As with most stories that take place in this universe, this one starts with a pentacle.
It's a rather unusual pentacle, however. Although it features all the basic components- flourishes, runes, and most importantly an unbroken edge- it then branches off into a web of intricately-knitted wires, twisting together in some places to form thick bunches and breaking into a thousand tiny tendrils in others. They snake away from the circle into the plugs of machines which line the walls of the room. They're fairly primitive, featuring more buttons and dials than keyboards and screens, but they have a business-like, competent air about them, which suggests that while they may take a while to do it, they fulfill their function perfectly.
It's a dangerous business, to meddle with the pentacle, and the spirit contained in this one contemplates how many people must have given their lives to ensure this design's proficiency. However, it only contemplates it briefly, firstly because human life has never really mattered much to it, and secondly because it has realised it is not alone in its prison.
The pentacle in which it now resides is connected by a blossoming network of cables to another pentacle. The spirit, quick to recognise the symbols associated with the magician's trade, sees that those which adorn this adjacent circle look more like symbols to trap than to protect. This might make sense if the pentacle held another spirit, but instead the figure which stands trembling slightly within its confines is human. A female human, to be specific, dressed in a neat yet unassuming ensemble which marks her out as a person who, while not a magician, is still fairly near to the seat of power. The spirit has only been summoned a handful of times, and therefore cannot read human emotion without difficulty, but still manages to read the fear which radiates off her body, that lurks quaking in her eyes. After all, it's used to this particular reaction.
What it's not used to is the fact that this particular human is trying to overcome her terror. Magicians' behaviour when afraid is very different; they either use it as a whetstone for their anger and attack, or attempt to flee. But this woman does neither, although the anger is there, clenching her fists against the shaking and setting her mouth in a grim line. It never breaks her control over her body, though, as it is so wont to do to magicians- the eyes which gaze at the spirit are as cold and unyielding as rock. She may be afraid and furious, but she won't let either emotion master her.
From a point outside the spirit's line of sight comes the fluttering of pages, and it turns to see a magician in yet another pentacle, shuffling through a clutch of notes. He's perspiring slightly, letting his cowardice rise up and devour him from the inside out. He's dropped a sheet now, and in ducking down to retrieve it almost breaks the circle. Almost, but not quite, and the spirit feels the sharp spike of anticipation which dug momentarily into its essence release its bite, leaving behind a nagging ache. It ignores this, however. There will be other times, other mistakes, and it's quick enough to both spot and take advantage of them.
The man begins to read aloud, in a husky, breathless voice. The spirit listens attentively for the slip of the tongue that would so naturally rise from the quagmire of anxiety he's engulfed in, but he's been trained well, and although his voice quavers and his breaths come sporadically, the words pour out of his mouth in a smooth, steady stream.
The words themselves are fairly unremarkable, in that they are simply the spirit's name. Most spirits have fairly short names, names which can be called and responded into quickly, as befits a slave. This particular spirit's name, however, is long and ponderous, stretching out across a winding trail of syllables. It wonders, sometimes, why the magicians never take the hint. If it's that hard to say, maybe there's a reason you shouldn't say it.
However, now the magician reaches the end, and suddenly the instructions become a lot less regular. For a start, they're not about the summoner. They're about the woman, who still holds her unyielding stance in the other pentacle, even as droplets of moisture leak from her eyes and her teeth sink deeper into her bottom lip in a hopeless attempt to stem the flow. Commands to bind and safeguard, it sounds like, although the words wind and twist around themselves as the magician doubles back to seal loopholes and add sub-clauses, until the orders are knotted and woven together like tangled string. The spirit tries to catch every word (though not necessary for the instructions to be binding, attentive listening is useful for finding weak points in the summoning), but the magician's hoarse speech is accompanied now by a sudden flurry of activity from the machines which surround the pentacle. Their displays flash and blink with a dazzling glissando of coloured lights, accompanied by a literal glissando of whining electronic tones and the whirr of processors. And still he keeps going, drawing the bonds of the contract tighter and tighter, until finally he ends with a gasp and reaches to loosen his necktie.
The spirit's essence hangs motionless in the pentacle for a brief moment, as the commands constrict and tether it. When the spirit looks back on it, it will be able to picture every detail- the magician's sweat-moistened fringe damply catching the light- the technological aurora borealis that surrounds it, flaring and fading in a slow, almost dream-like patterns- the dew-like glimmer that shines in the woman's steely eyes.
And then there is throbbing heat and darkness and a screaming, pounding fury, that surges upwards into harsh, blazing light.
Author's note:
Hello again! As always, reviews and comments are welcomed with open arms.
