In good Faith
To Jurian Cornelissen,
First and foremost, thank you for showing interest in this project. It is true that the situation has proven more nuanced than we first expected. A wholesale ban on pact magic might no longer be desirable. Still, if our own citizens can reach out to these spirits, and reach an accord with them, we need clear ways to govern those dealings. I expect it will be impossible to enforce any of our laws on an interplanar scale. But at least where these pacts affect our own demesne, we need rules in place that protect and serve our citizens' best interest.
For this project we are currently getting support from a hierophant of the Crown Temples, and a theurge of House Dreilandt. But their experience with these spirits is as distant forces at best, or purely theoretical at worst. You, however, have met them. I think your insight in these matters will be invaluable. With that in mind, I ask that you please be candid in your descriptions. For technical clarifications I can ask the others in my team. But from you, I would want to hear what it is really like to deal with these entities. How they interpret law between themselves, and how they interact with us.
Now, the first thing I would want to know is: How does a lawyer without any magical capabilities keep their wits about themselves when they come face to face with those entities?
In honoured service,
Annemiek Smalbrugge
-----
To the esteemed Councilwoman Annemiek Smalbrugge,
I am happy to hear I've made an impression on you. Enough so that you asked for my help in this project. And though I will gladly share my perspective on these matters, I have to admit your first question is quite a complicated one to answer. I have spent the past few years of my life meeting up with Warlocks and cultists, mediating between them and their benefactors, and observing the power my clients obtained from their pacts. There is no better way to render the fantastical mundane than to revolve your career around it. So I struggle to describe the feeling of it all. The best I can think to do, is tell the story of the first time I crossed that threshold, hopefully getting a grasp of some of the things I felt then and putting them to writing.
This all happened briefly after the Ghalaunach case, which I suspect is the same case that put me in your sights. That case did much to help my career. For starters, most of what I earned from it was used to acquire my new office. The building was as narrow as my victory in that case, but it was as large as it needed to be, and at least it got me out of my apartment. The walk to the market-square was a great way to mentally separate my free time from my working hours, and granted me the time to appreciate the fortuitous location of my new place. After all, the market is where deals are forged and disagreements are born. And my bureau, in the shadow of the weigh-house, was conveniently nearby. I had spent the last few days giving free consultations. During these, a lawyer meets with prospective clients to discuss the viability of their case: How will I be able to help you? How much might that cost you? If I cannot help, what other legal actions would it be worthwhile to pursue? For those who cannot afford to hire an attorney unless they win their case, this offers an opportunity to assess their situation and get legal aid they might otherwise never have gotten. For the lawyer, this is a great way to get more clients. So far, this had been working out well that day. At one time I'd be busy assessing the prenup for an upcoming wedding. At others, settling a border dispute between an Elven dignitary and the descendants of the humans to which they sold land some three-hundred years prior. Right after, I might be assessing the validity of an NDA between an Dreilandt Wizard and a paid test subject. I find myself thriving in that variety. The calculated unpredictability. It keeps my days interesting, and gives me a glimpse in ways of life I might never have considered otherwise. And if that is what I most appreciate about this job, I was in luck on that day. After a brief break and realigning the stack of business-cards on my desk, I called in my next visitor.
One word immediately stuck out in my mind when I took in the sight of him: Waste. Both in the sense of something needlessly discarded, and something extravagant slowly withering away. His clothing had clearly been expensive when it was first made, but by now excessive wear had faded the rich blues and reds, muting their once eye-catching contrasts. The fabric was worn thin to the point that I could count the threads in some places, if only he would stop fidgeting for long enough. Clutched to his chest was a leather messenger bag caked in mud of various hues. The skin of his neck and face hung loosely off his skull, as if he had made a recent and abrupt retreat from a previously lavish diet. And though his hairline was still favourable, his dark tresses were only thick and luscious in the places where he had not anxiously torn it out. It made me wonder what other signs of mutilation I might find beneath his faded clothes. But one thing that didn't quite seem to fit with the rest of this dishevelled image was his eyes. They were sharp and alert, a deep and glossy brown. They were the eyes of a gambler in deep debt. Sunken, yet glistening. Knowing full well they had to win this- And knowing they just might.
