Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

‘And you’ve been this precise way before? How can you be sure you’re not going a different way?’

‘Why, my footprints are in the dust,’ Ulryk observed, and lowered the lantern to prove the point. Within the next hour, though, the books were no longer present on the shelves, and soon the empty shelves vanished, and the rooms became caves, then vast caverns. Beneath their feet, flagstones capitulated to loose gravel, fine pebbles, larger, moss-strewn chunks that were hazardous to navigate over in the light of one lantern, and their feet no longer tapped but crunched.

There was suddenly a change in the quality of air: it wasn’t still and confined, but stirring, bringing with it a damp aroma. And Fulcrom heard the water before he saw it, a vague dripping sound. The ground grew uneven, rising then dipping, and Fulcrom followed Ulryk’s lantern until it reflected off the surface of the water. Its intense pungency made Fulcrom question its origin.

A small river, perhaps ten paces across, was flowing.

‘Before you ask,’ Ulryk said, as if reading his thoughts, ‘no, I do not know where the river flows from. But if we follow it, you can see where it runs to.’

‘Are we under the city?’

‘Directly under the heart of Villjamur,’ Ulryk beamed. ‘Although we are probably now in a different part of reality than where we walked from. We have been travelling down for hours, yet… no paths from the outside lead here. We have gone through secret room after secret room, and travelled through a labyrinth designed specifically to keep people away. And we may — though this is merely an assumption, given what you are likely to soon see — not be in the same realm of… our usual time. So you need not worry about being late for any further investigative work.’

The priest was too cheery for Fulcrom’s liking. If Ulryk was used to this kind of weird stuff then fine — but for Fulcrom this was difficult to comprehend, even to believe. There was no logic.

‘You see,’ Ulryk continued in the darkness, ‘Villjamur — or rather, this location — predates this Empire. The city itself is a mere eleven thousand years old, and within this cave system lies the remnants of something greater. Many ley-line maps of the Archipelago have suggested there is something to be found in Villjamur, where the lines all converge. It is no surprise to find activity here that one may never expect. You seek answers to what happened on the surface last night, investigator — well, I will show you where the dead have come from. They’re not far away now. They never were.’

Silence seemed the best answer. All Fulcrom could do was absorb the information and process it steadily, like he had always done, sifting through it for some sense. Had Fulcrom not seen his dead wife in the mirror the night before, he might have dismissed the priest’s crackpot suggestions in an instant. As it was, having her haunt his room, he decided to maintain an open mind.

They continued, their feet crunching on the stone for some way before Ulryk sat down beside the river.

‘What’s wrong?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘Nothing is wrong. See over there…’ Ulryk gestured with the lantern, and even though the light was weak, Fulcrom could make out an utter blackness filling an arch. ‘We must continue along in the water from here.’

‘I’m not swimming in that!’ Fulcrom said.

‘Oh, investigator. You do amuse me. We are not swimming, we will be sailing.’

‘In what?’ Fulcrom demanded.

‘Patience.’ Ulryk said, drawing out his book — that book he always used, the one which produced magic.

‘Before you start, what exactly is that book?’

‘It is one version of The Book of Transformations.’

‘I know that, but what does it do — what do they both do?’

‘There were two, both written by Frater Mercury. This is not the one I seek, however, though it does nicely in disaggregating the world when such talents are required. The one I seek is much more powerful than this, I believe, though I don’t quite know how much they differ; but when they come together, real magic should begin…’ Ulryk flipped open the book and began to recite some words, hypnotically, and Fulcrom stood agape: the pebbles around the shore were slicking and slinking across each other, coalescing until they formed a flat, rigid platform beside the priest. A moment later, he pushed it to the water’s edge.

‘It’s quite safe,’ Ulryk urged.

Fulcrom did as he was bid and climbed aboard, stunned that it didn’t sink on its own, let alone with their added weight. The cold stones held firm, and the two eased out further into the water, until they were caught in its flow and began to drift forward. Ulryk simply crossed his legs, placing the lantern alongside him. Fulcrom drew his knees to his chest, preferring not to get wet.

The two sailed through the cavern, further along the river.

‘All will be revealed shortly,’ Ulryk declared portentously. Fulcrom seriously doubted that and felt foolish for having come this far: why was he even here, following the whim of this priest? Perhaps it piqued his curiosity, fulfilled his desire for learning new things. Was he escaping his dead ex-partner, or was he trying to find a way to make sure she would leave him alone? Of course, there was the matter of the other dead folk walking the city, and Fulcrom would have to find a solution to that.

Well, if the priest caused all this, then maybe he can give some answers.

There seemed to be more ambient light here, and Fulcrom could just about make out ruins — no, a crippled city — in the distance. Ahead were some glowing forms, tiny white phantoms, and a few more along the bank of the river to their left. Another river flowed in from the right, causing the current to alter slightly. There seemed no colour here, just monochrome shades of grey, black and white.

‘I believe,’ Ulryk announced finally, ‘that this passes for an underworld of sorts. And the little glows you see on the shore? Why those are the dead, dear investigator. This is the thing about Villjamur — it isn’t just the hub of the Empire, it’s the centre of more than that. Things we do not understand. There are gateways and connections that I cannot fathom — there were even dead portals in that labyrinth. And I believe it is here — in this rubble-strewn city — where my quest needs to continue. Somewhere, here, is the original copy of The Book of Transformations. I am sure of it.’ Ulryk’s tone changed to a more conversational one — as if he was turning ideas over in his head. ‘I have been tracing mentions of this place through my research, and all the metaphors turned out to be quite real. Rivers I took to be representative of Time, for example, but no — here they are, all flowing to this one place. Having traced my notes, I am convinced my quest will be resolved here.’

Fulcrom watched as the figures on the shore waved to them. ‘Once you get this book — what are you going to do with it?’

Ulryk remained silent. The stone raft drifted closer to the shoreline and a few of the white glows took their human and rumel forms more clearly. They stood in groups of two or three, gazing as the raft came in. The dreary, dreamlike silhouette of a broken city lay behind them — the rising towers in decay, half crumbling, if not already a wreck; walls with notable damage; black, windowless frames. Before the city, running down to the water’s edge, was a dark pebble beach.

‘My quest,’ Ulryk finally replied, ‘is simply to use the book to return its author to his world.’

‘This Frater Mercury guy?’

‘You have a fine memory, investigator. It does you credit.’

‘And just what is Frater Mercury going to do when he is back? Do you even know if he’s anything more than a myth? I get the impression a lot of this is based on faith.’