Perhaps it was time to be a novice again.

  As he walked through the central compound, Strange saw an enormous, ancient, gnarled tree. Dark-blue flowers bloomed from its branches, and Strange noted their beauty. It had also been a long time since he had noticed the beauty of a flower.

  Strange could hear his footsteps echo as he walked into The Ancient One’s sanctuary. She had sent for him, and he entered anxiously. He wanted to learn everything he could all at once, but he knew that wasn’t possible. What he was about to do would require otherworldly patience.

  The Ancient One sat on the floor, behind a low table. She looked very much at peace. Strange approached, uncertain. Lowering himself, Strange sat down directly across from her. The Ancient One noticed, but did not look at Strange. Instead, she picked up a brush that was resting on the table and dipped it in an inkwell. Turning to a piece of paper, The Ancient One painted what looked like a rune. The strokes were graceful, masterful, and The Ancient One’s hand moved like a spring breeze.

  “The language of the mystic arts is as old as civilization,” she said, still not looking at Strange. “Sorcerers of old called the use of this language spells.”

  Strange said nothing, shifting in his seat.

  “If that word offends your modern sensibilities, call it a program. The source code that shapes reality,” The Ancient One intoned. “We begin with a word.”

  She set the brush down on the table, then turned her eyes to focus on the rune she had painted.

  “With the word, we focus our thoughts.”

  After what seemed like an eternity, The Ancient One raised her head, her eyes meeting Strange’s.

  “With thoughts, we focus the body.”

  Silently, The Ancient One performed a series of gestures with her hand, slicing through the air. Such precision, such grace. It was like watching a martial artist at work. The hand motions were so assured, so powerful, and yet so utterly beautiful.

  “With the body, we harness the spirit.”

  She moved her hand once more, but this time The Ancient One’s fingers left a luminous trail in the air itself. She was writing runes with her hand.

  “And we make our intentions real.”

  When she was finished, Strange saw a rune hanging in the space between himself and The Ancient One. He could feel power emanating from the rune. The rune illuminated their faces, and Strange felt a peculiar warmth. Simply put, he was stunned. The Ancient One then tapped the rune with a single finger, and it faded away into nothingness. That same hand now moved even faster in the air, and produced a series of illuminated runes.

  “We harness energy drawn from other dimensions in the Multiverse.”

  Strange watched, slack-jawed, as The Ancient One thrust a palm forward. As she did, an intricate mandala of light formed, hanging in the air, as did the runes. The mandala was full of symbols Strange did not recognize, calligraphy of a language he could not read. The mandala pulsed with energy, throbbed.

  Strange’s hands also throbbed, but for once he did not notice.

  “To cast spells, to conjure shields and weapons… to make magic.”

  Without a sound, darkness overwhelmed them. The only light was now provided by the mandala, which hung before them.

  As if in response, a wind whipped through the sanctuary, ruffling Strange’s hair and robes. The mandala continued to pulse with energy, and it hummed.

  The humming grew louder. The Ancient One formed her hand into a fist.

  The mandala disappeared, as if it had never existed. Light returned to the sanctuary, and there was silence.

  “Even if… even if my fingers could do that, I’d just be waving my hands,” Strange said in disbelief. “How do I get from here… to there?”

  The Ancient One looked at Strange’s hands. “How did you ever come to reattach severed nerves, or put a human spine back together, bone by bone?” she asked.

  Strange thought, then responded, “Study and practice. Years of it.”

  The Ancient One nodded at Strange, as if to say, At last you begin to understand.

  From the top of the Kamar-Taj compound, there was a breathtaking view of Kathmandu, with the sun rising just above the snowcapped mountains, its light dancing along the rooftops. Strange turned his attention away from this beauty to the task at hand. He was studying with dozens of other students. Mordo was among them, helping lead the class.

  As The Ancient One had before, Mordo now moved his hands and body, as if performing an elaborate martial art. The other students moved their bodies in the same way, at the same time. Collectively, their hands traced the now-familiar luminous runes into the air around them. The runes were identical—the students were learning the language of magic.

  A large man walked among the students, around them, between them, surveying their every move. He had the air of an instructor—and a stern one, at that. The large man had a shaved head, and his eyes watched, absorbing every detail. His voice cut through everything as he counted out the sequence of motions required to write the runes.

  Strange watched the instructor, then looked at the other students, who were progressing well, making their runes just as The Ancient One had. It had been weeks since Strange saw her display and the mandala. Weeks since it began to dawn on him just how much he truly had to learn. And judging by his performance right now, he absolutely had a great deal to grasp.

  He struggled to keep up with the others. Forming the same motions and shapes in the air was a struggle for him. His uncooperative hands, and his miserable fingers, simply couldn’t do it. Pain seeped in from the edges, even though Strange did his best to push it out. He motioned with his hands before him and looked.

  There were no runes.

  Strange took a deep breath, and began again.

  “Time will tell.…

  It felt like he was training all day, every day, even into the nights. And that’s exactly what he was doing. He needed a break. Whereas before Strange would have called down for his sports car and gone for a long drive, speeding along highways while blasting music, he now took his comfort in, of all things, a library.