As I invited him to sit down, he introduced himself as Jonas de Goede, and even before he touched upon the seat he felt the need to confirm if I was indeed the lawyer who represented the cult of Ghalaunach. There was something about the manic yearning in the question that unnerved me, and despite the impatience I heard in it, I decided to pause. I found it interesting to see that his eagerness dissipated when I denied his assertion and would not come back until I explained myself; that case had only seen a few, narrow victories, but one of them was that this particular corporation was officially deemed to not be a cult. Truth be told, I found his response unsettling. But nonetheless, I asked him to explain his own troubles to me. This, at last, drained him of his manic excitement, as well as of the colour in his face. He leaned forward, his sunken eyes widening as he told his tale.
Jonas had once been a student at the St. Hubrecht academy of natural sciences, right here in Taven. Here, he chased after an understanding that he knew would never be his. Because no matter how much he learned about the natural forces, there was no professor there who could explain the supernatural. Nobody that might teach him the secrets of magic. After getting his degree, he reached out to the Dreilandt house of Shapes. But, as expected, the magisters were not keen to share their secrets with an outsider, and saw no value in inducting him in the mysteries. Most would have ceased their seeking then and there. But I did not get the sense I was looking at a man that knew the difference between acceptance, and giving up. No. Instead, he scrounged up whatever funds he had left after his studies, and spent them on a scholarly pilgrimage to Thrua'valamh. I admit I feel a twinge of jealousy when someone visits my maternal homeland while I barely even speak the language, but alas. It is true that the Elves value freedom, and place far fewer restrictions on those with a thirst for knowledge. Only that one can afford tuition. Something Jonas must have realised when he spent his last copper on getting himself to the other side of the continent. Indeed, he never intended to enrol in the Elven academies. Looking over the tall, slender spires of the Elven border-cities, he knew that within its minarets dwelled not only tenured professors and students, but also alumni performing their own unnameable experiments, in the name of that same freedom that brought him here. Experiments that would take up too much time from these masters of magic to bother with mundane chores. In short, they might be in need of an apprentice.
At this point, I suspected I understood his troubles. He had found his mentor, but as is so often the case a wizard considers their apprentice to be an unpaid servant rather than a student. I asked him if he was regretting the terms of his tuition. His face lit up, as if my question had given him the excuse to speak truths he was not certain how to bring up otherwise. I asked him if these terms were noted down on a contract, to which he nodded again and dragged his heavy satchel onto his lap, smearing some of its fresher mud over his tunic as he rummaged through it, and pulling out a thick, hidebound tome. From between its pages, he took a single sheet of thin vellum. I recognised it as the signature page of a contract-document, the rest of which I suspected to still be in his satchel. As the page passed between us, ambient light shone through the thinly scraped material, casting a discoloured shadow on my desk.
This contract constitutes a written agreement between Fimbr'zhuul (hereafter referred to as 'the Patron') and the undersigned (hereafter referred to as 'the Warlock'). By signing on the dotted line, willingly and knowingly, the Warlock declares that they have read and understood this contract and the relevant reference material, and that they agree to all the terms and conditions therein.
Upon signing this contract, the Warlock shall receive both the raw infernal energy necessary to power the feats listed below, as well as the knowledge necessary to channel this energy into the corresponding effects.
1. The Warlock shall, upon the performance of the correct rites as detailed in section B.47, be able to understand the literal meaning of any Language (as defined in Section A.12), be it heard, read or otherwise observed. The Patron cannot be held responsible for any misunderstandings that take place while this Spell is in effect. Exempt are those mistakes that arise from a lack of knowledge of any extant Language on the end of the Warlock. This spell does not decode messages, nor reveal any subtext or double meanings.
2. The Warlock may bind any of the Spirits within possession of the Patron to the air of the plane occupied by the Warlock. This binding may last a consecutive period up to one hour, during which this Spirit shall possess limited animation. The entity may perform menial tasks at the command of the Warlock but possesses no magical abilities of its own. The entity can only exert enough force to carry a mass equivalent to three days' worth of horse feed and may not maintain planar consistency at a distance beyond 16 ell from the Warlock.
Additional perks may be rewarded over time, if the Warlock shows enough promise to make this a worthwhile investment for the Patron as described in Table 3 of Subsection H.12. In exchange for these perks as well as those mentioned above, the Warlock gives up their otherwise decreed sempiternity, giving up complete ownership of their accrued Divinity and its corresponding vessel over to the Patron. This exchange shall take place only in direct response to the Death of the Warlock, defined here as 'such a time as when no physical vessel currently anchors the Warlock to the Material Planes, as would lead to the judgement of the Warlock's soul were it not for the interference of this contract'.
