Chapter 9
Names Are Important
Once I would have scoffed at the tales of the Unravelled, dismissing them as mere superstition and myth. After all, even the darkest of sorcerous powers ended with death. But having seen the reality of the undead strega, I knew that the stories were more than metaphor or allegory. Still, it would have been the height of foolishness to accept the myth as truth--who knew how many stories had been told and retold, distorted in each telling. Even the immortal words of the Prophets are steeped in so much symbol and metaphor that it requires years of education to unravel their truth. How much more so are the fables informed by the illiterate superstitions of Lombardi women?
I could not trust entirely to what others told me--who knew what memories or thoughts had been altered by this woman. Who knew how far her sorcerous hand reached? Even now, I realize that my words must seem like the paranoid delusions of a madman--as some of my Inquisition brothers and sisters have become--but you must understand my perspective. Sorcery, you see, allows men to do things outside the scope of the limitations Theus dictated. But it is not magic in the same way as the djinn of Near Eastern fairy tales. It is not limitless, it does not grant wishes, it has specific, well documented, effects. And yet my own experience illustrated that this woman could do things with sorcery hitherto unseen. Reader, by this point you must know me. You know that I am no fanatic that believes if our Mother Church has not declared it be so then it must be false or some Adversary inspired trickery. But the thought of a new sorcery is truly terrifying. Not because a new sorcery would be evil--it would be subject to the same limitations as any still in existence. No, a new sorcery would be horrible because it would mean that someone managed to strike a Bargain. And that is a prospect too terrible to imagine.
At the time, I could not have known where the true danger lurked.
I knew that I needed to know more about the unravelled, not the legends and myths, but the truth. But without one to study (a prospect either too dangerous or too laced with deceit to contemplate) I would have to settle for their source. Living strega.
Now, before you get the wrong idea, it is not in me to mistreat any woman, let alone ones who are bound as near slaves by social convention. No ladies of Castilliano would stand for such treatment, such casual cruelty as these women accept and consider kindness. Nor do I view them as some sort of monstrous larval stage for the eventual emergence of unravelled creatures. No, I merely spoke to them about the manifestation of their powers.
And reached an epiphany.
Sorte, you see, is the only living sorcery that connects living beings. [the author goes on to describe other sorceries] But only Sorte directly affects other people.
And it does so by use of a your name.
Of all of the sorceries, Sorte is the most nebulous. Did the blessing (or curse) really affect the target? Or was it all merely chance? There must be more to it than mere chance, because what woman would choose to be a Strega if she had any other choice? So how does the sorceress affect the other person?
Strega speak of strands, relationships between a person and their fate. But also between other people. The strega say that they can see strands, but cannot alter them without their rituals. The kiss and the naming. I postulate that those rituals are unnecessary. That they are merely a rote tool for establishing a relationship with the person in question. Of attaching a strand of sorcery between the strega and the recipient through which she can alter his fate. And it begins with the name.
The name is the first intimacy, the most basic, and the most important. Without names there is no true relationship, no true intimacy, no trust.
I needed to find out her name.
It was a more difficult prospect than I imagined. The oral tradition of women never mention her name. She is "the woman clad all in mourning black" or "the mysterious Strega" or "the walker of Fate's road" (an alias that I only found in one tale in which she was doomed to wander Thea forever until she changed her own fate). I was rather more successful searching for her name in texts, though even there, it was as if someone had systematically searched for her name and made it illegible through acts of chance (water damage, blotted ink, frayed pages). It seemed as if someone was attempting to erase her name from history.
[he goes on to describe the details of his search, bits and pieces of the name found here and there]
Finally, armed with the truth, I said her name.
Chapter 10
Truth and Consequences
Reality and expectation are frequently only tangentially related. The Church, for example, teaches that sorcerers are the servants of the Adversary, the bane of reality. And yet most born with the taint of sorcery are simply people, living fragile lives as best they can, valued by others, not for who they are but what they can do. There is the Inquisition itself, an organization seemingly dedicated to the violent and fiery eradication of sorcery. But true Inquisitors are among the most learned and discerning of the Church's servants, dedicating their lives, not to violence but to study. And my own life has certainly not followed the path of my expectations. I expected to be no more than a monk--perhaps not quite so humble as I ought to habe been, but I was content--and yet that is not the path the Prophets have laid out for me.
