He observes the Garden. He can see himself sitting before the sorcerer, his boyhood friend behind. He knows what he must do. The flow of time about the Garden is stately, moving at rhythms matching the normal rhythm of space and time about him, but reciprocal in flow; for each passing second, a second in the Garden flows backward.
He reaches out, his mind finding the key to the timeflow, as real to the touch of his spirit being as a stone to his hand. He caresses it and feels the beat of the universe, the secret of the illusory dimension. He sees and he knows. He understands and manipulates that flow, and now for each second of passing time in the universe, two seconds pass in the Garden. He feels a calm joy, for he has just accomplished something that only recently he would have judged beyond the ability of any mortal magician. He puts aside his pride and concentrates on the task at hand. Again he manipulates, and for each true second, four now flow about Tomas, Macros, and himself. Again, and again, and again he duplicates his feat, and now for each hour that the universe ages, they flee backward more than a day. Again, and it is two days, then four, then more than a week. Thrice more, and they move at better than a month for each true hour. Again, again, and again, and soon they pass a year for each hour. He pauses and sends forth his awareness.
His mind soars across the cosmos like an eagle upon the wing, speeding between stars like the mighty bird of prey gliding past the peaks of the Grey Towers. He spies the hot and green-tinted star that is so familiar to him and for a brief instant understands. He is upon Kelewan, discovering the lost lore of the eldar. A year and more back in time have they moved. As fast as the time to think, he returns his consciousness to his personal here and now.
Again he manipulates the time flow, and now it is two years per hour, then four, eight, sixteen. Again he pauses and regards the universe.
The stars revolve in orderly fashion, hurtling through a cosmos so vast that their blinding speed appears little more than a crawl. But they move in odd pattern, their motions inverted, their travels reversed. He considers and again works upon the time frame. He is now master of this practice, possessing abilities to dwarf the wildest ambitions of even the most arrogant member of the Assembly. He is now certain of his own nature, so much more than he had thought, and he manipulates the time flow with ease. A wild thought passes through him: this is to be like a god! Then years of training surge up with the warning: beware pride! Remember, you are but a mortal, and the first duty is to serve the Empire. His teachers at the Assembly did their job well. He ignores the intoxication of his power, rediscovering his wal, the perfect centre of his being, and again manipulates the time flow. A year passes in reverse for each second in the true universe. Again and again he works his skills upon the time trap of the enemy, accelerating it beyond the expectations of those who fashioned it. Now a decade passes each second and he knows he lives before the time of his birth. In the time it takes to draw breath, he has passed back before the time when Duke Borric’s grandfather invaded Crydee. He works another pass of time, and now the Kingdom is only half its future size, with the holdings of Baron von Darkmoor marking its western boundary. Twice more he accelerates the time factor, and the nations of his lifetime are little more than villages, peopled by simpler folks than those who will give rise to nations. Again and again he works his magic.
Then the universe rocks. The very fabric of reality is rent. Energies impossible to fathom explode about him, violent beyond his ability to apprehend, and he -
Pug opened his eyes. He felt a strange dislocation about him and for a moment his vision blurred. Tomas came to stand beside him and said, “Are you all right?”
Pug blinked and said, “Something out there . . . changed.”
Tomas looked skyward. “There’s something happening.”
Macros regarded the heavens. Odd patterns of energies whirled madly across the firmament while stars wobbled in the course. “If we watch, we’ll see things calm down in time. We’re seeing this from back to front, remember.”
“Seeing what?” asked Pug.
Tomas answered, “The Chaos Wars.” There was a haunted look in his eyes, as if something in what occurred touched him deeply in a place he had not expected. But his face remained a mask while he watched the mad skies above.
Macros nodded. Standing up, he pointed heavenward. “See, even now we are passing into an epoch before the Chaos Wars, the Days of the Mad Gods’ Rage, the Time of Star Death, and whatever other colourful names myth and lore have conjured up for that period.”
Pug closed his eyes and felt his mind cold and numb, his head throbbing with a dull ache.
Macros said, “It appears we are moving at the rate of three, four hundred years a second in reverse time.” Pug nodded. “So for every three seconds, about a millennium passes.” He calculated. “That’s a good start.”
“Start?” questioned Pug. “How fast need we move?”