Jonas de Goede
--
I had to read the page twice to decipher enough to form a suspicion, and a third time to confirm it. This was no agreement between a student and teacher. This was between a mortal eager for understanding, and a powerful devil with the means to supply it.
This hadn't been my first run-in with forces like these. My previous client, the Ghalaunach Corporation, had indeed been accused of cult activities, allegedly worshipping entities like these. And though I myself had helped them draft their contract, I was not looking forward to facing one of these monsters in a more adversarial setting. I must have remained silent for longer than Jonas was comfortable with because I saw him start to squirm in his seat before he broke the silence.
"Mistess Th'alarol is a gifted magister, but she wasn't a very patient teacher. The thing she had captured in her study, though… The imp. It promised me things. Great things. And I made the mistake of agreeing. Please… Can you help me?"
Now, I won't bore you with my deliberations. Just know that they lasted for a long time. What matters is that, in the end, I did decide to take his case. Obvious, perhaps, for if I had not this wouldn't have been a story worth writing. During that first meeting, we discussed the source of Jonas' dissatisfaction. Over time, as Jonas mastered the secrets described on the signature page, his patron deemed him worthy of further insight. As his power and understanding grew, new pages would appear in his tome, detailing further rites and rituals. Over the next several decades, Jonas peeled back the veil that obscured the world he loved. The world he longed to know. As his knowledge deepened, he learned to see past the illusion of 'chance'. Seeing patterns in the seemingly random formations of clouds, or the shapes of sand on the beach. But he also understood more and more the nature of his contract, and the mistake he had made in signing it. The price for his knowledge was described in the text as his 'accrued divinity'. But hapless, humble Jonas thought himself clever, and assumed a term like that could never refer to him. But as he learned more about the nature of this world, and dealt more with the power of his patron, he learned what that power ran on. That 'divinity' was something we all carried in us. Not a potential we could reach, but a spark we could nurture. That it was the fiend's term for what we normally call the soul. And the more Jonas learned of the realms of his patron, the more horrified he became at the prospect of spending eternity there.
At the end of our meeting, I gave him my card, with both private and professional contact information. Over the next few weeks he would demonstrate his powers for me to scrutinise; both those mentioned in the initial agreement and others that he had earned later on in his career.
--
Luckily the documents referred to in the main body of the contract were all compiled in the thick tome he carried with him, allowing me to keep them close at hand during Jonas' demonstrations. I would flip through the manuscript, reading the promised capabilities of the spell, after which he would read the incantations and we would measure his results, searching desperately for any discrepancy between his deals and reality. But alas. Jonas truly was capable of wondrous, magnificent things, all fitting perfectly within the parameters his tome described. At the end of every day, he would go home sullen. And at the start of the next, he'd look that bit more hopeless. I now understood how he had let himself fall to the dishevelled mess that first entered my office, as the listlessness had drained that initial spark from his eyes. Every time an idea popped up, closer inspection proved it unviable. But as desperation set in, ideas became harder and harder to dismiss. Over time, increasingly ridiculous ones were flitting through my skull like moths, distracting me from the exhibition of power in front of me. There was one particular, nagging scheme I simply had to test, just so I could put it to rest. I looked at him as he recited spells from his tome as usual, holding it like an orating politician might hold notes written by someone else. I stood up, and as I so often had, asked if I might have the tome again.
"Why? Have you found something?"
"I'm not sure yet." I replied. I didn't look into the book for discrepancies this time. I placed it, closed, on my desk. "Now, please do that again. What number am I thinking of now?"
As I had expected, he hesitated. "I haven't exactly mastered that trick yet." He admitted. "Could I quickly read over the diagram again?"
There it was. I closed my eyes and sighed. If he had just managed the spell, I could've dismissed my ridiculous notion. I knew this would never work in a material courtroom. But what else was there?
"It shouldn't matter whether you have it in front of you, right?" I started. "As per the contract, you were given the knowledge needed to cast your spells."
"Well, I was. They're in that book, no?"
I shook my head. "No. There is information in that book. It only becomes knowledge when you study it."
I could see his face light up. I quickly raised a hand to calm him down, not wanting to stir false hope. "Though, I have to add, no judge I know would consider that argument. They'd say that both parties knew full well what the text of the contract meant. Thus, as per the 'good faith' law, the spirit of the contrast would need to be honoured. Unless you actually believed the knowledge would be magically beamed into your skull." I said, chuckling tiredly.