When one calls upon the name of a powerful undead sorceress, one rather expects a dramatic entrance. A crash of thunder, a flash of lightning, something to indicate that one is invoking powers both dark and terrible.
The reality was far more mundane. There was a polite knock on my door.
Of course, I extended polite pleasantries--small talk, wine, a seat by the fire. After all, simply because she was a creature more daemonic than mortal, there was no reason to be impolite. Besides, I had every advantage.
You see I had deduced the reason that she had hidden her name.
The power over fate comes with a price. Whether it is in curses bound to their names or fate lashes tied to their sorcery, Destiny objects strenuously to being tampered with, and it is the Strega who pays. That the men of Lombardi would force their wives and daughters to face such suffering for their own self aggrandizement is as gross a miscarriage of justice as I have ever seen. And yet, I was about to use that injustice in order to force this woman to do my will. Did that hypocrisy make me worse than those Lombardi men? Perhaps. I do not know. I only knew that I had the means at my disposal and that my ends justified my choices. Or perhaps I am merely rationalizing excuses for my own hypocrisy.
"You will not live to regret this, Bernardo," she told me. At the time, I thought it a threat, and scoffed at her fear mongering. I knew her weakness, and if I was conflicted regarding the ethical implications of exploiting that weakness, still, I would not hesitate to do so.
"You think that Fate is so easily changed, that Destiny is so brazenly thwarted?" she demanded, "allow me to educate you."
And dear reader, what I saw was terrible. I saw the fall of the Church of the Prophets, bereft of a Heirophant, torn apart, divided, broken. I witnessed the rise of a sorcerer king, driven by madness and ambition. (he goes on to describe other events, some of which have taken place)
"You will not live to see all of these events come to pass," she warned, "but make no mistake, the touch of your hand is in all of them."
Chapter 11
Thwarting Destiny
Everyone knows--or at least anyone with an education and a portion of their wits--that prophecies are self-fulfilling. Legends and myths are rife with examples of me who attempted to cheat fate and, in doing so, merely ensured their own demise. Consider Laius, who attempted to cheat death by leaving his infant son, Oedipus, to die upon a mountainside. Then consider Oedipus himself, who sought to avoid the prophecy by leaving the home of his adoptive parents. It was by attempting to avoid their destiny that each man set himself on an invariable course, guaranteeing that the prophecy would come to pass. Had Laius never cast Oedipus off, he would never have been slain by his son. Had Oedipus never fled his home, he never would have murdered his father and married his mother. [He goes on to detail others who had been doomed by their attempts to undo the prophecies that detailed their doom] Only by attempting to thwart the will of Destiny did these men ensure that their Doom would come to pass.
If men such as those could not change the doom that Fate had decreed what chance did I stand? I was no Oedipus with the cleverness to challenge the sphinx, no Ulysses to challenge the Adversary. How could I hope to fight against the future that had been shown to me? What if that was precisely the choice that would bring those events to fruition? As a student of the lessons of legend and myth, I knew the pitfalls of attempting to thwart prophecy. If it were written in the book of Destiny, then it would come to pass no matter how hard I fought against it. In fact, given what I knew about Strega in general (and this Strega in particular), I had no doubt at all that the doom I had seen was real.
I was trapped.
Except.
Do you recall, dear reader, the tale of John Goldenmouth? The Hierophant did not seek to escape the prophecy, nor did John Chrysostom attempt to avoid the gas laid upon him. Both sought to fulfill the Fate decreed by the Woman in Mourning Black (who I now have every reason to suspect is T******). In doing so, however, they did not achieve their goals. Rather the opposite. By driving John forward, the Hierophant cultivated the weakness and uncertainty that led him to flee. By accepting the blessings which allowed him to be successful, John Chrystostom crafted his own crisis of confidence.
The solution to my dilemma was not to run from the visions the Unravelled had shown me, but to embrace them.
Chapter 12
History and Memory
No one can truly explain what it is like to live two lifetimes, to recall two entirely separate chains of events as if they were both real and true. And in some ways, they both were. Please do not misunderstand me, I did not relive my life a second time with foreknowledge of events to come, able to avoid the pitfalls of youth. The world was simply and suddenly different, and yet familiar, as if it had always been this way. I could look back on memories, see and understand all the events that had led me to this altered moment and it was natural, as if I had always been this person.
