of baser metals. Will it suffice?” he asked. The wizard took it in hand, and examined it under the stars.
“Yes, yes this shall suffice. I shall weave his dreams as you request—but you must grant me one request. When you are king, bring to me a child born on the ninth day of the sea goat to a dead mother—fail in this, and I shall see you undone.”
And Morgan promised to bring such a child, at the appointed time. And the magician sent him away, so he could work his wonders. With the flute of ivory, he inhaled the smoke, tossing the ring amongst the flames. He called out names of slumbering gods and spirits, who’s dreams were mighty but malleable. He wove with his flute and mask, and became that dread brother of Death.
What dreams the King had that night! What visions he saw! Chariots of gold that brought Morgan forth, the crown carried in triumph over all the world. Eagles with Morgan’s eyes, scattering the mice of nations. The old wizard of Mount Moni was cunning and quick in the language of dreams. He adorned Morgan’s image with all the signs one could ask for—and with a borrowed voice, he spoke of the great powers that Morgan would bring to bear and lay low.
And so the stargazers and dreamers were gathered, to hear of the King’s dream. And he told them of all he’d seen. The vast conclave consulted and spoke and debated and preformed. At last, they all came to agreement. The gods had spoken. Morgan was fetched, and made heir.
It was three years before Morgan ascended to be king. After his coronation, he sent word for a child born under the sea goat on the ninth day be fetched, and took quiet leave abroad. With his knowledge of the world, he road faster than any could have dreamed—and arrived at the base of Mount Moni, among the pale dunes of doomed carriers.
He brought the child, wrapped in somber cloth—the sages of Kahal had warned that bright colors aroused the fury of the wizard—upward and upward through the parting mist. At the summit he found the wizard, playing his flute. He lay the child at his feet.
“We are done then, good wizard. My debt is paid.” he said. The wizard did not speak, but played to his unseen cobra. Morgan considered that the end of their discussion, and left as he came. The child stirred in it’s sleep, strange dreams coming to it from the flute of the wizard at Mount Moni.
The Wizard of Mount Moni saw Morgan again, a decade past—or so he assumed from the dreams he had seen, and the child’s growth. Morgan came by way that a fellow magician might—a chariot, hewn of unearthly metals, roiling through the clouds. Such an entrance was normal enough to raise the magician’s ire—but he saw on Morgan’s hand the symbol of clemency, and the wound that was on his chest, between layered talismans of no small worth.
So the boy had been a fine king.
“Oh Magician of Mount Moni, I have traveled far to speak with you again. I have heard from the sages of Kahal that the magician enjoys for such dreadful events tea from the golden flowers of sunset.” Morgan said, breath wavering. He held out a block of tea, orange and yellow like the sunset. The Wizard stopped his flute and whistled. The boy rose from slumber and took the tea, heading off to warm it in the Wizard’s cup.
“Oh Magician of Mount Moni, I ask a favor of you again. My lands prosper, my people delight. But neighbors have marshaled against me. A sorceress leads them, and she and her students have masked their movements. She knows some great skill, and has woven arrows that escape my defenses. My crown will be subsumed. I need again aid. Can you raise some vision to my defense and victory?”
The wizard was silent until he drank the golden tea, that smelled as sweat as honey. His voice was softer then before, flowing out like a warm steam.
“Matters of war are small things, if heavy in their cost. I can secure your home from invasion with effort—surely they have some sorcerer, but there are none who hold the breath of dreams in them save me. But in exchange, of course, I wish for a heavy if small thing. Bring me work men to raise my temple a new—to restore it’s splendor as I direct.”
Morgan agreed without hesitation or consideration.
After he left, the wizard called his many children, the Alu of the fog. Some leg less, some armless, some headless, all gray and viscous. His living son, who was brought by Morgan years past, had prepared a great draught from the cloud around the Mountain. Each took and drank the breath of dreams—and each flew then out at the Wizards flute. They sang the whole way, of their seven elder uncles who lay cities low and feast on the blood of men. They sang of their mothers, who drank the souls of men. And then they came upon the host.
How terrible things to be afflicted by, who press themsleves close to the chest. Who’s hands hold eyes shut—pressed down and closed with dread. Who breath in all the air in their victims lungs—and without mouth, replace it with dreaming air. The draught is painful—cold, vaporous, sticky like honey but sharp as ice. Mortal life cannot be sustained on such things.
They all died in their sleep.
So Morgan crowned himself with Jove and Alexanders great laurels. And the workmen came on his spell born ship, to raise from raw stone the old temple of Mount Moni. Lustrous it was, still wreathed in clouds. The magician’s palace was painted garish colors, and the statues that loomed over it’s arcs were clownish grotesques. But finished all the same it was, and the magician slipped in the night to steal back the dreams the workers had of those oddly familiar statues.
