"What do you know of magic?" The storyteller asks.
You think back to the stories you heard when you were younger still than you are now – the tales of sorcerers and necromancers, of ancient tomes and forbidden secrets, of magic born from dreams and stars and the world itself. You recall that some magicians gain their power from strange bargains with faceless beings – spirits and things that dwell in the darkness – and that it is not the nature of magic that makes one good or evil: what one does with power speaks for oneself alone.
"I know there are many different types," you respond, "and that there are as many practitioners, all distinct from one another."
"Indeed," the storyteller chirps with delight. She caresses the conch shell on her lap. "There is magic in the soil, and in the air, and in the sea from whence this treasure came. One need only learn how to focus its power, how to work in harmony with the spirits of nature so that they willingly grant their boon. My people know this, as does yours – as does every person under the all-seeing eyes of Taá and Shimreth."
She raises her arms and basks in the faint green luminescence of the gas giant. There is reverence in her words, for she is a priest as much as she is a speaker of tales, and what are the celestial spheres if not domains beyond your reach but very much within the grasp of the divine?
"Some say," she leans in closely as if she were about to reveal a great secret known only to her, "that there are ways – controversial in their time, now long forgotten – of drawing magic from the asters themselves. Whomever uncovers those ancient formulas and techniques would be mighty indeed, mightier perhaps than any sorcerer who still lives."
Then she now points to the Crimson Herald, the fiery comet of red that continues its path across the night sky, an open sore in the mantle of blackness, a fissure amongst the stars from whence spills cosmic blood.
"The coming of the Crimson Herald – the Distant Prince, as my people call it – is also the advent of curious magic. In its wake, strange things happen, and even the impossible may become possible. For some, it is an opportunity to commune with the spirits, a chance to closer to them than on any other occasion. To others, it marks the moment to make their intent manifest, whatever that may be. And how could anyone resist when its power is so alluring? Even I, nearly blind, can sense its ripples through my chitin, its wordless summon over my spirit, its short yet absolute dominion over the land and the firmament. Would you care, little one, to answer its call?"
Spider walks gingerly on the lifeless white expanse of the salt flat, a desert within a Desert, skittering on six of his eight limbs like a predator on the prowl. His every step leaves behind shallow indentations in the salt, undrinkable water surfacing from the pressure his weight exerts; he quickly does away with them, using his hind limbs to erase even the tiniest traces of his presence – no one must know he is here.
Of course, no one would think to follow Spider to this place. This salt flat is too far away from any safe travel route – be it the Caravan's or otherwise – and too close to the Stormlands, where lightning hits the same spot thrice and the wind cuts like ten thousand knives. There is no food to fill one's belly here, no shade to protect oneself from the cruel light of Taá, and even the water that lies beneath the salt crystals is anathema to life. Venturing here is a suicidal endeavor, a final destination for the foolish and the mad.
I is both mad and foolish, Spider thinks to himself. I, he designates his own identity, for the members of his order do not ever reveal their true names, not even to others of their species or to themselves: to do so would mean holding such precious secret in their mind's eye, and when the eye gazes, others gaze into it in return. Such is the Blessing of the Spiders, given to them by an unknown Hand when the world had no words yet, when shadow and flesh were not yet separate from each other and the Weaver in Red first shone its furious color against the face of Shimreth.
The sun reaches its zenith by the time Spider makes his way to the center of the salt flat, turning the blighted white in the distance into a colossal mirror that reflects the faces of the asters. Straight ahead are the incandescent blue radiance of Taá, fiery bringer of life and death; the calm greenness of Shimreth, spirals of purple and gold forming on its surface as distant storms clash mutely across its equator; and the reason why Spider has come to this lifeless wasteland, the blazing trail of the Weaver in Red.
Red.
Red.
Red.
He has heard many people speak of the comet before, some with mundane fascination, others with veiled reverence. Some see it as a child of fire, a silent light that burns in the coldness of space as a beacon of protection, for those who are lost may follow and find their way back to safety. Others say it is the color of blood, a tear in the fabric of the cosmos itself, a wound that never heals. Spider's blood is deep blue like dawn or twilight, like the place where the sea and the horizon become one, and thus he does not see his own likeness in the comet. No, for Spider the Weaver in Red does not whisper violent annunciation, nor sanctuary amidst the storm, but promises to reveal things unseen, untouched and unspeakable.
His breath grows labored as he wanders further into the salt flat, his entire form protesting at the harshness of the environment. Even under layers of protective clothing, the midday heat threatens to cook his soft innards and leave him an empty husk of chitin to be bleached by the sun and brined in his salt sepulcher. His lower pair of hands are sore and peeled from scraping against the burning ground, against the sharp salt crystals that seem intent on drinking his blood one way or another. He can no longer tell whose thirst is greater – his or that of the land on which he treads.
At last he reaches his destination: the exact spot where – according to his calculations – the comet shall pass over this very night. Yes. This is it, he thinks, and allows himself only the briefest repose amidst the mirror of heaven. There is yet much to do before the night falls.
Spider unpacks his materials. First, he takes eight wooden rods – each about the length of his forearms and likewise as thick – and sets them equidistant from one another. He caresses the symbols carved into them, feeling the subtle curves and harsh lines of the written language only he and his kind can read – another one of their secrets – and utters a prayer upon each rod. He does not pray aloud, of course. His utterances echo only in the mindscape and their result is equally unseen by those without the Blessing: now no one can peer into his mind, and no one can spy on his work. This is between him and the Weaver in Red.
