The Fire and the Fog
The Fire and the Fog
__________
David Alloggia
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and
events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used
fictitiously.
The Fire and the Fog
Copyright © 2012 by David Alloggia
Cover design by Lucia Alloggia
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without
written permission from the author.
Second Edition: December 2013
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the hard work of this author.
For mom.
For all the stories you told.
Contents
Icthysius
Icthysius was getting old. He felt it in his
bones when he stood, when he walked. He felt it in his lungs; in
the difficulty he had trying to draw each breath, in the dry rattle
that filled his chest at night, and kept him awake. He heard it
anytime he had to climb the long, winding stairs of his tower, the
cracks and groans in his knees and hips grew worse with every
passing day. He knew it in his mind as well; his thoughts were
slowing, his Words and his Music were losing their power, their
life. His Art was suffering as well, his hands were growing stiff
and clumsy, would no longer move quite the way he wanted them
to.
He had started forgetting things too. He knew
stories were told about him, told across the length and breadth of
Alta; he had even collected most of them into a book once. He just
could no longer remember which were real. Iris could have helped
him. She always remembered. She had always calmed his mind,
steadied his hands, helped him to work at his best.
Iris, he would never forget. How could he? No
matter what else he lost, no matter what other memories slipped
away from him, disappeared into the ether of age, he would never
forget her. She had always stood by him; through all the years he
had known her she had helped him. Now he made the long, arduous
climb up the tower stairs to the room where she lay, for what would
be the last time. The cracks in his bones echoed through the long,
cold stairwell, the only sound other than silence to accompany him
as he reminisced.
He remembered his names as he climbed the
tall, empty tower, its heights reaching into the air above the
island Kol as if to pierce the clouds. Icthysius Aedenhide.
Icthysius the Mage, the Magister. Icthysius the strong, the wise,
the powerful, the terrible. He had been called cruel, a savior, a
tyrant. He had started wars, forged alliances, hunted down rogue
mages. He had raised Kings, broken Empires. For over eighty years
he had been one of the most powerful men in all of Alta. He was
powerful enough, influential enough, to be given leave from the
Watchers; the only Artist in over five hundred years to be granted
freedom from their scrutiny.
He almost wished he had a watcher now, one to
pull him back from the brink, to keep him from trying something so
forbidden; to stop him, or to die trying. He almost wished he had a
watcher now, but he did not. His preparations were complete, and
nothing could stop him now.
‘Nothing can stop me for long, at least’
Icthysius thought as he reached the top of the tower and stood with
his hands on his knees, his head down, panting heavily as he tried
to catch his breath. Looking down at himself saddened him. Once he
had been strong, tanned, a powerful example of a man, with a broad
chest and powerful arms. Now he wore long, flowing robes, to hide
his gut, to cover his pale skin and wrinkled, age-spotted arms. No
man could escape the passage of time, no matter how hard he
tried.
He took his time before he moved again. He
loved the top of the tower, even though he rarely came up to it
anymore. The tower’s sides were open and a large, see-through dome
was held up by columns spaced evenly around the sides. His eyes
skipped over the center of the tower as they looked around. His
golden looking glass still sat where he had left it, gazing out
over the waters to the west of Kol. On a clear day, he used to be
able to see most of the Million Islands. Could he still? He could
hear the waves crashing against the rocks below, could imagine what
the Islands looked like, stretched out like a million dots of ink
spattered on a page, rising out of the pure blue waters But no, his
eyes were ageing, just as the rest of him was.
Looking out from the tower was always
beautiful. The ocean stretched out on every side, and the tower was
high enough that you could not see the island below unless you
strayed close to the edge. It gave the illusion that you were up,
high in the sky, flying over the ocean as the sea birds did.
Icthysius often wished he could fly, but the Watchers had not
allowed a Magister to try flying in centuries. Just as they had not
allowed what he was about to try.
That thought brought Icthysius back to the
present, back to the center of the tower, back to the bier that lay
there. Back to his wife, his Iris, who lay on the wooden bier in
the center of the tower.
She was old, he knew. Any who had looked on
her days ago would have seen an old, wrinkled and stooped woman,
smiling despite the pain of the years that lay heavily upon her.
Any who looked on her now would see the same, only without the
smile, without life. But Icthysius; when he looked on her, he still
saw her as she had been all those years ago when he first met her.
Golden hair shining in the sun, her slender form so supple and
graceful as she danced. Oh how she had loved to dance, how she had
loved to dance to his Music. How she had loved to dance for him.
She had had the same smile then, a smile she always carried. Until
now.
He saw her die again as he walked towards
her. He saw her as he sat in their rooms lower down in the tower.
He had raised his head from his book and looked towards her as she
came to the top step of the tiny staircase that led to their
bedroom. It was only five steps. Five steps she had climbed up and
down thousands of times before.
He saw her smile change to surprise as she
tripped somehow, tripped on nothing. He heard the snap of her neck
as she landed badly on the ground. He felt his pain again as he
watched her die. He wished he could forget it, as he was forgetting
so much else of late. But he couldn’t.
It didn’t matter though; Icthysius thought as
he reached the bier and drew himself up as high, as straight, as he
could. He pulled a large, ornate, armless wooden chair from his
robe and sat beside the bier, then pulled out an intricately carved
violin and bow.
He sat there for a time, his head bowed, his
eyes closed, as he willed himself to do what no man had done
before. He was Icthysius after all. Icthysius the mage, the
all-powerful, the Magister. No effects of old age; no failings of
memory or stiffness of joints, no shortness of breath could stop
him. He would not bow down to time, or death. He would force them
to stoop to him. He would bend even the gods to his will.
Everything else was ready. The script covered
the bier his wife lay on, covered her skin. It had taken him days
to write out what he needed, made all the more painful by the
shaking, the pain in his hands. But it was finished, all his
preparations were finished.
He would bring his Iris back.
He had to.
And then he began to play, to sing. His
fingers were swift and sure over the violin strings, his voice
clear and powerful, and all of Kol heard him play.
He’d been a fisherman as long as he could
remember. As long as anyone could remember, really. His father had
been, and his father’s father, and his father’s fathers father, and
his…and so on. And someday, his son would be a fisherman too.
It was bright. Early morning. The best time
for fishing. The sun was just rising over the coast to the West of
Rege, and he had been on the waters for a good two or three hours
already, working at his nets. There would be a good catch today, he
thought to himself absently. But at the same time, he really just
wanted to be home. Home with his wife, and his newborn son. Ragn
send his son would stay strong. He didn’t know if he could deal
with losing another child.
He should stay on the water longer, he knew.
But…he wanted to be with his son, wanted just to watch him sleep,
to look into his wife’s eyes and feel her love and warmth. It was
simple, pure, and breathtaking. The fish could wait. They would be
there tomorrow. They would always be there.
His mind made up, he hauled in his nets
swiftly. He didn’t even care about the fish he managed to bring in
with them. Again, there were more important things to be about.
It wasn’t until he hauled in and stowed his
nets, and was preparing to make for land that he noticed that an
eerie silence had fallen. Nothing made noise except for the
occasional wave lapping against the bottom of his small wooden
boat. No birds, no wind…nothing.
And then he noticed a wall of fog rolling in
from the North. Fog that should have been burnt away by the bright
morning sun. Fog that moved even though there was no wind. Fog that
felt…wrong somehow.
He panicked. He didn’t know why. All he knew
was that he had to get home before the fog. He rowed, rowed for his
life. He didn’t care if he was overreacting, or if he looked
ridiculous. He just knew something was wrong.