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Chapters (31)
  1. Chapter One
  2. Chapter Two
  3. Chapter Three
  4. Chapter Four
  5. Chapter Five
  6. Chapter Six
  7. Chapter Seven
  8. Chapter Eight
  9. Chapter Nine
  10. Chapter Ten
  11. Chapter Eleven
  12. Chapter Twelve
  13. Chapter Thirteen
  14. Chapter Fourteen
  15. Chapter Fifteen
  16. Chapter Sixteen
  17. Chapter Seventeen
  18. Chapter Eighteen
  19. Chapter Nineteen
  20. Chapter Twenty
  21. Chapter Twenty-One
  22. Chapter Twenty-Two
  23. Chapter Twenty-Three
  24. Chapter Twenty-Four
  25. Chapter Twenty-Five
  26. Chapter Twenty-Six
  27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  30. About this book
  31. FLAME TREE PRESS

The true mage is conceived by the cosmos, and is its fleshly incarnation. He belongs not to the human, for the instant of his conception epitomises the ancient will to reach beyond the stars and to exhume the secrets of the earth. In the womb he is privy to arcane lore, and bears occult truths into the world upon his birth. Such an one am I, and who else shall say it? Did the Christ raise the dead to stand guard at his manger? Did Mahomet split the moon in twain while he yet crawled on all fours, or was the Buddha seen to tramp the sky while still an infant? Once grown they were compelled to strut their powers to confound their followers, but I have no disciples or apprentices, nor any need of such. Nonetheless, I summoned presences whom men would name angels to watch over my crib, and my dissatisfaction with my clumsy infantile limbs sent me to emulate the flight of birds while my body played at teeter-totter to amuse my parents. My first words were in no language they had the wit to recognise, and my first steps enacted a forgotten ritual dance which those doting dullards applauded ape-like. Turned five years old, I grew alert to the whispers graves conceal, and at less than twice the age I was adept at locating those from which I could profitably learn…

Deciphering all this had cost me the best part of ten minutes – disentangling the cramped words from the inky efflorescences that surrounded and frequently obscured them. I could have thought the extravagant curlicues contained a separate message meant for initiates. No wonder Roy had given up trying to read the journal, but had Bella carried on out of perseverance or from some affinity with the material? I closed my eyes to rest them for a few moments, only to hear a surreptitious noise like a wakeful head shifting on a pillow. The pages had sagged shut, confronting me with the front endpaper as though the book had tired of my attention or found it intrusive. I had to hold it open with my fingertips on the margin of the scrawny verso and the recto that felt fat with secrets.