The Red Scrolls of Magic

And there was one other thing.

“If I’m not having fun now,” Magnus replied, “I just have to try harder.”

“Ever since you found out who your father was, you haven’t been the same.”

“Of course not!” said Magnus. “I’ve been inspired to create a cult in his honor. A cult to do all the most ridiculous things I can think of. It’ll either fail spectacularly, or it will be the greatest prank in history. There’s no downside.”

This was not the way they had spoken, hundreds of years ago, but the memories had bent and changed over the years and both he and Ragnor spoke in the words and idioms of the present day. Memory was a funny thing.

“That was meant to be a joke,” said Ragnor.

Magnus pulled out his fat money pouch and upended it. Hundreds of hacksilver spilled onto the table. All the thieves in the tavern went silent.

Magnus’s whole life was a joke. He’d spent so long trying to prove his stepfather wrong, and now it turned out his father was a Prince of Hell.

He raised his arms over his head. “Let’s have a round for everyone!”

The room erupted with cheers. When Magnus turned back to Ragnor, he saw that even Ragnor was laughing, shaking his head and drinking deep from a fresh mug.

“Oh well,” said Ragnor. “I have been able to dissuade you from your terrible ideas, by which I mean literally all your ideas, exactly none of the time.”

If Magnus could make everyone else laugh, surely he would feel like laughing himself. If he was enough fun to be around, he would never be on his own, and if he pretended he was all right, surely that would become the truth.

“All right,” Ragnor continued. “Let’s say you did start a joke cult. How would you go about it?”

Magnus grinned. “Oh, I have a plan. A fantastic plan.” He flicked his fingers, causing electricity to spark and jump to the scattered coins on the table. “Here’s what I’m going to do . . .”

The colorful wooden walls of the inn, decorated with weapons, shields, and animal heads, melted away. Ragnor, along with everyone else in the inn, turned to dust. Magnus was left looking forlornly at the empty space where his oldest friend had been.

Then he was in a different room on a different stage, in a different land, asking a crowd if they had ever felt lonely, if they had ever wanted to belong to something bigger than them. He was drinking red wine from a chalice, and as he waved a hand across the room, he saw everyone else’s mugs fill with ale. Magnus called upon the name of Asmodeus, and the whole roomful of people laughed with wonder and delight.

The ceiling dissolved into open sky, the chandeliers into hundreds of blinking stars. The wooden floors layered with plush rugs turned into green grassy fields marked off by rows of manicured bushes, a fountain on one side. Magnus raised his hand and noted the champagne flute half-filled with bubbly gold.

“Great Poison!” his followers chanted. “Great Poison!”

Magnus made an intricate gesture, and then a table appeared filled with drinking glasses stacked in the shape of a pyramid. White wine flowed from the very top, filling each glass as it cascaded downward, creating a beautiful waterfall. A huge cheer erupted, sweeping the crowd, and the sound almost swept Magnus’s heart along with it.

He toasted to their recent successful raid on a corrupt count’s treasure, and their distribution of the treasure to hospitals. His cultists were scrubbing city streets, feeding the poor, painting foxes blue.

All in the name of Asmodeus.

The cult was a joke. Life was a joke, and the fact that his life would never end was its bad punch line.

Magnus walked to the giant pyre burning in the center of the gala. The crowd, who were on the edge of their seats, all linked hands and fell to their knees when the larger-than-life shape of Asmodeus appeared high above them. Magnus had spent most of the week working on this illusion and was particularly proud of the result.

He expected the crowd to cheer again, but they were silent. The only sound was the crackle of flames.

“Isn’t this a special occasion,” said the giant, shimmering white Asmodeus to his faithful worshippers. “A bunch of fools being led by the great fool, setting a puppet of me above them in a foolish parody of worship.”

The gala grounds were as still as the dead after a battle. All the followers were silent on their knees.

Oh. No.

“Hello, son,” said Asmodeus.

The bright, dizzy whirl of motion Magnus was in jerked abruptly to a halt. He had mocked the name of Asmodeus, mocked the idea of worship. He’d wanted his actions to blaze across the sky, to fling defiance at both his fathers.

Magnus had done all this because he knew that no matter whom he called, nobody was coming.

Only somebody had come. His father had come to crush him.

Magnus found himself frozen, unable to move even a finger. He could only watch as Asmodeus stepped out from the pyre and approached him, unhurried.

“Many have worshipped me,” said Asmodeus, “but seldom has my name been cried so loud by so many. It attracted my attention, and then I saw who their leader was. Trying to reach out to me, my child?”

Magnus tried to speak, but his jaw was clenched closed by some unknown magic. Only a thin moan slipped out from between his clenched teeth.

He met Asmodeus’s eyes and shook his head, very firmly. He might not be able to speak, but he wanted to make his total rejection clear.