Eye of Darkness (Part Four)

“The Ivra have been gone for two thousand years!”

“A children’s tale!”

“Unprovable rubbish!”

“MY LO-O-ORDS!” A commanding, barrel-chested voice came rolling out over the clamor. The assembly, cowed into silence, looked around in wonder. The burly scholar had risen to his feet. He smiled, bowed, and said in a more normal voice, “And ladies.” He removed his eyeglass. “I assert to you that History declares the Ivra do exist, but that they have withdrawn themselves from contact with the other races for some time now. I further submit, on my own opinion, that if they have chosen again to interact with us, it would be on a matter of gravest import. I, for one, would like to hear what this Dunwolf has to say about this meeting of his, before I come to any further conclusions.”

The old man at the podium bowed his head politely.

“I thank you, Master ...?”

“Belmok. High Master Belmok.”

“High Master Belmok.” He seemed to be fixing the name in his mind. The Morg sat down again and resumed his examining attitude. Dunwolf went on.

“This Ivra appeared to me, gathering itself out of the air, as it seemed …”

A very pudgy, gnarled Master near the front interrupted.

“What did it look like?”

The old man looked annoyed.

“Very much as the tales have described them. My masters, if you will let me tell my story first, I will gladly answer your questions after. I’m sure you will have many.”

Crett hopped to his feet. “Silence, please, until our guest is finished,” he commanded flatly. He fell back into his chair, job accomplished, and resumed a neutral air.

“I thank you.” Dunwolf went on. “I have to admit I was startled. Old instincts kicked in, and I struck at the figure with my hoe.

“It passed right through the Ivra as if it were made of smoke. I was stunned, and almost responded in my surprise with a blast of power, but it spoke calmly to me, not at all provoked by my attack, and that grabbed my attention. It was speaking a very old form of Orthic, and in trying to understand it I lost my fear and realized what my visitor must be.

“It said …” the old man paused. “Some of you here may know something of Ivran nature, but others may not. The Ivra, to us, appear to be smoky, insubstantial, ghostlike. They are not. In many ways they are tied to the world in more complex ways than we are. It is this … articulation that allows them to move through solid objects like a swimmer through water. To them, we are the smoke they are passing through. Nevertheless, they do have material bodies, at a very … refined level, which they can condense down to appear to us.

“Matter,” the old man sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “Matter, because it is so slippery to them, means almost nothing. But power, life, magic … these things affect them in ways that we would … that I find hard to imagine. To them, that is solid, that is the reality of the world.

“Animals and plants, to them, are a quiet hum. Simple, calm, an easily navigable stream. But a city of Morgs, a village of Men, even a tribe of Ghamen, is like the screeching roar of a flock of starlings trapped in a winter storm at sea. It is one of the reasons that they have removed themselves from close contact with the other races. But magic is like a brick wall to them, solid and serious as a sword. And this Ivra has found a new, veritable pit of magic, like a blot of blindness, suddenly formed in the North.”

“The North! What in hell was it doing there?” Master Crett barked, unable to contain even himself amid the sudden gasps and murmurs. “Was there some kind of … dealings?”

Dunwolf raised his hands and shook them as if to tamp down the outrage.

“You misunderstand the nature of the Ivran covenant that they have made for their race. It is basically non-interference, a sort of distance they put between themselves and the struggle of light and dark. They observe, they learn, they ponder, but they do not help anymore, they do not interfere. In their unique relationship with creation, they came to the conclusion that it only brings suffering to the Ivra and those they try to help.”

“And yet this Ivra came to you.” Belmok’s shrewd voice came cutting through the rumble of Masters muttering to each other.

“The way it was put to me,” Dunwolf said, picking his way carefully. “That is, as I understood it, was that I was chosen for this contact as a medium way. I was alone, and thus easier to speak to. I was a wizard, so my magic stood out like a spike in his vision. But my magic was the very reason I could not go on this mission.”

He cleared his throat.

“There are many areas of power in Forlan, some natural, some not. That one should have suddenly formed is a matter of great curiosity to this Ivra, who seems to be young for the race. This phenomenon may be spontaneous, but its nearness to Thoravil argues a more dangerous origin. If I should approach it, with my magic, dangerous alarms may be set off. If the Ivra extends power into it, it will almost certainly be disrupted, with unknown results. To put it crudely, a rather simple tool is needed for the job, and I thought of the Morgs.”

“Now let me explain,” he added quickly to the wave of indignant mutters. He raised his hand and began counting off fingers. “Morgs have no magic, no special powers to draw the attention of those with eyes to see. Morgs are strong and tough, more so than any other race, and such strength will be needed. But most of all, Morgs are clever, shrewd thinkers with nimble curious minds, and there are none more shrewd or curious than those here at Tronduhon Library School. I think that of anywhere that the right person for this quest will be found, it is here.”

“But why should we make ourselves a … a convenience for this faineant creature?” Master Goli said, her eyes fierce. “Don’t we have enough problems of our own?”

“This may soon be a problem of our own,” said Dunwolf grimly “This place, this ‘eye of darkness’ as the Ivra calls it, is deep in the heart of the Norkult Mountains.”

Notes

This entire passage is more or less inspired by this quote from William Blake, therefore it seemed not unfitting to illustrate it from his works: “A Spirit and a Vision are not, as the modern philosophy supposes, a cloudy vapour or a nothing: they are organised and minutely articulated beyond all that the mortal and perishing nature can produce. He who does not imagine in stronger and better lineaments, and in stronger and better light, than his perishing and mortal eye can see, does not imagine at all. The painter of this work asserts that all his imaginations appear to him infinitely more perfect and more minutely organised than anything seen by his mortal eye.” – William Blake.