Khadgar started to say he did, but Medivh was already hurrying on, almost urgent in his need to explain.
“The scroll is the key,” he repeated. At the top of the message, you’ll see what looks like a date. It’s not. It’s a reference to the stanza, line, and word you start at. The first letter of that word becomes the first letter of the alphabet in the code. From there it proceeds normally, the next letter in alphabetic progression would be the second letter of the alphabet, and so on.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t,” said Medivh, rushed now and tired. “That’s the cipher for the first sentence only. When you hit a punctuation mark, you go to the second letter in the word. That becomes the equivalent for the first letter of the alphabet for the cipher of that sentence. Punctuation is normal. Numbers are as well, but they are supposed to write things out, not use numerals. There’s something else, but I’m missing it.”
They were outside Medivh’s personal quarters now. Moroes was already present, with a robe slung over his arm and a covered bowl resting on an ornate table. From the doorway Khadgar could smell the rich broth rising from the bowl.
“What should I do once I decipher the message?” asked Khadgar.
“Right!” said Medivh, as if some vital connection had snapped closed in his mind. “Delay. Delay first. Day or two, I may be up to it after that. Then equivocate. I am out on business, may return any time. Use the same cipher as you got, but make sure you mark it as the date. If all else fails, delegate. Tell whoever it is to use their own judgment, and I will lend what aid I can at the soonest moment. They always love that. Do not tell them I am indisposed—the last time I mentioned that, a horde of would-be clerics arrived to minister to my needs. I’m still missing silverware from that little visit.”
The old mage took a deep breath, and seemed to deflate, supporting himself against the door frame. Moroes did not move, but Khadgar took a step forward.
“The fight with the demon,” said Khadgar. “It was bad, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve fought worse. Demons! Slope-shouldered, ram-headed brutes. Equal parts shadow and fire. More beast than human, more raw bile than both. Nasty claws. That’s what you watch out for, the claws.”
Khadgar nodded. “How did you defeat it?”
“Massive trauma usually will force out the life essence,” said Medivh, “In this case, I took its head off.”
Khadgar blinked. “You didn’t have a sword.”
Medivh smiled wearily. “Did I say I needed a sword? Enough. More questions when I am up to it.” And with that he stepped into the room, and the ever-faithful Moroes closed the door on Khadgar. The last sound the youth heard was the exhausted groan of an old man who had finally found a resting place.
A week passed, and Medivh had not emerged from his quarters. Moroes would shuffle upstairs with a daily bowl of broth. Finally, Khadgar summoned sufficient nerve to look in. The castellan made no move to protest, other than a monosyllabic recognition of his presence there.
In repose Medivh looked ghastly, the light gone out of his shuttered eyes, the tension of life gone from his visage. He was dressed in a long nightshirt, propped up against the headboard, supported by pillows, his mouth open, his face pale, his usually animate form thin and haggard. Moroes would carefully spoon the broth into Medivh’s mouth, and he would swallow, but otherwise not awaken. The castellan would change the bedding as well, then retire for the day.
Khadgar got a frisson of recognition, and wondered if this was the same scene that played out in Medivh’s youth, when his powers first surfaced, and when Lothar tended to him. He wondered how long the Magus would truly be out. How much energy had the battle with the demon taken out of him?
Normal communications came in, written in common hand and clear language. Some were delivered by gryphon-rider, others by horseback, and more than a few came with the regular supply wagons of traders seeking to fill Moroes’s larders. They were for the most part mundane—ship movements and troop drills. Readiness reports. An occasional discovery of an ancient tomb or a forgotten artifact, or the recovery of a time-worn legend. The sighting of a waterspout, or a great sea turtle, or a crimson tide. Sketches of fauna that may have been new to the observer, but were better duplicated in the bestiaries already in the library.
And mention of the orcs, in ever-increasing numbers, particularly from the east. Rising sightings of them in the vicinity of the Black Morass. Increased guards on the caravans, locations of temporary camps, reports of raids, robberies, and mysterious disappearances. An increase in refugees heading for the protection of the larger walled towns and cities. And sketches from the survivors and the slant-browed, heavy-jawed creatures, including a detailed description of the powerful muscular systems that, Khadgar realized with a start, could only come from vivisecting the subject.
Khadgar began to read the mail to the wizard as he slept, reading aloud the more interesting or humorous bits. The Magus made no response to encourage the younger mage, but neither did he forbid it.
The first purple-sealed letter arrived and Khadgar was immediately lost. Some of the letters made sense, but others quickly descended into gibberish. At first the younger mage panicked, sure that he had misunderstood some basic instruction. After a day of littering the quarters with notes and failed attempts, Khadgar realized what he had been missing—that the space between the words was considered a letter in the Order’s cipher, shifting everything one more letter in the process. Once that realization dawned, the missive deciphered easily.
It was less impressive than it had seemed earlier when it was gibberish. A note from the far south, the peninsula of Ulmat Thondr, noting that all was quiet, there were no signs of orcs (though there was a rise in the number of jungle trolls of late) and that a new comet was visible along the southern horizon, with detailed notes (written out in words, not numbers). No response was requested, and Khadgar set it, and its translation, aside.
Khadgar wondered why the Order did not use a magical encoding or spell-based script. Perhaps not all members of the Order of Tirisfal were mages. Or that they were trying to hide it from other wizards, like Guzbah, and putting it in a magical script would draw their curiosity like bees to nectar. Most likely, Khadgar decided, it was out of Medivh’s sheer cussedness to the point of making the other members of the Order use a poem praising his mother as the key.
A large package arrived from Lothar, distilling the previously-reported orc sightings and attacks and translating them onto a large map. Indeed, it seemed like armies of orcs were pouring out of the swampy territory of the Black Morass itself. Again, no response was asked. Khadgar considered sending Lothar a note regarding Medivh’s state, but thought better of it. What could the Champion do, in any event, other than to worry? He did send a note, over his own signature, thanking him for the information and asking to be kept apprised.
A second week passed and they moved into a third, the master comatose, the student searching. Now armed with proper key, Khadgar started going through the older mail, some of it still held shut by violet dabs of sealing wax. Going through the old documents, Khadgar began to understand Medivh’s often ambivalent feelings toward the Order. Oftimes the letters were little more than demands—this enchantment, that bit of information, a summons to come at once because the cows are off their feed or their milk has gone sour. The more complementary of the missives usually held some sort of sting—a request for a desired spell or a lost tome, wrapped up within its florid praise. Many held nothing but pedantic advice, pointing out in detail how this candidate or that would be a perfect apprentice (these were mostly unopened, he noticed). And there were continual reports of no news, no changes, nothing out of the ordinary.