“I’m glad to hear that, sir. I’ve a great many things I want to talk to you about, too.”
“No doubt! No doubt!” chuckled the old man. “A thousand questions! Why we disappeared, why magic has nearly died out, why we remain in hiding, why we now agree to talk with you? Questions, questions! We won’t have time for too many before dinner, but which one would you ask first?”
“Where do you keep all the gold?” asked Gez.
“Uh, I suppose the first question would have to be why you’ve consented to speak with me, and…” here he paused and glared at Gez, “…what you intend to do with us afterward.”
Dauros’s expression darkened slightly. “Hmmm, I think it would be best to postpone that particular question until later. What would your second question be?”
“I suppose I’d want to know what happened after Soor. Why did the magic users who survived disappear? Master Weibelan has his own theories, but…”
“Ah, yes, Oto Weibelan’s Downfall of the Wizards, an admirable effort,” interrupted Dauros. “He managed to piece together a great deal. But, of course, not being a magicker himself, he was missing several important pieces.” Dauros paused for a moment and leaned back in his chair. He took off his spectacles and rubbed at his nose.
“The Battle of Soor was a disaster for magic,” he said. “Not just for the magickers who were killed in the battle, but a disaster for the magical arts as a whole. So much knowledge and experience was lost there. All of the great wizards were slain. I suppose it is a point of pride that all of the great wizards were there, but it was a tragic loss. Still, there was no alternative. The Kaifeng had descended on the east in numbers that modern people can scarce conceive. I’ve seen a few recent histories of the Great War with the Kaifeng where the authors discount the numbers given by the historians of the time as exaggerations. I can assure you that they were not. One of the wizards there was able to count the enemy with a magic spell. The Kaifeng had 1,487,359 warriors at the Battle of Soor.”
Jarren gasped. It was an impossibly huge number. No army of the present day had even a twentieth of that strength.
“The east could not field anywhere near as many knights and warriors. It was only the wizards who allowed us to win.”
“Were you there?” asked Gez, who also looked properly impressed.
“Me? No, of course not!” laughed Dauros. “That was three hundred years ago! How old do you think I am?”
“Pretty old. A couple hundred anyway. And you’re a wizard.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, young Gez, I’m a mere stripling of eighty-five. While it is true that some of the great wizards managed to live for as much as one hundred and fifty years, the knowledge to do that was lost with so much else. Many generations of magickers have come and gone since Soor. We only have the knowledge that was passed down to us by the survivors—not personal memories.”
Jarren nodded but was secretly relieved that Gez had asked the question. He’d been wondering exactly the same thing but didn’t know how to ask. “Sir? That brings up another point. You speak of all the magical knowledge that was lost. But you say you have accounts of the survivors. They were passed on, why not the magical knowledge itself?”
“Most of that knowledge—the knowledge of the spells themselves—died with the master wizards.”
“I don’t understand. I mean, I can see that the death of the wizards would have lost all the actual experience of the men, but why the basic knowledge? Surely the spells were written down somewhere. In my research, I found many descriptions of the effects of spells, but never one book with the instructions of how to cast them. Were they intentionally destroyed? Or did you bring them all here?” Jarren waved to the rows of books lining the walls.
Dauros sighed. “No, no, you don’t understand. Not being a magicker there might be no way you can truly understand. Magic is… well, it might be easier to tell you what magic is not. It’s not the science you seem to think it is—I’m not saying your theories are wrong!” added Dauros hastily when he saw Jarren’s expression of shock. “No, you are probably correct that magic does, somehow, fit into the physical framework of the universe; but if it does, it is in a manner different from the other physical sciences. There are no convenient equations or formulas for casting a magic spell. No magicker ever even came up with a satisfactory vocabulary to describe what we do. The truth is, Jarren, that there are no written instructions for any of the spells.”
“What?” gasped Jarren. “None? How can that be?”
“It is difficult to explain. You realize, I am sure, that magickers have a special talent for magic that most people lack. Actually, some theorize that everyone has the talent to some degree, but it is simply much stronger in the magickers. In any case, you can think of it as an additional sense, like hearing or seeing. The sensations we receive from this sense are no more describable in words than what we receive from our other senses.”
“But we can describe those,” insisted Jarren.
“Really? Accurately? How can you describe the color blue except by saying that it is blue? A meaningless term to a blind man. Try explaining music to a deaf man. It can’t be done.”
“If they don’t have the sense, then no, I can see that it couldn’t be done. But for someone who does have the sense, there must be ways. Written descriptions of color or music will make sense to those who can see or hear.”
“In general terms, perhaps,” admitted Dauros, “but without the masters to explain those descriptions, you are crippled. I understand you are an avid musician, Jarren.”
“Just an amateur, sir, but I do enjoy it.”
“Perhaps you’ll favor us with a recital while you are here. But to give you an example of our difficulties, consider music. Clever men have devised a system of recording music on paper. Notes on a scale. It’s a set of instructions on how to produce the music.”
“Exactly, sir,” said Jarren. “A unique language created for a specific purpose. Why weren’t the magickers able to do the same?”
