“Because they were attacking my kingdom. Things got bad, after you left, Rolof. And then they got worse.”
“Have you ever considered things from the dragon’s point of view?” he asked, sharply.
“Only in a tactical sense. Why?” I asked.
“Some dragons are quite nice, once you get to know them,” he said, as if this should be common knowledge. I was starting to think Lilastien was correct about Rolof’s mental state. “You should try talking to one, instead of slaying them.”
“Our previous encounters were usually too hurried to indulge in a chat,” I said, dryly.
“They aren’t what they seem, Minalan,” he said, fixing me with a stare.
“They seem like they’re interested in destroying castles and killing everything in their path,” I said, calmly.
“It seems I have many things to show you, then,” he said, finishing his tea. “It’s clear you don’t mean me harm. You don’t want to lure me back to civilization. And I don’t think you want to linger too long near the jevolars. I think I can help you. But I don’t think it will save the world,” he said, sadly.
“You keep saying jevolars,” I observed. “There are more than one?”
“When the ancient rock that struck this place half a million years ago nearly destroyed the world, it wasn’t just any sky rock,” he explained. “It was chosen for its anti-magic properties. Because the Celestial Mothers’ magic found it difficult to affect it. Only they did – sort of. They managed to break it into several pieces, which kept it from penetrating the crust of the planet as intended. Some fell south of here, in and around the Shattered Sea. Here, there were two large pieces that fell . . . and fell off target.”
“How do you know this?” I asked, curious.
“One crashed just to the east of here, creating a large crater. There’s a lake there, now. One crashed a few miles west, a few moments after the first. It hit at a slightly sharper angle – that’s what created the vale they call the Gouge. But there were two of them. There are two of them,” he corrected himself. “They produce a field that effectively shuts down all thaumaturgic energies here. Except,” he said, rising, “in a few places. Come with me. I have something I want to show you.”
He beckoned me outside and led me up a smaller trail that led to the east and continued up the slope. It was more a game trail than designed for human feet. But I pushed up the sharper slope, following Rolof’s blue cloak.
Rolof brought me to a clearing, where the land flattened out just a bit for a few yards. Stepping off the trail, he led me to a small circle of fist-sized stones about four feet across. He stepped into the circle without preparation, then turned to face me.
“The thing is about the two jevolars, I’ve learned, is that in a few spots their respective fields seem to cancel each other out a bit. The etheric density drops – not to normal levels, but enough for a few simple tricks,” he said, producing a small, dim magelight.
It was the first magic I’d seen in weeks. I beamed.
“I have to use my witchstone to do it, but if I throw enough power into it, I can do some simple cantrips.”
“May I try?” I asked, eagerly. He obligingly stepped out of the circle, and I went in.
Nearly trembling, I withdrew the Magolith from its pouch. It pulsated feebly, but slightly brighter than it had since we came to Anghysbel.
“What in three hells is that thing?” Rolof asked, with sudden interest.
“A kind of portable molopor, or part of one, englobed in a sphere of irionite,” I explained.
“That’s impossible,” he said, frowning.
“So is snowstone, but I made that. Things have changed in our profession since you came here. We’ve advanced enchantment a hundred years or more, in the last five. This is the most powerful artefact we’ve managed.” I closed my eyes and reached out with my mind to connect with the Magolith.
There was . . . something. A tiny stream of energy. A whisper of arcane power.
My mind seized upon it like a man dying of thirst. Only, instead of the big quenching swallow I anticipated, I got a few tantalizing drops.
But it was enough. It was like suddenly being able to move your arm after being in a cast for weeks. That thin trickle of energy stirred the Magolith, I noted, and that suddenly improved the flow as the irionite as the snowflake crystal added their thaumaturgical augmentations. It was still a trickle, but it was a more robust trickle.
I absorbed the power eagerly, but not without profound effort. When I figured I had a sufficiency, I cast a simple spell, the first I’d done in weeks. A magelight formed, twice as large and thrice as bright as Rolof’s. I glanced up to see an impressive look on his face.
