The Sigilist's Notes on the Fell Lord's Staff

Added sigils for fire blast, as the new adversary's armor reflects lightning.

Sanded off scorch marks.

At my lord's instruction, added leather for a more comfortable grip.

†

Sanded away more scorch marks. My lord still uses lightning out of habit.

Sharpened the staff's top blades.

At my lord's instruction, adjusted the grip's location.

†

Improved miasma sigils to increase range and efficacy.

Replaced the blade that snapped when fighting our adversary and their followers.

At my lord's instruction, will replace leather grip with "something that won't slip out of my hand, they nearly had my staff from me."

†

Carved sigils into the leather grip to decrease slipperiness.

Didn't voice my worry about my lord's safety to him.

†

Re-sharpened the blades.

Please let it be enough to protect him.

†

It's not that my lord would punish me. He forgives my frailties.

My desires.

If I spoke unguardedly, I do not know what would spill past my lips. Even the smallest crack in a dam is doomed to widen.

So I confine my thoughts to these notes and hide them where none can find them.

Must research a better sigil for the grip.

†

My lord has long enjoyed watching me ply my craft. When he has time, he joins me in the castle basement. He talks; I work on his staff until it becomes an extension of his will made manifest by my art.

He tells me that our adversary has pressed their advantage. My lord has lost some of the lands he had seized, bringing order where before there was but chaos.

My lord will prevail. But he worries, and thus I worry. The ache connects us, and I treasure it.

Also lengthened staff to improve reach.

†

Added new sigils. Anyone other than my lord or me who grasps it will be poisoned.

Let our adversary try to take the staff now.

†

To see my lord's face is to have your every inadequacy laid bare. The curve of his nose is an inevitability, his full lips an invitation. When I blink I see his visage, an afterimage carved like sigils.

With practice, I am able to look directly at him. It is a plunge in an icy lake, unbearable at first until I grow numb. Every time he returns to my workshop and removes his spiked helm, I must acclimate again.

Outside my workshop, he never removes that helm. I am glad, and not only because its sigils protect him. He is a language only I can read. I would not have anyone else learn it.

†

So our adversary's armor is now proof against fire? Let them try ice shards.

I labor over the sigils, working and re-working them into the staff's heartwood. Devotion wears a groove and, like all ritual, becomes its own reward.

†

I overheard the castellan today remark to a courtier that I was "excessively loyal" to our lord.

He mistakes me. Are you loyal to your breath? It is a thing that you must have whether you want it or not.

†

Our adversary's army surrounds our stronghold's walls. They hold our river. Our water is lost.

My lord plans a quick strike, trusting his skill and mine to win the day.

I fear it will not work. Other enemies have shattered themselves against the granite of my lord's will. But not this adversary.

I have one last trick, a final, desperate gambit. I have successfully created sigils of teleportation.

Other sigilists have tried and failed. Hard enough to stretch a person, turn them needle-fine, and punch them through the world's skin. It is possible only if you use their true name to reshape them. Restoring them after is nearly impossible.

But not if you sacrifice an artifact of great power.

I tell him my plan. What it costs. What it requires: his true name.

He would be a fool to give it to me. Men such as him do not trust men such as me.

Without hesitation, he tells me.

With that name, I have all power over him. To remake him. To destroy him.

To save him.

The curve of the new sigils capture the essence of who he is. When I am done, I say, "Place your hands here and here." I slide them into position. My fingers are stubby, scarred embarrassments next to his long, supple ones. "Then will it, and you will be transported away from these lands."

"Leaving everyone behind."

"And this staff. It will snap, but you will be whole."

He falls silent. "Can your sigils carry more than one?"

His gaze heats the side of my face like a conflagration. I cannot look at him. "What do you mean, my lord?"

"Will they carry you as well?"

I do not answer.

He laces his fingers through mine. "Then I shall not use it."

I forget myself and turn to him. My eyes sting. "You will. For me. For us.” And then, “Hands here and here."

His forehead is cool against my fevered brow. I do not recall how to breathe. "Hands here and here."

†

The crack is as unexpected and all-consuming as an earthquake. Stones tumble from the stronghold's towers.

Water trapped behind a dam turns stagnant. I should have remembered.

The castellan stands beside the adversary. He let them in without a fight.

The adversary squats beside where I am chained. "You abetted evil. But it is not too late. Make amends. Take me to him."

†

I shake my head but do not speak.

They drop the staff before me, broken like the castellan's vow. "You will take me to him."

Sanded away burn marks.

Re-carved sigils of power in the staff.

Attuned the staff to the adversary.

Banded the staff's center. It will not repair the crack. But it will hold. For a time.

†

My lord waits for me. I will return to him.

The adversary wishes to follow my lord? They would follow my lord through the world’s skin? I alone can give that power to them. If they give me their true name.

And then I will destroy them.

© 2021 Stephen Granade

About the Author

Stephen Granade is a physicist and writer from Huntsville, Alabama, the city with a Saturn V rocket in its skyline. His stories have appeared in Escape Pod and sub-Q magazine. His forthcoming game, Magic for Tenure-Track Profs, is coming late in 2021 from Choice of Games.