Dragonblaster cogd-5

by Alastair J. Archibald

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  Chapter 17: A Journey into Memory

  Kargan took a series of shuddering, deep breaths, wiping a shock of matted hair from his sweaty forehead. He straightened his blue-tinted spectacles, and it seemed as if each hour of his seventy-six years bore down on him like a lead weight. As a Guild Mage, he might be considered in the prime of his life, but he felt like a decrepit, shambling geriatric.

  Dalquist, forty years his junior, had not escaped unscathed, either. The Questor's face was drawn and ashen, with dark rings around his eyes.

  "So, is that it, Magemaster Kargan?” The younger man's tone was dull and resigned.

  Kargan shook his head. Even that tiny effort strained at his overtaxed muscles.

  "Not quite, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “I have one more spell to try: Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct. However, I'm in no condition to try that at this time. We'd probably better leave it for a couple of days or so, until I've brought my strength back up to its optimum level. It's not even worth trying in my current state."

  Dalquist sat up. “Bledel; you've mentioned him before, Kargan. How come I have heard of him but never read anything of his magical innovations?"

  "It's a Schedule Nine spell in the Engagement class, external, caster and subject bonded,” Kargan said. “It's not officially on the Register, if you understand me."

  The Mentalist tapped the side of his nose, signifying that he did not want knowledge of this to go outside the walls of his chamber.

  "Er… Magemaster Kargan, I'm not a Seventh Level Mentalist and a Magemaster with decades of service to the House,” Dalquist said, his expression blank. “What in the name of Magedom is a Schedule Nine spell, and what is this Register you mentioned?"

  Kargan blinked. Of course, he chided himself: a Questor had little need to consult ancient librams for research or inspiration.

  "I'm sorry, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “I don't meet a lot of Questors, as you can imagine; you lot are about as common as elephant wings."

  Kargan stood, drew his robes around himself and unconsciously adopted the lecturing stance he used in class.

  "As you are no doubt aware, Questor Dalquist, most runic spells are found in librams like these,” he declared, pointing at one of his bookshelves. “Nice, safe, reliable spells which have been tried and tested over a period of generations."

  "Yes, Magemaster Kargan, I know that, of course. But what of the efforts of our Scholars? There are always new spells coming out."

  Kargan adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. “That is correct, Dalquist. However, for every spell released into general usage, there are fifty others that never see the light of day during the lifetime of their originators.

  "New spells are not approved by the Scholar's House, but by High Lodge itself. There is a considerable backlog, as you may imagine. Every approved spell is included on the ‘Register of Incantations', which is made freely available to the Prelate of each House. Spells are graded from Schedule One, the lowest, to Schedule Seven, with the spell's schedule indicating the lowest rank at which the casting mage may attempt the spell."

  "I've never heard of it,” Dalquist admitted.

  Kargan was beginning to enjoy himself. In the complicated hierarchy of mage ascendancy, Questors, given their phenomenal versatility and rarity, were the undisputed jewels in the Guild's crown. However, here was he, a relatively humble Mentalist, enlightening a Seventh Level Questor.

  "What I have to tell you is not for general distribution, Questor Dalquist. Do I have your solemn word that what I tell you will remain between the two of us? Neither of us is supposed to know this."

  Dalquist clapped a hand over his heart. “I swear on my family name, my Guild Ring and my staff, Shakhmat, that I will reveal nothing to another soul,” he said, without the least hesitation, his face serious.

  Kargan nodded. He could expect no more solemn oath from any Guild Mage.

  "For many years,” he intoned, “I have had an interest in researching new material, despite the fact that I am no Scholar. During my studies, I learnt of another compendium of incantations: the Libram of Kern. Its name is only whispered by members of the Presidium and, even to the most senior of magic-users, it is little more than a rumour.

  "Twenty years ago, as a precocious Mentalist of the Third Rank, I was sent by Prelate Geral on an expedition under the command of Questor Parpat-"

  Dalquist nodded. “Ah, yes: If I remember rightly, he was called ‘The Hammer', and he died of-"

  "Please do not interrupt, Questor Dalquist!"