I let the sphere brighten and enlarge until the small bit of power I’d conjured was consumed. I sighed, straightening.
“Thanks. I needed that,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.
“I’ve never been able to get that kind of effect, that quickly,” he admitted. “That’s one powerful toy, you have there.”
“I wonder if it’s powerful enough to do a hoxter, or activate the Ways,” I asked myself, catching my breath. I felt an exhaustion I’d rarely endured since I’d gotten my first witchstone.
“What’s a hoxter?” Rolof asked, intrigued. “And you won’t be able to get into the Ways. There isn’t any waypoint in Anghysbel,” he informed me. “I have it on the highest authority.”
I chuckled. “There have been a great number of advancements in our art, since you went into exile, my friend,” I assured him. “Give me a moment. I want to test a theory.”
I settled into a seated position in the center of the tiny circle, the Magolith on the ground in front of me. In theory, it shouldn’t take much power to open a hoxter, and I had a few on me. But this wasn’t merely a matter of power. You had to have a certain level of thaumaturgical action to do it, and the jevolars reduced that appreciably along with the etheric density.
But this place was different. If the ability to draw power was reduced to a trickle, even with irionite, this tiny crack in the jevolars’ field might give me enough potential room to approach that level. Think of normal magic as wading across a room with ankle deep water. Doing magic here – even the simplest sorts – was more like wading across a room in chest-high mud.
But I am persistent, and the one tiny taste of magic compelled me. There were ways I could, theoretically, improve the situation with even a little bit of magic. There were thaumaturgical spells designed to manipulate those forces, in small ways. We used them sometimes in enchantment. Simple ways to buttress our control of the energies we used. Methods of compounding our efforts with clever exploitations of thaumaturgical laws.
I tried a few small spells, at first, the kind that require very little power. If I’d been working with just a witchstone, I don’t think I could have done it. But with the Magolith and a little creative thaumaturgy, the tiny crack in the field became fortified. The etheric density became – temporarily – a little lighter. The flow of power from the Magolith improved – still not to the level even an unaugmented mage could manage, back in the real world, but here? It was as if I was creating a cocoon of possibility in the midst of a vast field of negativity.
I was pleased with myself, until I tried to activate a hoxter. I wasn’t certain why, but my effort to open the device were inadequate . . . just. Before I squandered any more of the precious resource, I attempted to open the Ways, using the Magolith’s own Waystone. That, too, failed.
But here I was with all of this – miniscule – amount of power, and I hesitated to waste it. The moment I stepped beyond the field, well, it would be gone. With a sigh, I directed it at the knot coral on the Magolith. Slowly, the green and gold sphere rose at my mental command. It got nearly a foot in the air before the spell exhausted the power, and it thumped back to the ground.
“Very impressive!” beamed Rolof. “I doubt I could raise single leaf that high!”
“I need to ge
t Gareth and Taren up here,” I said, shaking my head. “They would know how to classify this place. Have you a name for it?”
He shrugged. “It’s of so limited use that I hadn’t bothered. I’m one of the only ones who ever uses it. As I said, there are others, but this is the most powerful.”
“It’s fascinating,” I nodded, rising and retrieving the Magolith. “With this, I can almost do real magic,” I said, hefting the sphere. “Perhaps if I could get the conditions right, it would be of more use.”
“How would you do that?” he asked, curious.
I shrugged. “A pile of snowstone? The Magolith already influences local etheric density. I’ve got some unusual crystals that might have an effect, as well. I’ll know more when my thaumaturges take a look at it. But if there was even one small place here that allowed magic,” I said, staring at the tiny circle, “that would be . . . noteworthy.”
“It’s good exercise, if nothing else,” he said, with a tilt of his head. “The discipline it takes to even conjure a magelight is such that I’ve become better at disciplined magic than I ever was.”
“Like doing swordplay in full armor, with a couple of extra sandbags tied to your belt,” I agreed. “I’m curious to know how you will perform when we return back to the real world.”
“That’s something I am anxious about,” agreed Rolof, leaning on his staff. “But if you have defeated the Censorate, and are making devices like that, it might be interesting,” he said, nodding toward the Magolith.