“Perhaps we just weren’t clever enough,” sighed Dauros. “Perhaps it is, indeed, possible to create such a thing, but no one ever succeeded. But consider our problem in the terms of music: Suppose you took a man who had a great natural skill for music, but who had never in his life heard music or played an instrument. If you handed him a musical score and your cello, would he be able to play it? Even if you explained what the notes on the page meant and described how the cello was operated, could you expect him to play the music on his own?”
“No, of course not.”
“No, you would have to show him how to do it. You would have to demonstrate it yourself. Play the cello and let him watch. Let him see how you move your hands and listen to the music that is produced. Then he could try it himself. Even then it would take years of practice before he could play a concerto. We magickers were in the same fix: the masters were all gone, who could show us how it was done?”
“But…but not every magicker was gone!” insisted Jarren. “There were still some of the lesser ones left. Granted they might not know all the great spells, but at least they knew the basics of how to do magic. They could teach others and then new masters would arise.” Jarren blushed. “Or…or at least that’s the way it seems to me.”
“In theory you are correct,” said Dauros nodding his head. “But in practice, it was much more difficult. You see, the Battle of Soor did far, far more than simply kill a lot of wizards.”
“Sir?”
“I’m groping for an analogy to explain ‘blue’ to a blind man,” sighed Dauros. “As a scientist, I think you can understand that the energy to perform magic spells has to come from somewhere.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve measured some of the energies produced by magic items. Discovering its source was a major focus of my studies.”
“Indeed. Well, imagine, if you will, that the energy is a large, calm lake. A lake of magical water. Does that make any sense?”
“I
suppose so, sir. At least as far as it goes.”
“All right then. When a magicker casts a spell, he must draw the energy from that lake. But this is a very special lake, Jarren. You cannot just dip in a cup or a bucket and draw the water out. No, the only way to get the water is to toss in a pebble or a stone and then catch the water that splashes up. For a small, simple spell, just a pebble is needed and you catch the splash in a thimble. For a more powerful spell, you need a larger stone, which makes a larger splash.”
“I think I can visualize that, sir,” said Jarren. He glanced over to Gez who had finished off all the pastries. He also noticed that all the silverware that had been on the tray was missing.
“Well,” continued Dauros, “When you toss a pebble or a stone into the lake it also makes ripples in the water, just as it would in a real lake. Usually the ripples are small and quickly fade. But for the great spells, you must drop very large rocks into the lake and make very large splashes. And to catch the splashes you must venture out onto the lake, into the deeper water. Imagine the magickers in boats. Very small boats for the novices, much larger ships for the masters. It is quite dangerous for a novice to be too close when a master is making a big splash!”
“I’m following you so far, sir,” said Jarren, wishing desperately that he had paper and ink to record all this.
“Good. Well, the Battle of Soor saw all the great wizards of the world—and the Kaifeng had some powerful ones too, although not so many—and they were all casting their most powerful spells at the same time. Nothing like that had ever happened before—and the results were not what anyone had expected.”
“Sir?”
“The lake of magic was stirred up into a raging storm. Huge waves that threatened to swamp and drown any but the most powerful. Many of the lesser magickers were destroyed by the lake rather than by hostile spells. All the master wizards were killed by the battle and only a few of the lesser ones were able to survive this storm on the lake. A great tragedy—but worse was to follow.”
“Worse?”
“Yes, much to the horror of those magickers who were left alive, the storm on the lake did not dissipate. It went on and on for years. The waves bounded and rebounded off the shores. Year by year they lessened a tiny bit, but for nearly a century, the lake was far too dangerous to venture out on.”
“Oto theorized that something bad had happened to the magic!” exclaimed Jarren.
“Yes, he got that exactly right. A very clever man, Master Weibelan. Sadly, the magickers of the times were not so clever. Or perhaps they were simply desperate. Again and again they tried to venture out on the lake—usually with disastrous results.”
“The unexplained fires and lightning in some of the cities! The mysterious illnesses!”
“Exactly. A tragedy, as I said. Doubly so. Not only were many more magickers destroyed, but in the process they made the survivors feared and despised. The church, who had never liked the independent magickers to begin with, used this as an excuse to persecute them. In the end, only a handful were left, and they were forced to flee the cities. Most ended up coming here.”
“Most?”
“There are others, Jarren, but I have no right to speak further of them. So, you can see the situation: we had a group of magic users huddled here who did not dare to use their magic. Or at least they could not use it in any meaningful way. It was still possible to grab tiny bits of power from the shores of the lake. It was at least enough to teach the next generation how to do magic at all—but barely.”
“I see,” said Jarren. “So to continue the musical analogy, you had a group of people who could teach their students how to hold the instrument, describe how to play, perhaps pluck a few of the strings, but never actually play it.”
“Yes, exactly,” said Dauros, nodding. “And by the time the magical lake had settled down enough to be usable again, all the old magic users had died off. The next generation had to begin very nearly from scratch. Ancient records from before Soor are fragmentary, but the evidence suggests that it took thousands of years of trial and error to reach the level of sophistication they had achieved. We have had to start over again, with our way made only slightly easier by those who went before us.”