  Kargan glared at the younger mage, who raised his hands in acquiescence.

  "Thank you. As I was saying, I was sent on a Quest under Questor Parpat. It is not one you will find in the ‘Deeds of the Questors', since it involved the treachery of one Prelate Barkan and his entire House. They had seceded from the Guild and set themselves up in opposition to us."

  The Magemaster smiled at Dalquist's astonished gape. “I thought that might attract your interest; it's not common knowledge. Suffice it to say that such a situation could not be allowed to continue. We were sent to depose Barkan and replace him with someone more… shall we say, amenable to High Lodge's way of thinking.

  "The confrontation between Questor Parpat and Prelate Barkan was spectacularly destructive, as you might expect."

  Kargan smiled. “With all due modesty, I will add that my own Spell of Dominance proved a critical factor in our success. However, in the wreckage of Barkan's study, I came across a copy of the Libram of Kern. It meant nothing to Questor Parpat, of course, but I'd heard of it. I secreted the book and brought it back here. It details spells regarded as too dangerous and too capricious to be used by normal mages, even by those of the Seventh Rank.

  "For many years, I've jealously guarded this Libram and consulted it at every opportunity. After two decades of study, I believe I understand Bledel's spell in its entirety, and I am willing to try it. That is, if you are willing to submit to it."

  Dalquist rubbed his bearded chin as if it itched. “What's involved in this forbidden spell, Magemaster Kargan?"

  Kargan shrugged. “I won't pretend this is a simple matter, Questor Dalquist. Our trouble, so far, has been that we've been chipping around the edges; we've been trying to access your memories from the inside, trying to break through a barrier.

  "This spell translocates the caster and the subject into… well, the technical term is ‘former realities'. It takes them both to a specific moment in the subject's past, so that the blocking event can be viewed by both parties as external observers, outside the constraints of the subject's memory. From the spells I've already tried on you, I know both the when and the where of the matter. All we need now is the what."

  Dalquist held out his hands, palms upwards. “It sounds almost tailor-made, Magemaster Kargan. What's the downside of the spell?"

  "It will take an enormous amount of energy from me,” the Magemaster replied. “Also, the least miscast may mean that we become dislocated in time, drifting through the whole period of your life like wandering ghosts while our physical bodies moulder and crumble into dust. You'll understand why I don't feel up to casting it at this time. My staff is almost dead, and I'm flat beat as far as spellcasting goes."

  Dalquist lifted his own staff. “Magemaster Kargan, Shakhmat, here, is fat with stored magical energy. In an instant, I could pass you as much strength as you could accumulate in a week. We Questors need a lot of power for our spells. If you're prepared to try it now, while the mood's upon you, I'm more than willing to take the chance."

  Kargan sat down and rubbed his forehead. If there was one thing he had learnt in his long life, it was that Questors were, above all, profligate and powerful mages, expending inordinate amounts of energy on each of their strange spells. He felt it might be better to attempt the potentially hazardous spell while the mood was upon him.

  Despite his aching bones, the Mentalist knew his physical
body was not yet too tired to continue.

  Thaumato-corporeal transference, he thought, finding comfort in the vast array of arcane technical knowledge his experience as a Questing mage and a Magemaster had given him. It's just the weakness of my mage sensorium leaking through to my para-mortal form.

  He thought back to his younger days on the trail, with Questors expending their all in a single, tumultuous, incomprehensible yell, and he realised the gulf of magical strength that must lie between him and this young, troubled mage.

  "All right, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “Give me whatever thaumaturgic energy you can spare. You'll need to keep back some strength for your own continuance. I just hope your Shakhmat has enough strength…"

  Dalquist held out the staff. “Take whatever you need, Magemaster Kargan."

  The Mentalist laid his hand over Shakhmat, drawing strength from it. His jaw dropped and he gasped as a massive surge of energy flooded into his body. Clenching his teeth, he withstood the mighty tide of power, accommodating and accepting the influx.

