Illumination. Touché.

By Inger Marie Hognestad

I edged the inkwell a little to the right, not wanting to spill any drops on the parchment I’d been granted. With running eyes I studied the precious ink-blocks resting in front of me. What a twist of fate to have them here. They waited for me to start grinding them into powder and dissolve them in the water I had ready. The usurper gave me the ink-blocks this morning. When he left, I heard the guards whisper in consternation outside the door, which he locked behind him. He heard, and silenced them: “Quiet, imbeciles. He doesn’t have his quill of power. Show some backbone!”

I didn’t dare smile, just in case I was being watched. In accordance with his nature, the fool was incapable of conceiving an art where the mind is the tool. He contributed the works or the art to the quill, in simplistic analogy to his sword. So yes, the ink-blocks were ordinary ink. The water was ordinary water, and my tools were common brushes and sharpened goose feathers. That didn’t matter. It is the knowledge that gives direction. It is the hand that connects the knowledge with the parchment through the tools, which makes the difference.

Yes, they feared me, the superstitious peasants, and justly so. If I had my freedom I would have torn this dungeon down, stone by stone, brick by brick, until there was nothing left but dust, settling over their white bones. I was breathing heavily at the thought of what I would do if I could, but I couldn’t indulge in such ideas. I had to focus on the task at hand; my revenge would be better directed if aimed at the usurper. For that, I needed utter presence of mind, not futile, wistful thinking. I turned my attention back to the table.

 The cough seized me then, racking me from head to toe. When it was over I sat back to get my breath back. I was equally exhausted by the cough and by the implications of the means of retribution in my hands.

            Trembling, I took a lump of ink and put it in the mortar next to me. In its solid form ink looks almost black to the untrained eye, and the dull ominous sheen struck me as very fitting. I caressed it slowly, then reached for the pestle. The stone was chill and clammy to my touch. The ink, quill and the parchment might be powerless, but in the patterns I would craft with them lay my means to justice.

            Red was first. Red is Death. Blood. Anger. Oh yes, red comes first. I thrust the pestle into the mortar with an energy that surprised me. The block was ground to dust in no time at all, ending up in the bottom of the mortar like a thin layer of rusty decay. Taking a deep breath I poured it into a small pot, then I clasped the handle of the pitcher. It was brimful of water, but not big. Yet, my arm shook with the effort of handling it. Concentrating, I focused on pouring just the right amount of water into the pot. Too much would dilute the effect, too little would cause the red to outbalance the other colors. Very soon I had a jar of ink, ready to use, ready to focus my rage.

            I turned to the blue. Blue was… more difficult. There was a time when blue meant happiness to me. When blue as the sky meant freedom, freedom to roam at will, to study, to exert my power as I saw fit. Now it holds mostly remorse. My bodily weakness testifies to the fact that even if I still could roam the land like I used to, the joy wouldn’t be as it was. The ache in my joints would hamper me; detain me, no matter the strength of my spirit. So, yes, blue is grief and regret. It would also serve to inflict such sorrows, as only I am capable of meting out. If the usurper had not put me in this cold and harsh dungeon, my experience would be less… poignant, to draw upon for this measure. It seemed very fitting that it would in the end reflect back on him.

            When the powder had been dissolved in the water, I needed a break. Grinding the ink-blocks with the pestle taxed my strength as if I was a babe. I straightened my back and rolled my shoulders to loosen up the tension. I reached for the dirty handkerchief, a little impeded by the chains around my wrists, and sniffed noisily. Besides the rheumatism, the cold and damp had given me a permanent cold. The malice of my confinement had also removed every shred of warmth in my heart, leaving it old and hard. It certainly had eroded my leniency toward those of lesser power, and I rejoiced in the thought that soon I would see compensation for my years of waiting. Soon, I promised myself.

            The shuffling from a kitchen-slave bringing food interrupted me. The young girl was a sorry sight, in rags, yet she was remarkably able to find her way, despite her handicap. All the slaves were mute, deaf and blind. My jailor had let me know that, no doubt in order to demoralize me. I would get no chance to win anyone to my cause. Now that all soon is over, I must admit to myself that he succeeded for a while. For many hopeless years, all I contemplated was the structure of the stones in my prison. What irony. I, who used to write dissertations, which scholars of the world flocked to read. What a waste.

            I returned to my work as soon as I had finished my leaf of dry bread and the water accompanying it. I treated myself to a small smile at the thought of my jailors arrogance; demanding his personal letters written by me, using the greatest sorcerer the world had known as his personal scribe. His excuse was petty. I saw the pride lurking in his eyes, the delight at commanding me to do his bidding. I was merely surprised that it had taken him so long to work up the courage for it.

