“These spoken things are not the patterns themselves,” said the old one, “but merely the representation of the patterns. And yet, all is one, so they are the same. The part is the whole.”
The universe was the cave in which they sat, day after day, night after night. The cave was a part of the universe, so it was the universe. From any point in its depths, all other points were within reach.
She saw the patterns of endless repetition in the surface of leaves as she walked the forest groves… in the heaving patterns of the foothills… in the swirling clouds and eddying pools. She saw the patterns in the births, lives, and deaths of Men and Giants. Men, Giants – they were the same. As were tigers and fawns, hawks and mice, beetles and fish, spiders and wolves. All life was composed of the same Infinite Intelligence, expressed in patterns. And every pattern composed part of a greater pattern, which led to a greater pattern, and so on into Eternity.
But why did these patterns exist? What caused the unified consciousness, Eternal Being itself, to fragment into its individual forms? Ah, the question was a lie. There are no individual forms. All is One, and yet… there were the patterns.
“Who set the patterns in motion?” she asked the crone. “Who set the Great Wheel of Life spinning?”
The crone cackled.
“Men blame the Gods for this,” she answered. “But the Gods are only patterns as well.”
“Then why the patterns?”
The crone shrugged. “It is the Way of Things.”
“But if everything is illusion… separateness… diversity… patterns… all that constitutes reality, then what lies behind it? What is the Truth?”
The crone answered with a question of her own: “Which holds more power? Truth or Illusion?”
Sharadza thought first, then rose above her thoughts. They were only patterns.
“There is no difference,” she answered. “All is One.”
The crone cackled again. “Excellent,” she said. “Now rest.”
Next came the secrets of history.
“In the formless Before,” said the crone, “the idea of Form was born, and so the patterns began.”
The cave faded away and they stood in a black void pregnant with glittering stars. A vast blue-green globe floated in the darkness, reflecting the light of a flaming sphere that hovered beyond. Sharadza watched the patterns of white clouds move across the globe.
“The first patterns gave birth to the Old Breed, who moved across the world, shaping it to their whims. They floated in from the void, raising mountain ranges and carving oceans. They manifested Truth and Illusion together, and their patterns gave birth to more patterns, manifesting the infinitude of Nature.
“They created life from fragments of their own celestial bodies, to thrive and struggle and die and be reborn across the world that was their playground. Man was not the first. Nor Giants. Many were the shapes and forms that rose from the muck and spread their patterns across the continents. They built bright, shining cities which crumbled in an eon or two.”
Sharadza saw the masses of antique races moving across the primeval world, taming swamps tat›‹, slaying beasts, discovering fire, mastering the arts of agriculture, construction, the written word. Empire after empire, they crumbled to dust, each succeeding race building its monuments and walls on the bones of the last, ignorant of those that came before. In the depths of the seas amphibious cities sent coral towers into the world above, until tidal waves shattered and pulled them under. The cycles were the same – birth, progress, culmination, extinction. An endless repetition of life forms and civilizations.
Patterns.
“Ages passed, and the Old Breed grew tired of this play,” said the crone. “They went back into the void, seeking distant horizons. Others grew weary and slept, and are sleeping still in the bones of the world. Still others wove themselves into the patterns below and became part of the world they had created. Some were called Gods… others Demons… others went unknown and lost even the memory of themselves. They lost themselves inside the perpetuating life cycles they themselves had set in motion, becoming what they had guided into being and observed for so long. They forsook the illusion of separateness and joined the world, but in so doing they fell into the trap of separateness. Some were reborn as new races…”
She saw the birth of the Uduru race, bursting full grown from the sides of mountains. The Stoneborn, they were still called by some. A race of amphibians crawled out of the sea, changed by the sun and the descending spirits of the Old Breed into the ancestors of men. Some of the falling powers took their forms in deep earth-fires, coalescing into the race of Serpents, spilling flame from their great maws. These were the three races that had shaped the modern world: Giant, Man, and Serpent. Far stranger races thrived in the far and hidden places.
She saw, from her place among the sun-gilded clouds, the Age of Serpents, when Men were devoured in thousands, until the Giants came forth to battle the Wyrms. She saw the Uduru cross the blackened mountains and built their first great city, while the Five Tribes of Man split across the continent and formed the kingdoms she knew. So fast the whole of history had passed before her eyes. But then time itself was an illusion as well.
“There are those of the Old Breed who still remember what they used to be,” said the crone. “Men and Uduru call them sorcerers. Yet they do not know that many of these sorcerers live among them wrapped in coats of flesh and ignorance, limited by their own conceptions of reality. To learn the arts of sorcery is to relearn what you have forgotten.
“All Giants, and those born of Giants, carry the seeds of Old Breed power in their blood. You are of this breed, Sharadza. As was your father. As are all who walk the path of sorcery.”
“Yet men can learn sorcery as well,” said Sharadza. “Can they not?”
“For those descended of the Old Breed, as the Giants are, it comes as naturally as it has for you. As for the rest… they mumble incantations and invoke forces beyond their understanding. They think themselves true sorcerers, but such men only skirt the edges of Truth. Children playing with fire.”
“So then every Uduru, once aware of his heritage, can wield true sorcery?”
“Child, the Uduru are sorcery.” p› ‹p height='0em' width='27'›‹font size='3'›“You yourself must be one of the Old Breed.”‹font›
The crone gave her a toothless grin, and they were sitting in the cave again.
“I am one who has never forgotten,” said the crone.
“And are there others who remember?”
“Oh, yes,” said the crone. “A few… They seek to shape the world still. They weave secret patterns that bring change to the world. Theirs is an ancient struggle, a disagreement played out through a billion billion lives and numberless kingdoms living and dead.”
Suddenly Sharadza knew. The crone was not a crone at all. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I am many beings,” said the crone. “Whatever or whoever I choose to be. As are you.”
Next, the awareness of other worlds.
“The Living World is composed of four elements,” said the crone. “Fire, Earth, Air, and Water. These are the substance of the patterns in which we live, breathe, and work our wills. To see the unity of these four is the first step to mastering them all. Yet each is its own domain. Each requires dedication and study. But these are only the elements of the Living World. There are many others.”
The World of the Dead was a cipher, an illusion that existed alongside the illusion of the Living World. They were united, yet separate. To master one was not to master the other, but to master them both would be to master the Whole. Truth lay where the two met and one became the other. Neither was eternal.
The World of Spirit was a realm beyond the reach of physical forces. Only by realizing its crucial relation to the solid world could one master its patterns. Spirits often manifest in the physical world, but physical things cannot manifest in the Spirit World. An accomplished sorcerer must belong to both worlds. This might take a lifetime.
The Worlds of Past and Future were also illusions. But since all things were equally Truth and Illusion, they might be used by a sorcerer to influence and alter the patterns of the Living World. However, becoming lost in Past or Future were terrible dangers, so these worlds could only be manipulated by the greatest of mages.
The Outer Worlds were without number. Some were formless, some contained form, and others were mixtures of both traits. These were the most dangerous of realms for the sorcerer to contemplate or to meddle in. Realities wavered, shifted, and patterns could not be counted as stable or even patterns at all. Great intelligences, and great hungers, dwelled in the Outer Worlds, some benign, some malevolent. To open the way into such worlds was to risk torment, annihilation, and madness. The absence of patterns was also a pattern: the void.
The gates of these worlds were best left alone.