  But it was hard to think of the Narthex as just a library, Strange mused. It was a library, he thought, in the same way that a whale was a fish. Then Strange remembered that whales were mammals, not fish, and his whole analogy fell apart. But he didn’t care.

  Everything about the Narthex screamed magic. It was lined with old books, none of which existed outside Kamar-Taj. This was not the place to find the latest self-help book or page-turning crime thriller. This was a place of ancient knowledge.

  As Strange moved through the library, he found a man behind a desk. It was the same man who had been instructing the runes class, the one who had barked out the count. Strange could tell, through the robes the man was wearing, that he was powerfully built. He had a definite do not mess with me vibe about him.

  “Mister Strange,” said the man.

  “Uh, yes. But please, call me Stephen,” he responded. “And you are…?”

  “Wong.”

  “Just Wong?”

  Wong glared at Strange.

  “Or Aristotle?” Strange said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Wong said nothing, but motioned to Strange to put the stack of books he was carrying down on the desk. Wong picked up each volume, saying nothing, but examined the bindings and pages to ensure that everything was in order. It was then that he noticed exactly what Strange had been reading.

  Wong stared at Strange, stared at the gray robes he wore—the robes of a novice. Wong narrowed his eyes.

  “You… finished all these?” he said.

  Unsure of what was happening, Strange nodded. Barely a moment passed before Wong rose from his seat, then motioned for Strange to follow him. He led Strange through the Narthex, through the massive stacks of books, to a set of stone stairs.

  They took the stairs, which led to shelves full of even more ancient, more mysterious tomes. Beyond these stacks, Strange saw a pedestal, on which sat a peculiar object. It looked… like an eye? Like a golden eye?

  “This section,” Wong began, grabbing Strange’s attention away from the object, “is for disciples and masters only. But at my… discretion, others may use it.”

  Wong lifted a heavy book and handed it to Strange.

  “You should start with Maxim’s Primer,” Wong said, referring to the book now in Strange’s hands. “How’s your Sanskrit?” Strange thought for a moment. Sanskrit was a very old language, still used in certain parts of the world. Not in my world, Strange thought.

  “I’m fluent in online translating,” Strange replied. Wong paid Strange no heed, and started to hand more books to the novice.

  “Vedic and classical Sanskrit,” Wong said. Strange looked around him and saw a row of books that caught his eye. Somehow, they looked older than the rest.

  “What are those?” Strange said, jabbing a finger toward the books.

  “The Ancient One’s private collection.”

  Strange nodded. “So they are forbidden?”

  Wong shook his head. “No knowledge is forbidden in Kamar-Taj. Only certain… practices.”

  Pulling a book from the shelf, Strange looked at the title: The Book of Cagliostro.

  “But those books are far too advanced for anyone other than the Sorcerer Supreme,” Wong said flatly, almost dismissing Strange.

  Flipping through the book, Strange immediately noticed that something was amiss.

  “This one has pages missing.”

  “The Book of Cagliostro. Two rituals stolen by a former disciple,” Wong said, drawing a long breath. “The zealot Kaecilius, just after he strung up the former librarian and relieved him of his head.”

  Strange’s eyes went wide. Wong explained how Kaecilius and a group of followers, also Zealots, had been a cause of growing concern for The Ancient One.

  “I am now the guardian of these books. So if a volume from this collection should be stolen again, I’d know it, and you would be dead before you ever left the compound.”

  Strange’s eyes went wider. “What if it’s just… overdue? Any late fees I should know about?” No reaction. “Maiming, perhaps? An amputation?” Strange continued, trying to elicit some kind of response from Wong.

  No reaction.

  “You know, people used to think I was funny.”

  “These people,” said Wong, “did they work for you?”

  Strange gulped. “Well. Thank you for the books. And the horrifying story. And the threat upon my life.”

  With that, Strange picked up the stack of books and left the Narthex. The night air was cool, and it was raining.

  CHAPTER

  17

  The accident. Kamar-Taj. The Ancient One.

  It all led Strange here, to the Sanctum Sanctorum, to this moment.

  Kaecilius before him. Kaecilius the Zealot, the madman, the murderer. Stealer of secrets.

  Kaecilius, who lunged at Strange with such venom and force that it threw The Ancient One’s disciple out of the Chamber of Relics and down the staircase, toward the foyer. In a blur, the cloak that had been covering Strange moved as if it were alive, sentient, soaring with mind-boggling speed out of the Chamber of Relics.

  The Zealot ran out of the Chamber of Relics and down the hallway, then stopped in his tracks at the top of the staircase. That’s when he saw Stephen Strange, floating above the stairs, wrapped in the cloak.

  “The Cloak of Levitation,” Kaecilius said through gritted teeth. “Twelfth-century design by the weaver Enitharmon. Has a mind of its own.”

  Strange allowed a slight smile to play across his face. “I guess it likes me.”

  The Zealot raged at Strange, slashing. Before Strange could even react, the cloak yanked him backward with incredible speed. His heels dragged along the floor.