            When he left my cell the evening those weeks ago after letting me know what he wanted, I wowed to the power of Illumination that I wouldn’t leave the chance unheeded. I would tear him down, yet. I had pondered day and night on how it would happen, and my plan… well, not that I had the ink, my plan was looking at its fulfillment.

            Yellow was the next ink-block that I turned to. Its dirty color didn’t reveal the brilliant hue I knew was hidden within. I patiently crushed it to fine powder, used the water, and could add the jar of yellow ink to the red and blue. I took a second to consider use of yellow in my undertaking. Yellow is, even more than blue, a color of happiness, light and warmth. As such I would only use it as contrast. Bright, happy yellow would serve wonderfully as the inversion of my intent. I realized the smile playing on my lips must have been cruel, but you, whoever you are, should understand that the years have given me reason.

            The last ink-block I had been given was ordinary lamp black. I would use it sparingly, only applying it on the fine lines meant to give direction to the eye, it being too mundane to serve my arcane purpose. Of course, I would use it on the ordinary script, on the words that would make up the body of the letter. They might talk of war and peace and treaties as much as they liked; those words were still insignificant. -No, not quite. They served as disguise, and as such I had used them cleverly. I nodded to myself, satisfied with their content.

            Still, I lacked an ingredient. It might, and might not, prove critical. The color that would create the effect I needed to assure myself of success was gold.

            I knew I wouldn’t get it until the last. I had to convince my jailor of its usefulness before he would take what he considered a risk. Even now, after the demolition of our universities and schools of higher learning, gold still carried connections to the obscure arts. Oh yes, I knew that he feared me still, he, like the peasants. He was merely cleverer hiding it, and too full of himself to take heed of his own misgivings.

I stretched for the parchment in front of me, already filled with the fine lines outlining the design I had agonized over, day and night, for weeks now. The letter consisted of only three paragraphs, but they were brilliant. They had to be, for their number could not exceed the numbers of letters needed for the spell. I had convinced the usurper of their content, now I must convince him of their innocence, and most importantly, coerce him into reading the message.

Writing the letter was a dangerous task. The spell I was attempting had to my knowledge -due to its inherit peril, never been executed before. I admit to pride. I also confess that this is why I now record my actions and events as they happened. To make the result of my research available for the next generation of scribes is to crown my revenge with the triumph of my life as a scholar.

What of it? If anybody read this, I have succeeded.

I picked up the brush I would use for the calligraphy, intent on doing away with the ordinary letters first. I filled the brush with the black ink, hesitated nary a moment, and put it to the parchment with elegant, yet efficient, strokes:

ear Minister, I wrote. I had struggled to get my jailor to allow the informal tone, and he had finally accepted my arguments. I continued: This is a matter of great importance to Us. We advise you to reflect on it to be illuminated the way We have been.

Yes, I smirked as I wrote that line.

I continued through the paragraph, and jumped several lines down before starting on the next.

nternational relations, as well as the repute of our nation, dictate this course of action. Little did the fool know that the repute of our nation never would be made by the likes of him, but by the knowledge he scorns and fears.

I finished the middle paragraph and turned to the last, again jumping several lines down.   

mpires depend on these principles. We charge you with the responsibility of applying them, fully confident that you are capable. We will see victory before the autumn is over.

Indeed. I quickly finished the paragraph, signed it with Drese, Supreme King of the Richerlands, and set about to do precisely his bidding, but differently applied.

The design of the three starting letters resembled each other. It had to, considering that I expected the king to bring a mirror when he came to check what I wrote. He might tell his subordinates that I was harmless, but he didn’t seize the throne without certain cunning.

Using a mirror is the most common method of thwarting a spell aimed at an unsuspecting reader. It would leave the letters powerless, yet readable, by a person sufficiently trained in the art of reading. To avoid its foiling effect I therefore had to be clever.

I solved the problem by working with inverted design and reversed script. Accompanying each clearly outlined character there was a shadow made of blood and grief. It faded against the dominating yellow of the plain letter, but served as a tempering undercurrent. Most importantly: it would show up correctly in a mirror, enticing the reader to pick up its meaning without conscious effort.

I concentrated furiously while I worked. Since I constructed the spell to take effect on anyone reading it, I could not allow myself even to think of its consequence when I looked at it. Herein lay its danger. Every fiber of my body yearned for its execution. It required immense discipline not to let my mind touch upon its meaning, not to allow myself to contemplate what I attempted, not even to subconsciously spell out its echo.