“It’s powerful,” I agreed, stroking the smooth green surface between the gold bands. “And unique. I suppose that’s why Davachan wants me to meet his master. Nothing like this has been created, before,” I said, proudly.
“Davachan took an interest in it, on behalf of the Yith?” Rolof asked sharply, suddenly troubled.
“Yes, he accosted me at the hall of the mountain king and made his request,” I informed him, as we headed back to his croft. “He promised answers to my questions.”
Rolof was quiet and thoughtful for a few paces, but then could not contain himself. “I urge you to consider such an offer carefully,” he said, his voice a murmur.
“You know of the creature?” I asked, probingly.
“Aye,” he croaked. “I was made much the same bargain: a few seconds discussion, in exchange for the answering of my deepest questions.”
“Did Davachan not fulfill his bargain?” I asked, quietly.
“Oh, to the letter, and then far beyond my anticipation,” he said, as if speaking of the memory hurt him, somehow. “My questions were answered. But at a terrible cost. I went mad. Perhaps I still am, but two years ago I agreed to the Yith’s bargain, and my deepest questions about the cosmos were answered. The thing is, Minalan, you may not want those answers,” he answered, seriously. “Or if you do, you may not find the price bearable.”
“You think I should refuse?” I asked. “With the fate of the world on the line?”
“I think you should consider the matter carefully,” he countered. “Weigh the price before you make your bargain. You cannot un-ring a bell, un-shoot an arrow or unknow a bit of lore, once you do it. Trust me,” he said, stopping, turning, and putting a hand on my shoulder. “There are things about this universe that you do not want to know. But to make a bargain with the Yith is to inflict those hideous truths on your soul, and there is no returning from such an exchange. You may gain the knowledge you seek . . . but only at the price of your sanity. And that is a bargain any man should consider carefully before he makes it.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” I promised, murmuring. “Shall we join the others? I think I smell dinner cooking.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rumors of a Dragon
The lake formed by the crater from the sky rock impact is particularly breathtaking. But the true beauty there is hidden in the mind of a dragon and in the depths of the water.
From the Book of the Anghysbel Expedition
Recorded by Taren the Thaumaturge
By the time we stopped by Rolof’s croft and made our way down the slope, there were four medium-sized . . . somethings roasting over a small fire built a few dozen paces away from the body of the cyclops. There were two of the little iron pots the Kasari used to cook simmering in the coals next to the roasts. My people were standing around it as Travid turned the spit and added a few herbs to the rotating . . . somethings. It didn’t smell like beef or mutton, goat, or fowl. Indeed, it had more of a fishy aroma. Not bad, but not what I was expecting.
“We were starting to wonder what happened to you two,” Lilastien called, as she sprawled on a nearby boulder, playing more humani music from her medical scanner. She was sipping from her silver flask, while Fondaras, Ormar, and Tyndal were sitting in a triangle, passing a wineskin back and forth.
“We were waiting on the hard parts of dinner to be done,” I answered. “We had tea and discussed world events. It was nice,” I offered.
“Well, we’re having bugs for dinner,” Ormar grumbled. “Or something like that. Enjoy!” he said, sarcastically.
“They aren’t bugs,” chided Travid, as he turned the spit. “I wouldn’t serve you bugs, without telling you. Just because they have six legs doesn’t mean they are bugs.”
“They’re called fastereth,” supplied Lilastien. “They’re rare, this side of the continent, but they’re tasty. And safely mammalian. Sort of,” she added, with a troubled expression. I resolved never to ask a biologist about dinner.
“I added wild garlic, salt and some herbs,” Travid informed us. “The left pot is beans and a bit of bacon, also with herbs. The right are tubers, boiled and then roasted.”
“Where did you get salt?” Ormar asked, irritated for some reason.
“Kasari always carry salt,” snorted Travid, as he turned the spit. “What’s wrong with carrying your own seasonings? Bi Reid!” he added, in Kasari.