Next, Spider weaves the Sigil of the Unseen Eye. It is a complex shape, requiring both prowess in the magic arts and skillful weaving; a single error in the folding of the silk, or in the joining of angles, could render the entire thing useless. Thus, he weaves it thread by thread with the precision of an artisan, using the wooden poles to hold aloft the vertexes of the mystical octahedron, his body effortlessly producing as much silk as the work demands. Angles within angles, compound eye, the eye of a prey who helplessly gazes at the arachnid predator about to mummify it alive. And at its very center, a perfect circle: the reflection of the spider's own eye gazing into itself in the mirror of life and death, an eye within an eye. What is on earth is in the heavens.
Spider finishes his work by the time the sun is down and all that remains is the faint light of Shimreth and the stars. The Sigil is complete, and although the Desert is a mirror no more, still the Unseen Eye shimmers with the luminescent echoes of the celestial concert, capturing its light with threads of silver silk.
The salt flat is still, frozen, dead; not even wind dares to break the oppressive quietude. If there are any spirits here, they are entombed beneath the lifeless salt, powerless in the face of the nearing change. The only things that still move are the comet whose flaming form grows ever closer in the blackness, and the sorcerer Spider who knows the time has almost come. A single step remains. Spider climbs onto his work and sets himself at the center of the web, the center of the Eye, the pupil of the Weaver in Red. He closes his eight eyes and waits. He waits and dreams.
In his dream, Spider knows true darkness. It is not the dark of night, for even the deepest shadows of the starless night promise the return of day. It is not the darkness of the depths below the sand, for they belong to this world and are closer to it than any who pock its face. This is the darkness of the places beyond, the places in-between. In-between here and there, where things that have substance are not the dominant lifeforms. Beyond even there, where the comet burns with cold fire. Spider sees it now, its true nature: a thing not from either realm, not from the skies above. Its magic tastes foreign as he reaches out to it. Other. Alien.
Spider feels cold. He floats in the void of his own mind, discarnate and alone. He aches to know the dreams of others of his kind, his fellow Spiders who in this very moment dream their own dreams, reaching out to each other in their slumber, their minds gathering and peering in, forming a web that covers the entire world. There is comfort in extending a hand into the darkness and finding another one to hold it. Spider, however, has cut himself off from them, and though some may notice his absence from their shared dream – their oneiric spiderweb – none, not even others of his order, will dare to seek him; they will all know what he's done, and shudder.
It is closer now, the comet, the Weaver in Red. Spider can see it so clearly as to perceive the cracks and pockmarks on its jagged surface, the small particles that tear off its form and evaporate into its blazing trail, a fire so cold yet so hungry that it slowly devours itself. One day, when stars begin to fall and even mighty Shimreth is an unlit corpse orbited by an empty moon, the Weaver in Red will finally eat itself whole, and nothing will remain of it but the phantom light of its own destruction. Silence will outlast all.
Spider has foreseen this. Spider knows the future that will be, the one that trumps and subsumes every prophecy and omen, every fate and destiny. He is here to lay down a different path, to carve a Way out for those who are yet to be born and whose inheritance is darkness and dust.
He was warned not to do this. The elder Spiders told him that the ritual could break the world, change it in ways he cannot predict. Baleful consequences may arise from his actions, for a door leads both ways and may be opened from either side. He has no means to know awaits beyond the threshold of the world, and that is why he has come here – to the dead stillness of the salt flat – so that no one will suffer if he fails.
The Weaver in Red is now in position, its burning form perfectly aligned with the Sigil of the Unseen Eye. Its light is all-encompassing, an absolute red that swallows even the light of its fellow asters. Spider sees it in his dream and opens wide his arms. He lets the cold fire embrace him, and he embraces it in return.
Pain surges through Spider's astral form, his physical body straining under the duress of his spirit. It is not the pain of burning flesh, the agony of all-consuming hunger ravaging the body into ash. It is not the pain of misery that poisons and kills the heart, the instrument of those who seek to break and dominate. No. It is the pain of one who stands against the very forces of nature and finds himself overwhelmed. The comet is not cruel, nor kind, nor giving. It is not benevolent, nor evil, nor caring. It simply is, and that alone is too much.
Spider has not taken the full brunt of the Weaver in Red; he has not harnessed the full power of its magic. He has merely clasped a fragment, a spark so tiny that it fits within a grain of sand yet threatens to crush him under its weight. He struggles, his limbs almost giving in, his spirit about to burn to nothingness, but he knows that he must finish the ritual. He must create the Door.
Spider focuses the last of his strength into pure intent and pours it over the spark that coldly burns in his mind. He visualizes his purpose as the fire devours it, as the cosmic flames roar into a firestorm and takes shape, the backlash violently rippling through his soul, through his body, through the Sigil of the Unseen Eye and through the desert within the Desert. He wants to let go, he aches to let go, but still he hangs onto the only thing that makes sense in the maelstrom of magic and fire, onto the only solace he has left as his very soul is seared like paper beset by flame. Spider screams, and the cosmos screams with him.
By light of dawn, truth comes to the mute and sterile salt flat. In the middle of the blighted white, sparkling like a drop of blood on alabaster skin, is a single octagonal block of crystalline red. Carved upon its smooth, polished face is the Sigil of the Unseen Eye, the Door to the unknown, the gift of the heretic Spider.
Under the stern gazes of the asters, the comet continues its path towards the horizon, leaving behind the child of its strange magic. Onwards burns the Weaver in Red, the Crimson Herald who has witnessed it all.
"And so, the Spider's web is finished, and the Red Door stands amidst that unknown salt flat, waiting to be opened anew."
"Anew?" You ask. A knot is in your stomach, your throat dry as you swallow hard.
"Indeed," the storyteller says with ominous mischief. "Where do you think, little one, that Spider has gone? For what better way is there to know if a Door works… than to cross over yourself?"