Actually, I was aided by my condition. Every odd minute I had to put down my brushes so not to soil the parchment while I coughed. Every other half hour I had to take a break to rest my trembling hands. I used the pauses to enter the state of meditation, which I had neglected for so long. Now I reaped the reward for my long years of practice.

So I meditated. Then I worked. Sometimes I slept, and whenever the mutilated slaves brought me the food, I think I ate. I sang while I worked. My voice had once been a pleasant baritone, an instrument I could use in my teaching and experiments. Now it was merely a cracked whisper, but I didn’t care. It was still my instrument, but while it before served to catch and keep the attention of an audience, it now served to provide my mind with distraction. I hummed the most obscure melodies. I even whistled. I paid just enough attention to fill in the right areas with the necessary color, then I wrenched my attention away from my predicament and filled my mind with inconsequential memories. And I succeeded! By the power of Illumination, I succeeded!

After days of intense work, running eyes and aching fingers, I found myself looking at the finished letter, the three paragraphs starting with their appropriate illuminated letters, creating the perfect spell. Of course, at that point I couldn’t allow myself to contemplate my achievement by resting my eyes on it, as it was most capable of killing me and thus deprive me of the knowledge of success.

One little detail remained, though. The gold. Strictly speaking, gold isn’t necessary to effectuate a spell, but I wanted it to make sure I circumvented any defenses the King might take pains to erect.

When using gold in an illumination, you use real gold. There are red gold, yellow gold and white gold. While they are interchangeable, a good sorcerer knows when to prefer one shade for another to enhance the effect of his work. I wanted red gold. The red gold would add an ominous touch to the reflection of those who looked at it. It was what I needed.

Now, the unlearned may think that gold in Illumination is used merely because it makes the pattern prettier. Not so. Gold, by its nature, is reflective. Used properly, it intensifies the power of the spell, catching light, concentrating it, and sending it deep into the mind of the reader in flashes of brightness. Illuminating. Mind you, I didn’t need it for the sake of its power. The spell I was crafting was absolute; either it worked, or it didn’t. However, the reflection properly applied to an inverted pattern… It would test all my theories on the nature of light and the source of magic, and should by rights make it impossible to avoid the effect of the spell by anybody able to read words of one syllable. Even the usurper knows as much.

I was interrupted in my musings by rattling keys at the door. Time for stale bread and water again. I took the opportunity to lift my attention to the color balance of the middle letter, using my anticipation for the food to lock out any subconscious attempts toward constructing meaning of the image. The color-scheme seemed good, but might be enhanced with a touch of red.

The door creaked, and the moment I heard the steps on the floor, I realized I was wrong about the food. It was the usurper, on an unexpected visit.

I turned my sore eyes toward the sound, knowing full well how I must appear to him. Old, rheumatic, balding to the point where even the traditional ponytail was endangered, the beard white, unkempt and dirty. I knew I reeked too, but I was too familiar with it to notice. Drese was too much of a warrior to bother with finery, and merely wrinkled his nose a little. I guess he had smelled worse on the numerous battlefields in his warring days. His obese figure clearly told that those days were long gone, but all his finery and learned manners couldn’t hide the soldier beneath.

“Usurper,” I greeted him as usual.

“Cousin,” he replied with disdain for my insults. “How is your work progressing?”

“Slowly,” I replied hoarsely, my voice rough for lack of practice. I lifted my hands to show him. “See these? Your dungeon almost makes them useless.” The quiver in my fingers was visible, especially when I had to strain to keep them in the air.

He shrugged contemptuously. “It is no worse than what your former King would have spared for me. And you wouldn’t have lifted a finger to prevent it, would you?” He raised an eyebrow, but I knew better than answering. It was not a matter of pride or higher moral; it was a matter of survival. I channeled all my futile rage into the pattern in my mind, and stored it there to draw upon when I could continue laboring over the pattern in front of me.

“I need this letter finished within the week.” The change of subject was abrupt, and the words startled me.

“Sire,” I protested, again showing him my hands.

The usurper made a brusque gesture. “It is not a request. It is an order.”

I must admit I almost despaired at that. In my impotent state I started to cough, and had to push my chair away from the table to avoid rocking it and spilling the ink. The King didn’t lift a finger, nor did he call for help. He did surprise me when the fit was over though.

“I’ll have my physician drop by to make you a brew to relive the cough.” I suddenly realized something must have happened to make the letter more important to him. Earlier he’d merely shrug and leave, and later having me flogged for failing to meet his deadline. I shivered at the thought. A flogging as harsh as those I had received in the first years of my imprisonment would certainly have killed me now. Silently I was grateful for whatever crisis it was that made him wish to flaunt his power by showing off his leash on me.