Jarren was trying to digest all of this when a servant entered to announce that dinner was ready.
“Splendid!” said Dauros. “The others will be very eager to meet you, too. I abused my position here to get first crack at you, but now I’m afraid you will have to be shared out. We don’t get many visitors here, you know.”
They all got up and Dauros took Jarren by the elbow and steered him back out into the foyer and then through another set of doors into a large dining room. There was a long wooden table nearly covered with dishes, platters, silverware, and glasses. It was large enough to accommodate thirty people, and very nearly that number were standing by the chairs waiting. Jarren halted for a moment and looked them over. They were mostly men, although a half-dozen women were scattered along the length of the table. They were mostly old, although a few were middle-aged. They were mostly smiling, although a number were not.
“My friends, we have a guest tonight,” said Dauros. “Please let me introduce Master Jarren Carabello.”
There were some polite murmurs of welcome and even a small bit of applause. Jarren smiled and bowed. Then Dauros was introducing him to the assembly. Jarren made a heroic effort to remember all the names and the faces they belonged to, but it was hopeless. There were some who did stand out, however, and Jarren made sure he remembered those. Dauros's second in command, in particular, caught his attention. He was a tall, thin man, named Stephanz, with black hair fading to gray. He had a neat black mustache and tiny chin-beard. His eyes were dark, and he stared at Jarren without any welcome at all. Stephanz’s cold manner was more than offset by a plump, jolly woman named Idira. Apparently, she was the group’s master healer. She giggled when she said hello, but then said that she had so much to talk to him about. The third one was a man with iron gray hair that was quite short, and he wore no beard at all. He was stout, but not so plump as Idira. His name was Hessaran and he was the alchemist. Finally, there was Prestan, who was the master artificer.
“Are you responsible for the devices which produce the waterfalls on this island?” asked Jarren.
“Why yes, I am,” said Prestan. “I’ve been slowly rediscovering the secrets of the Ancients. Those are some of my proudest discoveries.”
“Ah, then it was you who led me here,” said Jarren with a smile. “The university in Zamerdan bought such a pump for a fountain. We traced it back to Erberus and thus to here.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed Prestan, who was clearly delighted.
“I warned that this would happen,” said Stephanz coldly. “We should never have sold any of those items to merchants operating so close to here.”
“Now, now, Stephanz,” said Dauros. “All’s well that ends well.”
“The end remains to be seen, my lord.”
“Excuse me for asking,” said Jarren, “but why did you sell those items in the first place?”
“Oh, for only the noblest of motives,” chuckled Dauros. “We needed the money.”
“What?”
“For the money. Everyone needs money, my friend.”
“You’ve got that right,” muttered Gez.
“As you can imagine, our rocky isle has very little in the way of resources,” explained Dauros. “We can get fish with no difficulty, and there are a few goats and birds on the island. But that would be a rather monotonous diet, I’m sure you would agree. We need to import our grains, our wine and ale, beef, cheese, the list goes on and on. To say nothing of other supplies: paper and ink, chemicals for our good alchemist, iron and copper and tin for our artificer, books for old men like me. All of that requires money. The only product we can produce of easily convertible value are the devices good Prestan and his comrades create. But let’s not stand here: our expensive, imported dinner is gett
ing cold!”
Jarren was guided to a place at the right hand of Dauros, who occupied the table’s head. The other magickers found spots all along the length. Gez was led over to a smaller table where a number of younger people, including Lyni, were seated. The food was very good, indeed. A veritable feast with many courses brought in by servants. The first sip of wine reminded Jarren that he had not slept in a day and half. He firmly put the cup aside, determined to stay awake as long as he could. There were a dozen separate conversations going on around him, and he tried to listen to them all. It was impossible, of course, but he did his best. Those seated nearest to him kept up a polite stream of inquiries about his journey or compliments about his work. Several had more pointed questions.
“Master Carabello,” began one man who Jarren believed was named Fretna, “is it true that there is a dragon skeleton on display in the museum at Sirenza?”
“Just the skull, I believe, sir. And there are those who claim that it is a fake, that dragons existed only in fables.”
“Fables!” exclaimed the man. “Fables! Why the very idea! I can assure you that dragons did, indeed, exist. I have researched them thoroughly. In fact, I have a theory that with even a small fragment of dragon bone, I might be able to recreate living dragons again!”
“That is remarkable, sir. Although I must admit that the idea of a living dragon fills me with some bit of dismay. They were reputed to be rather…irascible creatures.”
The man jerked in his chair and frowned. Then he turned to his companion and spoke in a loud whisper: “And he calls himself a scientist!”
“Uh, yes,” said Dauros. “I never mentioned the dragons or the other magical creatures in my little history lesson, Jarren. There were quite a number of animals who seemed to have some sort of magical nature. Dragons, gryphons, pegassi, unicorns, a whole menagerie-full of them. The terrible aftermath of Soor destroyed almost all of them. Apparently, they could not survive the surges of magical energy.”
Fires of Memory Page 21