  "Enough!” he gasped, as he seemed to feel his head bulging.

  "Are you sure, Magemaster Kargan?” Dalquist asked. “There's plenty more here, I assure you."

  Kargan drew a deep breath, marvelling at the unaccustomed access of energy washing through him. He felt almost young again, revelling at the feeling of invulnerability that coursed through his veins, nerves and muscles.

  "That's more than enough, Questor Dalquist,” he crowed. “I feel twenty years younger! Well, if you're ready to take a trample through your memories, I'm willing to try it."

  "I'm about as ready as I'm ever likely to be, Magemaster Kargan. Let's do the deed."

  Kargan took a deep draught of water, swilling it around his mouth and gargling before swallowing it. Despite the potential calamity that might follow from any miscast, he felt enthused.

  To my knowledge, only Bledel Soulmaster has ever succeeded in this spell, he thought. After decades wasted in prating at worthless, ungrateful, unheeding Students, this is my chance to show my true mastery. Even if nobody ever knows but Questor Dalquist and me, I'll still have done something almost unique in the annals of the Guild.

  Kargan cracked his knuckles and stretched, easing the knots from his muscles.

  "I'll just sing a little ballad first, if you don't mind, Questor Dalquist. It helps to free up the throat."

  "Go right ahead, Magemaster Kargan. Whatever you need to bring you to peak efficiency is fine with me."

  Kargan smiled to himself. Let's see if I can get a Questor to blush, he thought, and took up a singing pose, his hands clasped under his sternum.

  "There once was a girl as fresh as new-mown grass,” he carolled. “Red were her lips, and fine was her shapely…"

  By the end of the ditty, which grew lewder with each passing verse, the Mentalist smiled at the sight of Questor Dalquist's cherry-red cheeks.

  ****

  Dalquist lay back on his couch and marvelled at Kargan's virtuoso performance. Although the complex sequence of runes was beyond his ability to follow, the Questor felt astonished at the apparent ease with which the aged mage negotiated complicated transitions and cadences that would have tied the average mage's vocal chords and tongue in knots.

  How long can a single spell last? he wondered. It must have been fifteen minutes now, and his voice sounds as clear and firm as if he'd only just started.

  He felt a little disconcerted that he sensed no effects yet from the powerful incantation. All of Kargan's previous attempts had invoked a slowly-growing torpor, which had begun to seep through Dalquist's bones after only a few seconds’ casting. However, he knew that the incantation must still be intact, since Kargan had told him that a miscast would be disastrous; this gave him confidence that the spell was proceeding according to the long-dead Bledel's plan.

  Still, I wish something would happen, he thought. This is beginning to get…

  "All finished,” Kargan said, with more than a trace of pride in his voice, and Dalquist opened his eyes. “Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct, as promised. It's never been done before-at least, not here."

  To his astonishment, Dalquist found himself not in some mystical dimensional construct, but still in the Magemaster's chamber. The Mentalist's grin seemed at odds with the prosaic surroundings, and Dalquist sat up, confused.

  "Er, Magemaster Kargan,” he said, “We just seem to be where we were. We don't seem to have moved at all."

  "Of course not, Questor Dalquist; we're here because this is where we are."

  Has Kargan lost his mind? Dalquist wondered. Perhaps he thought he was casting a spell but was really just exercising his throat!

  "Your mind is here, and now, Brother Mage,” Kargan said, an almost manic glint in his eyes. “So that is where we are. However, when you access a memory, we will travel to the time and place at which that memory was recorded."

  "How does that help?” Dalquist frowned. “We've already established that I can't remember what happened to me in Lizaveta's study at High Lodge."

  Kargan sighed. “It's complicated, but I'll have to ask you to trust me. I suppose a demonstration is in order. I'd like you to lie back again and close your eyes. Concentrate on… let's say yesterday's lunch.

  "By the way, you should find this pretty interesting."

  Dalquist shrugged and did as the mad old man told him. This was an easy enough memory to access, and he took himself back to the previous afternoon…

  With a start, he opened his eyes, as clamour assaulted his ears.