But I could tell that upset him. "And who's to say I didn't think that? We're dealing with some demon or spirit granting me mystical power already. Why could I not have thought I would just wake up one day with more knowledge than I went to bed with?"
I sighed and shook my head. "And yet you went along with that 'obvious mistake' for over twenty years, only seeking to nullify the contract after you realised the true cost to yourself? No, no. It'd be dismissed out of hand." I sighed, running my hands through my hair. "It's an awful argument. But I have to admit, right now it's also the only one I can think of."
He sat down in front of me. We both knew there would be no further demonstrations today. We just looked past each other for the rest of our session. Throughout that time, I couldn't help but wonder: Could a devil be expected to bargain in good faith?
The next few days went by in a blur. I spent them preparing for a court-case in a system I was unfamiliar with. I still only had the one argument to make, and nothing with which to back it up. My desk was a mess of crumpled papers, half-written notes and scribbled messages, all surrounding a single empty envelope.
Transportation was another thing that would worry me, but Jonas insisted he had that handled, so I tried to put it out of mind. But I found that the issue continued to bother me until I asked him about it. It was then that he explained to me how he and his Patron normally kept in touch. Fimbr'zhuul and Jonas had never met face to face, instead handling communications through an intermediary spirit. The imp he had met while still apprenticing under that Mistress Th'alarol in Thrua'valamh. This reclusive magister had summoned the imp and captured it. Its essence sealed into a glass bottle and kept for questioning, to learn about the plane that had spawned it. I imagine that this wizard considered the imp to be just a source of information, to be regarded with the same care, respect, and empathy as one might a book. But to Jonas, this fiend was a kindred spirit; Captured in servitude and wishing for more. The devil would capitalise on this perceived bond to buy its freedom, and offered Jonas a deal; "Free me, and I will bring your wishes to my master, so that you may rise above yours." Shortly after the container had shattered, its mischievous prisoner had disappeared into flames, and re-appeared in similar fashion some time later bearing the contract that would seal my client's doom. Now, he had called out this exact fiend again, telling him he'd like to challenge the contract's terms. This would be enough to assure our transport. Though I could not pretend to be prepared for the manner in which it would be done. I had expected a ring of fire to open up in the air before us, or perhaps to see a blinding flash of light and then be elsewhere. But our teleportation was even more sudden than that. One moment we were both in my office, as I dejectedly reached for the nearest piece of paper. The next, we were simply there, with nothing to mark the transition other than the sudden change in atmosphere. I could only swiftly stuff my prize into the envelope, before trying the insurmountable task of taking in my new surroundings.
The overwhelming silence of the courtroom was pure enough to let me hear my own blood rushing frantically through my ears as my heartrate had picked up. Two thoughts chased one another in my head; first that this place was a far cry from the great pit of fire and brimstone the temple had primed me for; the railings made from dull metal rather than the mangled, still suffering bodies of sinners. The second thought was, if that had been my expectation then what had ever made me agree to come here? Later I learned that the trial would not take place in the hell our adversary inhabited, but rather in a realm without allegiance. A place of order and judgment on a planar scale. The location made me deeply uncomfortable. Nauseous. Though I did not quite figure out why, that day. In hindsight, I think the subtle wrongness lay in its geometric perfection. It was enough to make the architect-mages of House Dreilandt weep in inadequacy, never to pick up a quill again. The walls, benches, floor and ceiling were all grown from the same block of indifferent metal, unadorned and devoid of the discoloration of thousands of anxious paces to and from the witness stand. The place was sterile and immaculate, the dimensions and layout of the room was perfectly symmetrical. Even the air, if there ever was any, was devoid of any dust that had not filed the necessary forms to be allowed here, allowing me to see with a clarity I find myself getting nostalgic for back home. I found I could not look at any square inch for too long, my eyes wandering until they fell on our opposition. No introductions needed to be made. Lounging with a menacing carelessness by the defendant's table sat an entity wearing a gaunt, deathlike shape. Its skin was the icy grey of a hypothermia victim's, tapering off to a frostbitten necrotic black at the extremities. It was stretched across the creature's bones thinly enough to let observers fully appreciate the mistakes in its skeletal structure; arms and legs disproportionately long even for its stretched out frame, and too thin to hold as much strength as I suspected they did. The being's skull reached towards the ceiling, its parietal oddly flattened and peeling back its skin to rise above it like a convex crest of black metal. The only thing it had in common with the demons described to me in sermons was its set of elegant horns, but the way that the skin at their base had cracked open to reveal the skull they sprouted from seemed to imply they did not belong on this head. Next to Fimbr'zhuul, whom this simply had to be, fluttered a small and emaciated looking creature. Its red skin and tiny wings aligned a lot better with my expectations. When I turned to Jonas to confirm whether this imp had been his liaison, I saw that all colour had drained from his face, and realised that his visible terror must mirror my own. To my question, he simply shook his head and raised a trembling finger to Fimbr'zhuul's hand, which I only now noticed was wrapped in a sleeve of red leather. Before I could ask for clarification, the fingerless glove spasmed in a way completely unrelated to the hand within it. Clearly, the fiend took the occurrence of this trial as a personal failing on the part of his underling. The creature must have noticed me staring. Its head swivelled on its neck to face me, its cold eyes locked onto mine. I saw the skin around its mouth crack as its lips curved into a position they clearly weren't used to. Wordlessly, but politely, he inclined his head. As if wishing me luck. I found myself helplessly returning the gesture.
