PART FOUR

He showed his sphere to the Sorcerer, who took it casually and surveyed it for an hour. He couldn't speak as he watched this walking container of Dark Energy pace in the dim-lit room. His energy had been restored, by the way…the Sorcerer used a spell on him that was very complex and unfathomable…but it worked nonetheless.

"Master…?" he asked tentatively.

All of his previous emotions had been replaced by insatiable curiosity. A million questions appeared out of nowhere as electrical impulses in his brain, coursing through his nerves—all waiting, waiting to be spit out of his mouth. The other half of his fevered brain knew how to control himself—he had to tread carefully—he was, after all, dealing with a Dark Sorcerer.

"I can't help you." The Sorcerer spoke, thrusting the sphere back to his hands.

It felt as if his lungs had been suddenly devoid of all tiny particles of air. He blinked slowly as if he never understood, his lips half-open. The sphere in his hands swirled gently, and there seemed to be a faint buzzing noise that came out of it. The sphere was mocking his failure—laughing at his face…

"P-pardon…?" he said softly.

"I can't help you." The Sorcerer said more clearly. "There is nothing I can do for you. The least you can do for yourself, however, is to return that sphere to the Mistress—go back to Geffen—and try to regain your life."

He was suddenly on his feet, his hands shaking as they clenched around the sphere—this damned object that cost him everything. This Sorcerer had no idea—everything—!

"I'VE WANDERED AROUND FOR FIVE YEARS JUST TO FIND YOU AND YOU TELL ME TO GIVE IT ALL UP?!" He shouted. "YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT TOOK JUST TO BE HERE! ALL I WANT IS SOME HELP!"

The Sorcerer stared coolly at him and replied, "What I have said to you is help. Pursue this pointless goal further and you'll end up like all of those who've come before you—mad, no sense of self, lifeless puppets without a soul."

"YOU—DON'T—UNDERSTAND—!" He screamed as he hurled the spear across the room, narrowly missing the Sorcerer's right ear by an inch. "YOU—STANDING THERE—YOU DON'T—!"

"It is you who doesn't understand." The Sorcerer continued. "You can't go into this path. You can't continue because you have chosen what you don't desire—because you lied to yourself. You think Sorcery is just picking up a sphere—taking the one who most appeals to you, but no, my poor puffed-up Poring, Sorcery is much more than that."

He clenched his hands into fists and stared at the sphere on the floor. The nightmares and shadows swirled ferociously again, gliding and slipping against each other. Anger rose in him now, anger for this man standing before him. He wanted to shoot him with spells, hurt him and make him take back all that he had said.

"The least you can do, however," said the Sorcerer. "Is go to Louisa."

"Louisa?" he repeated.

"Louisa de Chardin, Sorceress, holder of White Magic. It is the least help I can give you. You can find her not far from here—she resides in the city of Daema, near the Valkyrie Realm."

The Sorcerer transferred his gaze to the sphere and made it float back to him. He snatched it from midair and pocketed it.

"Go to Louisa." The Sorcerer went on. "But hear this—if she cannot help you, it best to go back to the Mistress and return that sphere. It is not yet too late for you to get back your life. Whatever Louisa says, obey it."

He couldn't answer. He knew he had to go to the Sorceress. He turned to leave, but he stopped halfway to the door.

"The Mistress told me…that once I've made my choice…I cannot turn back…" he said.

Nobody answered. He whipped around to see, but the Sorcerer was no longer there.