  Now it was his turn. Once more, he summoned a luminous whip to his hand, cracking it at Kaecilius. The Zealot flinched. The cloak then threw itself (and Strange along with it) into Kaecilius. Cloak, disciple, and Zealot plummeted to the ground.

  CHAPTER

  18

  I’m falling flat on my face.

  That thought raced through Stephen Strange’s mind as he trained atop the roof at Kamar-Taj once again. The morning sun beamed down on Strange and the other students. Mordo stood in front of them. He wore the now-familiar two-knuckled metallic object that Strange knew was called a sling ring. Strange and the other students wore sling rings on their hands as well.

  Each student—except Strange—carved large gateways in the air before them. The gateways glowed, luminous.

  “Visualize,” Mordo instructed. “See the destination in your mind. The clearer the picture, the quicker and easier the gateway will come.” Mordo watched Strange as he struggled to form the gateway. He turned to see The Ancient One approaching him, along with the old man who often accompanied her. The man had his hands folded in his robes.

  “I would like a moment alone with Mister Strange,” said The Ancient One.

  “Of course,” Mordo replied. His face betrayed shame—shame that Strange appeared to be making no progress under Mordo’s teaching. Mordo walked away, beckoning the other students to accompany him. The Ancient One and the old man sat down, facing Strange. Strange grimaced. He knew what was going on here.

  He was falling. Failing.

  “My hands—”

  “It’s not about your hands,” The Ancient One interrupted.

  Strange looked at The Ancient One, not believing what he was hearing. “How is this not about my hands?”

  “Hamir,” said The Ancient One, gesturing to the old man beside her.

  In response, Hamir raised his arms, pulling them from his robes. He showed his hands to Strange. Or rather, his one hand. On the other arm, where the hand should be was a smooth stump, ending just above the wrist. Hamir stood a moment, then waved his stump in the air, trailing luminous writing in its wake.

  Strange couldn’t believe it. Even with a missing hand, Hamir was creating the runes. Hamir finished his display, then returned his arms to his robes. He bowed to The Ancient One, then turned and walked away.

  The Ancient One gazed into Strange’s eyes. “It’s not about your hands. You cannot beat a river into submission. You have to surrender to its current and use its power as your own.”

  “I control it by surrendering control,” Strange summarized. “That makes no sense.”

  “Not everything does. Not everything has to. Your intellect has taken you far in life, but it will take you no further,” she said. “Surrender, Stephen. Silence your ego, and your power will rise.”

  He nodded as if he understood, but Strange was certain that he didn’t. The Ancient One stood up, Strange along with her. With her sling ring, she cleaved a gateway into the air. She walked through, saying, “Come with me.”

  Strange followed.

  Where was he? Atop a mountain. Mount Everest? They were high up, he and The Ancient One. Below them, Strange could see a valley. Above, he could see the summit of Everest, cresting into the sky.

  “Beautiful,” The Ancient One observed.

  Strange nodded as he wrapped his arms around himself. “Freezing,” Strange said through chattering teeth, “but beautiful.”

  “At this temperature the average person can last thirty-two minutes before suffering permanent loss of function. But you will likely go into shock within the first two.”

  Strange nodded again, and before he knew it, The Ancient One had stepped back through the gateway. He dove toward the gateway, but was too late—it had already closed. Strange was rewarded with a face full of snow as he landed on the ground.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” Strange shouted.

  He knew there was only one way off the mountain, only one way to avoid certain doom.

  The sling ring. A gateway.

  Strange slipped the sling ring onto his hand and began performing the gestures that would form the gateway.

  Nothing.

  Panic gripping him, Strange tried moving his hands faster.

  Again, nothing.

  Atop the compound at Kamar-Taj, Mordo paced toward The Ancient One. His brow was furrowed.

  “Perhaps I was wrong about him,” Mordo said apprehensively.

  “We shall see,” The Ancient One offered. “Any minute now.” Mordo looked at his master. Suddenly, he realized what The Ancient One had done with Strange, and where he now was.

  “Not again,” Mordo begged. This had happened before, with other students. It was a favorite test of The Ancient One’s. She smiled at Mordo.

  “Perhaps I should—”

  The Ancient One shook her head. Mordo was not to lift one sling-ringed finger.

  They waited.

  Nothing.

  Until there was something.

  A gateway opened before them. From it, Stephen Strange emerged, shivering, covered in snow, teeth chattering. He couldn’t take his eyes off The Ancient One. He was full of anger, and ready to unload on her, until it hit him: He had done it.

  The things that had been his hands… Strange had made them perform a miracle.

  He felt hope.

  The Ancient One smiled at him.

  At night, Strange found himself in his chamber once more. Standing over the washbasin, he slowly cut away at his shaggy hair, returning it to a respectable length. Then he pulled out an anomalous electric razor and shaved his face. His fingers twitched and trembled, but he pressed on. He shaped the beard.

  He looked into the mirror, at the things that… at the things that were his hands.

  They trembled. But he had done it.

  He had done it!

 

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