I recalled my rise through the church ranks. I remember the day the King offered up my name to the council of Ciudad Rodrigo, nominating me as Bishop. And the day that I was initiated into the secrets of the Ordo Malleus. I can still see the sunshine on the pennants on the day the Hierophant created me a cardinal priest. And the light of the candles as I delved into the secrets buried within the hidden tomes of the Church. (he goes on to detail the various events in his life)
As I sit here writing this, I wonder if reality is truly changed or if this is some trick of memory and madness. Perhaps I have always been the person who is now the Archbishop of Toledo and my memories of being an Inquisitor are entirely false. Certainly, I can find no record of such a feat being possible in any text at my disposal. Is it not more likely that my memories have been altered rather than history? Am I mad? Is my mind playing me for a fool? But what is reality but what we can remember, and I remember both chains of events with equal clarity. Fading, as memories do, in equal measure.
And then, of course, there is the box. A puzzle box of enormous complexity--a dozen of my colleagues have attempted to open it to no avail. I see it and I know that some part of what I remember is a lie, a lie so complete that it is the truth.
Chapter 13
Truth and Consequences
Z... These are the names of the sorceries granted to the Old Remian Senators. I write of them now, though they are secrets held in trust by the Inquisition--secrets that I have no right to know. I have not been initiated, have not passed the tests--though my own memories tell me that I have. If any of those who would have been my brother and sister Inquisitors discovered this text, they would destroy it as heresy--and rightly so. No being should have the power to alter history--and it is history that has changed, or I have already descended into madness--and no man should have the knowledge of how to call upon such power, as I have described in this book.
And yet I would not return things to the way they were. I can see the puzzle box in my minds eye as clearly as if it were before me. I could undo what the unravelled has done. The box, she said, will unmake her weaving and restore history to what it was. But to do so...to condemn those who live even now to death by fire. I cannot. I know now that it was my own arrogance that drove me to attempt to cheat death--not for myself, but for the blameless others who suffered in my wake. Fate was kind in this altered history, and I am loath to compound my own sin by believing that I know what is best--that further sorcery will set right what I have done so poorly. No, I will not go back. The source of my error was hubris in thinking that altering the past could set right what had gone wrong. I am done with the past. It is time to move forward, to struggle with the knowledge of my guilt as best I can.
I could be rid of it. The box is the only binding that keeps the memories from my past, my true past, intact. But in truth, I fear to do so. I do not know what effect it will have on others--what fresh temptations she might be able to offer to the unsuspecting. And perhaps this is my punishment, my purgatory, for my sins. Living on the edge of madness for the remainder of my days seems a fitting punishment for my arrogance.
Chapter 14
Coming Full Circle
On the morrow I am to be named Grand Inquisitor for the Church of the Prophets. It is an appointment made by the Hierophant himself, granted, not to an Inquisitor either current or former, but to one of the uninitiated. If this seems contrary to good sense, dear reader, I assure you that it is not. The position of Grand Inquisitor is one of power and influence, yes, but also one of judgement.
It is the Grand Inquisitor who directs Inquisitors on in their investigations, who evaluates the evidence and testimony provided, who sits in judgement over trials and executions. In short, who decides who among the many who are brought before him who lives and dies. Consider, then, the effect it would have if a true inquisitorial zealot were to take the post of Grand Inquisitor. To have someone such as that in a position of power over life and death would be intolerable. It is a necessary safeguard to have as the Grand Inquisitor a man without the prejudice of preconceived notions, a sacred trust that I believe in whole heartedly, and one that I cannot betray.
I must, therefore, relinquish my ill-gotten memories and the box along with them. I must admit, it is somewhat of a relief to know that soon I will not be teetering on the edge of madness. But I cannot entirely give up being the man that I was. I cannot let the creature who set all this in motion remain free without attempting to aid some more fortunate soul in destroying her. I have promised the box and this book to an order of monks in Lombardi. It is my hope that they will solve the puzzle of the Unravelled and do what I could not: remove the threat that she poses to the very fabric of reality.
May Theus have mercy upon my soul.
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