Decades thudded past. The wheel of time brought Morgan once more to his zenith. But in his silver mirrors, his lines began to grow. His hair had lost it’s sheen—though his interweaving oils preserved it. Death’s great and terrible hound, Time, was gnawing at him. And while in other ages, solutions and safeguards to such perils were known, they were abandoned by the time Morgan rose. So he set about that second method of immortality—marriage.
He consulted many signs and stars for this affair. He brought many apprentices to help him in his laboratory—scanning for symbols, working tablets and tables. In time, he had found a woman far off, whom he knew would be a perfect wife. Her name was Lenore—she bore raven hair and eyes like emeralds, from the distant West where the Serpent Queen ruled still. Her father was a king like Morgan, although whether he knew the arts of a wise man Morgan did not know. He sent envoys, both spirits of the wind and men in flesh and blood. They reported she was good company, learned and prudent. Morgan was delighted. Only one problem remained.
The star Algol, that treacherous red eye that swallows nations whole, loomed over the best wedding night. Such an ill omen would ward off any astrologer or match maker. Moragn drummed his fingers, thinking of ways to forge or hide the omen. A storm could obscure the heavens, but the movement of the stars was known to learned men. He might call up some spirits and compel falsehood from the voices of astrologers, but that would not last—such things were not sublte to a king, who was often surrounded by exorcists.
No, there was one way he could circumvent the problem, though he was loath to do so. He gathered his belongings, and mounted his chariot—telling no one where he was going, he set forth in the heavens to Mount Moni.
The clouds, full of the grey spirits, parted as he approached. A decade had passed since he had last arrived. The statues and temples were full of buzzing sounds—hidden cicadas no doubt, lurking behind the many strange shapes.
The Wizard was no longer sitting before the fire. He was pacing with a young man, describe the various murals on the walls. This was, Morgan knew, how a teacher instructed in the arts of magic. Of course, they spoke in a language lost on him. His arrival, from the great front entrance, ceased the lesson for the time, as the magician turned to him.
“Ah, my old friend returns again. What miracle needs working this time, that you disturb Mount Moni with your steps?” the magician said, his flute in hand.
Morgan explained at length the latest difficulty. How he had considered other options, before speaking to the wise sorcerer, how he had plumbed his resources. The wizard listened carefully, and occasionally spoke a whispered word or two the the boy born under the sea goat. At last, he replied.
“A work that you are asking, so perfect to fool every oracular device against an ill omen as great as Algol, is within my power.” The wizard said—holding his hand up to stall Morgan’s delight. “However, I shall have my price. Your first child will be a daughter—surely you know this already. My own son, he lacks a bride and will have little time to find one with his studies. Your daughter marries my boy, and all will be well.”
And Morgan paused for a moment. He had, as the magician knew, considered his own fortune. He agreed, slowly, to the wizard’s terms.
So it came to pass that Morgan married learned Lenore—the dreams with gods in their splendor, who promised and explained the true mean of the Red Star. For Algol, they said, was spying on his foe men, who would be born of this union. The great cannibal of war would be undone by their daughter, the readers of stars and lineages were told. The casters of bones were given new phrases from old ghosts—ghosts they knew by title if not by name. So the wedding was arranged.
Now, Morgan lived happily. And he was happier still when his first daughter was born—in her he saw so much promise. He considered then, with regret, that she would leave for a far away place when she came of age. He kept this private from her and from her mother—for he knew her mother would despise him for decieveing the oracles, and his daughter would not understand he feared. Instead, he worked slowly.
Like a spider, Morgan wove webs of talismans through out the city. Few noticed the small markers of jade and shells, hanging from windows and walls. The markings, the carefully carved guardian dieties and beasts of the field, the running cords—most was hidden or lost. And when one had a sorcerer king, one grew used to such strange things.
So it came that, when the day Morgan had agreed upon arrived, there was a great trap waiting for the dream wizard. The sorcerer of Mount Moni, finding his son’s promised bride had not arrived, gazed down on Lanmoth. Morgan had worked his magic well, as it seemed impossible that his children would approach without some protection. So the wizard devised a more cunning plan, and called his son to his side.
Next time we’ll see the end of this tale. It got ahead of me more than I expected, and at 2700~ words, is far too long as it is. I could have edited it down, entirely removing the dialouge and just leaving the exchanges between Morgan and the wizard, but I felt those sections gave a sense of the world the characters live in and of Morgan’s own intentions and character. Next week we will have the research—and the prompt for next time, dealing with dreams, nightmares, and broken promises, will be part of the 2nd half of this story! What do you think the wizard has planned to entire the warded land of Lanmoth?
Find out here! The Magi and King Morgan Pt 2
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