Things came into motion before I fully realised court was in session. I did not notice the judge coming in, though it is just as possible that they were simply part of the hermetic chamber. Most of their body was a seamless continuation of that same grey metal. Yet their arms and fingers moved with the fluidity of flesh, which was even more true of their oddly supple lips. If any part of the being was organic, I could not distinguish it from the rest. Perhaps it all was. Next, as if heeding a summons I was unaware of, Fimbr'zhuul rose and spoke with the voice of singing ice, with sonorous echoes simmering in the depths of otherwise melodious clarion tones.
He was concise and precise, allowing the passionless malice in his tone of voice to be felt rather than heard. The facts he spoke were so inarguable, I felt like an idiot for even being here.
"Jonas de Goede signed this contract of his own free will, without duress, and knowing the consequences. In so doing, he has stated he understood the terms. And I have held my end of the bargain. He is capable of all the magic I had promised him." As he paced and moved his arms for emphasis, his motions were languid and serpentine, sometimes making me wonder where exactly the joints of his wispy limbs were located. He went methodically over every feat of magic Jonas had demonstrated to me in prior weeks, forcing my client to confirm that he was, indeed, able to perform them. Never had I seen someone be so humiliated by their own ability.
When he was finally done speaking, still I was not bidden. I simply felt the ensuing silence last too long, and become too oppressive, for me to be able to maintain it. I stood up and felt my voice tremble meagrely. Anything I could say felt inadequate. I remembered my only argument, knowing that if I were this judge, I would not even want to hear it. But what else could I do? I stood up, and spoke my nonsense.
"Despite all claims to the contrary, your Honour will find Fimbr'zhuul to have been neglectful in his duties. Though my client is indeed capable of all the feats that their contract has promised and more, their own studious nature is to be credited for this as much as the power with which their Patron has imbued them. For while the Patron has granted the power needed to cast the agreed-to spells, they have not given the requisite knowledge."
My voice trailed off and I fell silent, expecting to be challenged. I wasn't.
Looking at my opponent, he just peeled back thin lips to reveal teeth that were sharper than the last time he bared them. There was a bemused look in his eye, as if my floundering was somehow endearing to him. But if he would let me continue to speak, I would.
"No. The contract clearly states Fimbr'zhuul, in his role as Patron, will grant both knowledge and power- But while the latter has been observed, the former has been wrongfully substituted with information! That is all that can be found in my client's tome. Information. Which does not become knowledge until my client spends his time and energy to study it!"
The feigned amusement melted off the devil's face, its features drooping downwards into a cold, impassive face. The depth of his eyes fixed firmly on me. I should have probably been terrified of the antipathy they exuded, but at that time I found that hatred comforting. It told me that I had a chance here. Any sane adjudicator would rule in his favour, but this court was far too normal to be sane. . Instead, the fiend's delayed response argued that "There is no meaningful difference between the two. Insubstantial wordplay is no substitute to a legal argument. It was a kindness of Us to express Our thoughts in a language that wet meat can recreate, but in that limited tongue of yours 'wisdom', 'knowledge', and 'information' are all the same. When a lector recites before a flock of your young, are they not said to impart knowledge? Though by your logic, they only list off information. All that matters here is cold data. That was promised, and that was given. From my mind, to de Goede's. Whether my medium is speech, paper, or the soul should be of no consequence."