  "Say something,” Kargan said. “Good, isn't it?"

  He was standing beside Kargan in the middle of the Refectory, looking at himself. Students yammered, Neophytes and Adepts studied books and servants bustled around the hall, just as usual. He jumped as a waiter materialised in front of him, seemingly having just walked through him.

  Perhaps this is just some bizarre illusion, he thought. All I've got to do is just-

  "It's real, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said. “We're real, too, but we're in a three-dimensional construct outside the normal, physical world. We can move around, see, hear and smell, but we can't interact. This is the Refectory, yesterday, not some fantasy or glamour designed to beguile you. While you refrain from concentrating on some other memory, we remain here."

  Dalquist frowned. “How does this help? I can see myself eating a dish of chicken breasts, marinated with truffles and almonds. I already know I ate that."

  "Come over here,” Kargan said, pointing to one of the Students’ huddles. “Come on, you can just walk through the tables and chairs; they're no barrier to us."

  Dalquist followed the Magemaster, involuntarily flinching as he seemed to contact the diners and the furniture. However, Kargan had spoken truth; his apparently solid body passing through these obstructions as if they were not there.

  "…so we'll jump on him right after the study period, yes?” one of the silk-attired Students said, his brown eyes earnest and intent. “We won't leave him with anything that shows at all, of course."

  The red-headed, freckled boy opposite him snorted."You're crazy, Gura. Crohn'll know, for sure. You know what that'll mean."

  Gura smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “Crohn the Moan? He's in on it, I tell you, Uras! As long as we don't maim or kill him, we can do what we like to that whining little pauper brat! And I say we show that wastrel rat, Chag-bag, who're the bosses around here."

  "If you're sure it'll be all right, Gura… all right; I'm in!"

  "Me, too,” the other boys chorused, and Dalquist swayed a little, feeling nauseous.

  "Pleasant little tykes, aren't they?” Kargan said. “I've had my eye on that Gura for some time."

  "There's another boy being put through the Questor Ordeal, Kargan,” Dalquist said with dread certainty. “I'd guess they're talking about Chag Jura-he's a Neophyte I took for Interpretation of Lore a couple of weeks ago. Thorn-Prelate Thorn-must have singled him out for special
attention."

  "I'd guess the note I received from Senior Magemaster Crohn has something to do with that,” the elder Magemaster said. “I must confess, I didn't read it. Politics makes me weary. Still, I bet you didn't know this nasty little conclave was going on yesterday, did you?"

  Kargan's offhand tone showed that he had little idea of the torment that young Chag might suffer before-if-he ever became a Questor. Dalquist felt a bond with the Neophyte that few ordinary mages would ever understand; especially if the polite, pleasant youngster's treatment was anything like that accorded to Dalquist's friend, Grimm.

  "I take your point, Magemaster,” Dalquist said, sighing. “We're in my memories, but out of them, so to speak. My act of remembering takes us to the correct place and time, but we're not a part of it. We're free to roam around, and see and hear whatever's going on."

  "Exactly! So, if you'd just take yourself back to the moment when you knocked on Prioress Lizaveta's door, we should be able to see just what happened."

  Dalquist nodded, trying to put thoughts of Chag Jura out of his head. He closed his eyes and remembered…

  When he opened them again, he was standing behind another Dalquist, as the door to the Prioress’ chamber opened.

  This is it! he thought. At last; now we'll get to the bottom of the matter!

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  Chapter 18: Erik's Doubts

  Shakkar felt himself sinking lower in the sky, as the ground cooled in the waning light of the dusk sun. With senses that only another flying creature could appreciate, he felt his dangling, human burden sapping his lift and burdening him with drag. His back muscles screamed, and he knew he could not remain aloft for long. A strong opposing wind did not help matters, either.

  "Sergeant Erik!” he yelled, his wings feeling leaden and stiff. “I must set down soon. What do your glass eyes tell you?"

  "They're called ‘binoculars', Lord Seneschal. And they tell me there's a city coming up. From my maps and charts, this must be Brianston."