“The Kasari can get thrown in a desert and produce a three-course meal,” Fondaras said, as he took out his pipe. “A special magic all their own.”
“I, for one, would welcome a meal I didn’t cook,” confessed Rolof. “That’s not one of my talents. At least, it wasn’t,” he muttered.
“We were just speculating on where we would go from here, now that we’ve found our long-lost High Mage,” Tyndal said, as he lifted the lid of one of the pots to stir the beans.
“I think we should find Ameras,” I decided. “The Heir to the Aronin should have some of the answers we seek.”
“Agreed,” Rolof said, leaning on his staff. “And she will, though they might not be the answers you desire. My lady has retired to converse with the dragon,” he informed us. “They have . . . similar personalities.”
“The daughter of the Aronin likes to destroy castles and eat knights like free sausages at the tavern?” asked Tyndal, appalled.
“That is not the only thing dragons do,” assured Rolof. “Avius is a deep thinker. Complex,” he suggested.
“Avius?” I asked.
“That’s the name of the dragon who lives on the island,” Rolof explained, patiently. “Avius. Ameras finds the conversation . . . stimulating. More stimulating than mine, these days. She’s been haunting the lake for months, now, conversing with the dragon.”
“Dragons speak?” Ormar asked, surprised.
“With their minds,” explained Rolof. “That is their natural inclination. Alas, the Magosphere retards that ability. It was only after finding Anghysbel that Avius was able to converse. Once Ameras and I taught the dragon speech.”
“That . . . is interesting,” Fondaras said, before anyone else could speak. “One would think that they are mere brutes. You say they have intelligence?”
“Oh, that is certain,” the hermit wizard confirmed. “Avius is as bright as an Archmage. Just ignorant, thanks to the abuse of the Enshadowed. The dragons are compelled to destroy,” he said, shaking his head. “Compelled by pain and sorrow, ignorance and resentment. They ar
e trained like dogs when they have the intelligence of an Alka Alon. Or so Ameras informs me.”
“He sounds like a capital fellow,” Ormar said, sarcastically.
“She is quite nice, once you gain her trust,” corrected Rolof, sharply. “Ameras and I spent a year doing so. She has a much better understanding of the world, now. Without Shereul’s foul influence, the dragons would not be the menace they’re seen as. They didn’t choose this life, or these masters,” he pointed out, a bit irritated. “Nor this world,” he added, sadly.
“I’m willing to speak to a dragon,” Lilastien volunteered. “Especially if they are intelligent. They are not from this world, originally, but stolen by my ancestors to wage war on each other. I’d be interested in her – Avius? – in Avius’ perspective on the matter.”
“Great, now we’re talking to nice dragons,” grumbled Ormar.
“I spoke to Sire Koucey this year,” I reminded him. “Life gets strange, sometimes.”
“We will head toward the lake and seek Ameras tomorrow,” Rolof pronounced. “She has an encampment there, from which she rows out to the island.”
“How can we speak mind-to-mind with a dragon if there’s no magic?” demanded Ormar.
“Not all wonders in the universe are magical,” Rolof countered, sharply. “Indeed, certain kinds of telepathy are obscured by magic. They work better, in the realm of the jevolar. It’s one of the attractions to this place, for some,” he said, gesturing to the land in general. “This forgotten realm is the attic of Callidore. There are all sorts of long-lost legends lurking in the underbrush. Avius isn’t the only one who prefers it here.”
“I like it!” Tyndal assured him. “The lack of magic forces a fellow to rely on his wits and his cunning, no better than any mundane man.”
“It’s a wonder you survived the week,” Taren said, dryly.
“My wits and cunning are just fine, without the challenge,” Ormar grumbled. “I’ve felt naked since I came here.”
I suppressed an urge to tell him about the little crack in the jevolar’s domain, and how I’d greedily made a magelight. I told myself it was to keep from tormenting the little alchemist, but I think in truth it was because I wanted to keep that knowledge all to myself. Nor did I think Rolof wanted everyone to know about it. He’d entrusted me with the information. I didn’t want to abuse that trust.
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