I bowed my head to him, not trusting my voice to carry.

“Within the week,” he repeated, and was about to leave when I remembered.

“Sire!” It came out more as a wheeze than a word. He turned and looked at me with a frown.

“What?”

“I need yet another color to make the letter presentable.”

“What color might that be?”

“Gold.” I sat back, avoiding meeting his eyes, looking at my disfigured hands. The silence stretched.

“Why is it that you need gold?” he said at last. His voice demanded a convincing answer.

I shivered slightly. “Sire,” I began, very much aware of what was at stake. “All my works of illumination contained gold. The use of gold shows the reader that the illumination is a work of high quality. Only inferior scribes, unable to afford it, would resort to substitute colors.” I suspected he knew that I was baiting him. He also knew the truth of what I said. Besides, I have never hid neither my brilliancy nor my pride, and I was playing on his vanity. If I were correct about a crisis behind this urgency, it would be even more important to him to show off his power. He would never allow anything inferior to be associated with his rule. He never had. I played my ultimate card, praying that the crisis he faced was one that challenged his supremacy: “If I don’t add gold to the illumination, there would be considerable doubt concerning the identity of the scribe.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Artistic pride, cousin? What does acknowledgement matter to you here in this cell?”

I swallowed and weighed my words. “What else could matter to me now, King?” I kept my eyes to the floor, hoping that the despair I had felt for so many years would convince him.

It did.

“Very well. You’ll have the gold.” He turned on his heels and strode to the door. When it slammed shut behind him, I sagged in the chair, my rigid muscles relaxing as realization dawned on me. He had conceded. He had signed his doom. I was limp from relief, exultation, disbelief… I’m not sure about all that raced through my heart and mind at that moment. I only knew that victory was close.

***

One week later…

Forgive me, reader, if my writing is a little uneven. I’m writing with my eyes shut. It will be the last that I write in my life, because when I open them I shall die. I will do that as soon as I’ve finished writing this warning. It will be kinder than the fate that awaits me when they realize I have killed their king.

I am alone in here, and the door behind me is open. The usurper lies dead on the floor somewhere to my right; the guard lies dead in the entryway. I think even the rat in the corner died. Who would have thought that? It certainly cannot read. This has definitely made me realize that the nature of the bond between light and magic has not at all been sufficiently explored. Someone else will have to take up that investigation; I suspect I shall be long dead before the rumors of what has passed reach the world. I can only contribute with a few important notes. The most pressing question being, if the sunray and the gold powered the illumination to the point of killing everybody in the room, - even the rat, why didn’t I die? I cannot answer that; merely offer a few facts for the scribes to come. One: I made the spell, so I was aware of its danger. Two: My sight has long been impeded by a growing grayness on my eyes. Three: I did close my eyes the moment I realized the usurper brought the parchment into the sun, so better to read it. And yes, he did use a mirror, and my guess is that the mirror reflected the glint from the sunlight in the gold in one bright flash. I fear that the inverted pattern, the reversed script and the effect of the mirrored flash in the gold did something to the light, containing the spell’s power in the reflection.

My triumph as a scholar has changed everything. I must admit it is a triumph tinged with regret. The regret is for the vast opportunities of research and exploration in which I will never participate. The triumph is the knowledge that I have brought something completely new to attention. Well, that makes my mortality neither greater nor lesser, only more immediate. How true it is that the events with the greatest impact on our lives are those beyond our control.

The parchment with the spell lies somewhere on the floor, by now the sun should have passed my little window so it should no longer be so disastrously illuminated by it, but potent... oh yes. First I wondered if the room might become less dangerous when the sun disappeared. It didn’t. As testified by the dead guard in the entry. I don’t think he heeded my warning though. There is the lantern of course, carefully maintained by the blind servants. Possibly the mirror lies in such a position that it catches the lanterns’ light and mirrors the parchment at the same time. Or maybe not. There’s no way for me both to find out, and to tell the tale.

Maybe I would have gone down on the floor, fumbled around till I fond the parchment, and destroyed it. But I can’t. My chains efficiently prevent me, curbing my impulse to even decide if I would, given that I could. Truth be told, I resent the thought. After all, the spell is my way out of my misery, as well as my way into the scrolls of history. So I sit here, scribbling down my last words in self-inflicted darkness, and wait for courage to open my eyes and receive what I so justly deserve. Illumination.

Touché, cousin.

- Illumination…I wonder, what have I unleashed on the world?