Fimbr'zhuul's mouth moved with the approximation of speech, yet I heard the words bouncing from the walls of my skull just barely out of sync with his motions. I knew that my next statement would be the last of this debate, for I had none left beyond it. My fingers wrapped around the envelope I had brought and I looked across the chamber, feeling a warmth of my own making spread through my chest, dismissing the cold he had brought. When next I spoke, it was with an anxious mania that made it hard to modulate my voice.
"I would like to call Fimbr'zhuul's attending imp to the stand."
When I had first considered this approach, I had thought I might call the Patron themselves to the stand. But right now, I was afraid he might see straight through the paper of this envelope. Calling the judge, who so far had been a silent observer, seemed equally unwise. My client? Biased. So this pathetic, desperate creature was my only choice.
I walked over and handed the creature the envelope. "This here is a gift. I bestow it unto you. Now, would you please tell the court what message is written in that letter?"
The imp hesitated, and looked over to its lord. Fimbr'zhuul's expression of silent rage was unmoving. This was in stark contrast with his body, around which his lanky arms were wrapped in a visible attempt to keep himself in place.
The imp shook its head. At which point a single strike from a gavel rung through the room. The creature understood the judge's order, and reached for the seal of the envelope. But I raised my hand to stop the creature, and I swear to this day, though my back was turned to Fimbr'zhuul I saw the rage in his deep pitted eyes as he grasped the metal desk in front of him hard enough to dig long trenches through it.
"Objection. I request you do not tamper with this piece of evidence. It ought to remain in its current state; unopened. Simply tell me what is written inside if you will? That is all."
The imp hesitated, its bony fingers dancing over the seal. He opened his mouth to let out a shrill objection of his own, but no doubt saw the same sight I had seen. The silence returned and ruled for a long time. Even Fimbr'zhuul's demolition of the desk had not been granted permission to pierce it. I eventually say, "If you cannot tell me this, I am done with this witness."
The imp nodded, and as Fimbr'zhuul had nothing to ask his servant, the imp returned to the bench.
"I admit, I do not know how omniscient the members of this august body are, but I believe your Honour understands my argument?" I say, the question more genuine than I had expected it'd be. "The witness could not say what was written within the envelope, because I had never granted him knowledge. I had only given information, which is a key ingredient in knowledge. But they are not equivalent. I repeat, Fimbr'zhuul has granted my client access to information, but my client is the one- By his own effort, who turned that into knowledge."
Immediately, my attention was drawn to the sound of knives dragged through ice. Fimbr'zhuul's blackened claws dug into his own shoulders, harrowing deep furrows as they travelled upwards along his neck. His bony fingers reached over his jaw and past his lips, as if they had to physically wedge his mouth open before he could speak. But the sound that erupted from him wasn't anything I would call speech.
Our arbiter. There was simply a single, echoing strike of the gavel, and Fimbr'zhuul was gone. After, the judge simply took one infinite instant of time, after which it spoke with a voice too velvety to come out of something so rigid. So absolutely devoid of fanfare as if to mock the unchecked emotions that had raged here earlier; The contract between Fimbr'zhuul and Jonas de Goede was deemed invalid, therefore retroactively null and void. As far as interplanar law was concerned, it had never happened. The imbuement of power that had stretched out Jonas' capabilities was to be undone, but the book… The information he was granted was never part of the deal, as my argument had proven. It was deemed an unrelated gift, thus allowing Jonas to keep it.
--
We were brought back to my office as abruptly as we had left it. Looking at the sun through my window, we had been gone for either an exact multitude of 24 hours, or no time at all. Simple air had never tasted so sweet to us before, and we both wept tears of relief, melting in each other's arms when we realised it was over. Jonas was free. Though he now lacked the power to repeat his spells, he still had the tome with information, and the knowledge he had earned himself. And in the end, that knowledge is all he wanted. From what I've heard, his experiences opened an avenue of negotiation with various mage-clans that would love to add his newfound expertise to their roster. He might have an apprentice of his own, now. Though I hope he would keep them away from any bottled imps.
Though, on the topic of imps: The following day, I cleaned up my desk, and looked through the drafts of notes to put into the envelope. I wanted to write something that could not easily be guessed, but was deadly afraid that whoever I'd pick as a witness would just read my mind. So perhaps it was for the best that I picked blindly and nervously. But, looking through my notes now, I couldn't help but notice all my drafts were still present. And as I re-aligned my knocked-over stack of visitation cards, I suddenly wished I had chosen a bit more carefully after all.