“Sight is illusion,” she said, her voice richer and deeper than he would have expected. “The reality is sound.”
“The few times I’ve been away from here, I’ve missed that sound.”
“It is the sound of death,” she said.
Galen didn’t know how to respond. “Would you like to go into the tents? The sound will be muted there.”
“No.”
Galen wondered if she really could hear the tech, as Fed had said. If it did speak, what wonders would it say, what secrets would it share? Such communication would be a sign of the true fusion between mage and tech, to which Blaylock aspired, but none had yet achieved. More likely Razeel just heard herself, the echo of her own thoughts.
Elric had told Galen to check on the mages in the tent after setting up the fire circle, to see if they needed anything. The chefs and servers had been sent away for the night, all outsiders banned until the initiation in the morning was complete.
“I must go,” he said. “Excuse me.”
She gave no response, her face lost in windblown hair. Galen turned back to the fire circle. Fed had arrived—now that the work was done—and he stood with Carvin and Gowen.
The last thing Galen wanted was for Fed to recount what had happened in the hall. Galen waved to them. “I have to go inside.”
Carvin nodded.
Galen headed into the maze of tents. On the periphery, great tables of food and drink were laid out, meant to suffice until the chefs and workers returned the next day at highsun. The food looked plentiful and well prepared, and with such variety as Galen had only seen at previous convocations. Galen’s mouth watered as he counted the hours until tomorrow, when he could break his fast.
He headed deeper into the tents. The mages had adapted the tents to their needs, labeling different areas with runes and other signs. There were seminars on a variety of scientific topics, workshops on engineering techniques, roundtables on sleight of hand and other more traditional magicks, and lectures on arcane skills. Galen stopped in each tent chamber to see if anything was needed.
What Galen remembered most from previous convocations were the unscheduled sessions that ran late into the night. As tankards were repeatedly filled and emptied, and the air grew thick with spent energies, mages who seemed so stern and disciplined by day laughed at their errors, argued over technique, and told the most outrageous stories of their exploits. Most of these sessions were supposed to be private, of course, so mages would create shields or illusions of walls to keep others away. Though it was only early evening, some of these sessions had already begun. Galen talked his way into as many of them as he could to check on the participants, fetching local brew or fried chitwings when asked.
But Galen now found himself becoming quite turned around by the conjured walls and altered structure of the tents. He reached a dead end in one direction, went back in the other, only to find that, too, was now a dead end.
A single conjured globe of light illuminated the truncated passage. He reached into his pockets for his sensor-pad to get a better idea of what he was facing. It was gone. He’d left it with Isabelle.
“Hello,” he called to the newly formed tent wall. It gave off a faint hum. “I’m here to see if you want anything. You’ve sealed me in. I need to get through.” He brought his fingers to the tent fabric. The surface was hard, slippery. A shield. “Hello?”
They didn’t want to be disturbed. They may have even blocked out all sound so they wouldn’t hear him no matter how loudly he yelled. He decided to search the passage more carefully. Some of the walls must be real tent flaps, and those that were could be opened up or squeezed under. Working his way down the passage, he found what appeared to be a flap. He unfastened it.
“Hello? I wonder if you need anything.”
“I don’t need anything,” a high voice called.
Galen bent and slipped through the opening. “I don’t mean to intrude,” he said. “I seem to be trapped.”
The room was small and irregularly shaped, an overlooked spot within the shifting structure of the tents. One person sat on the damp ground shrouded in a cape and hood. The only light leaked through from the passage behind him.
“I can get you a better room to work,” Galen said.
The figure looked up, the hood fell back. Isabelle gave him that lips-pressed-together smile. “You’re trapped and you’re going to find me a better room?” She’d been disguising her voice at first.
He was glad that she still smiled at him. “The passage outside seems to have turned into quite a nice room, for now.”
“I like my privacy.”
“I am sorry. I’ll be out in a minute.” Galen ran his hands over the walls, searching for another way out. He felt like a clumsy fool.
After an awkward minute of silence, Isabelle spoke. “Burell is on our ship. Elizar has been following me everywhere I go. I thought this place seemed safe.”
“Safe for what?” Another silence followed. At last she continued.
“Do you believe that what we do can be explained scientifically?” Her deliberate tone betrayed the importance of the question to her. Galen stopped his examination of the tent but kept his back to her, afraid she might turn silent if he faced her.
“Not by us. Not yet.”
“But someday, do you believe it may be possible for us to understand the tech scientifically, as its inventors did?”
“Someday, yes.”
“And what of the effort to achieve that understanding? Is it a mistake to examine that which we have received?”
Galen believed the knowledge far beyond their reach, and so had not considered studying how the tech worked. He knew that he had a great deal to learn before he could even attempt it. Right now he was focused on mastering the discipline of its use, on understanding and expanding his spell language. Even if he was able to master it, he would know only how to control the tech. He would know nothing of its workings. Yet to understand its workings was a noble goal, and scientific exploration was a critical part of a mage’s life. “It is never a mistake to seek understanding. It has been said that the tech is too far beyond us. That we have lost so much knowledge we must work our way step-by-step back to understanding.”
Suddenly she stood beside him. She carried the scents of moisture and moss, and more than that, of a subtle combination of oils and perspiration, her unique essence. She held up a screen with an image on it. “Do you know what this is?”
The image appeared to be under extreme magnification. Galen recognized the pyramid-shaped cell bodies of neurons. The cell bodies were a light tan. Overlying them was a forest of dark dendrites, the branching projections that connected neurons to each other. These neurons were densely interconnected. The image didn’t look terribly different from images he had seen of the brains of different creatures, except for one thing. These cell bodies were unusually uniform, all nearly the same size and shape, and they were arranged in a uniform pattern, a pyramid pointing up followed by a pyramid pointing down followed by a pyramid pointing up. They seemed arranged to fit the most cell bodies into the most compact space. “Is this some tissue you grew?” he asked.
“It’s a piece of a chrysalis.”
He touched his hand to the image, surprised that he had failed to recognize something with which he’d been so intimately connected. “I know that some of the others don’t approve of this type of research, but you don’t need to hide.”
“Burell has forbidden me to research the tech. She has been criticized for years for her research. Kell and Elizar have ridiculed her. Blaylock has condemned her. The Circle even reprimanded her. She learned too late to keep her research to herself. She’s lost her influence. She’s lost her health. She doesn’t want the same to happen to me.” Isabelle sat back on the ground, the screen on her lap, her head bowed. Galen sat beside her.
He knew that some of the mages—Blaylock and his followers included—drew a line between scientific research of the rest of the universe
, and scientific research of the tech. They argued that the tech was so incredibly advanced that its workings not only seemed like magic, they were indistinguishable from magic and so were magic, and somehow transcendent.
For them, dissecting the tech was sacrilege, tantamount to doing a DNA test on the Host at a Catholic Mass to see if it had actually transformed from bread to flesh. In any case, those who had tried in the past to understand the tech had failed. Most of the mages felt that the only path to understanding was to work toward a better understanding of the rest of the universe first. As long as the Circle knew the secret of replicating the tech so that new mages could be created, they could live with the frustrating lack of knowledge.
“Have you been able to understand anything of its workings?” he asked.
She looked up at him, her face soft in shadow. “Not much. Not yet. But Burell has. I’ve managed to read a few of her notes. She’s discovered that the tech accesses a mage’s own energy in order to sustain itself, but for conjuries it uses the zero-point energy of space itself as a nearly limitless energy supply. It’s just the tip of the iceberg. But it’s a beginning.”
“How does she obtain tech to study?” The Circle guarded the tech and held the secret of its replication, so that rogue mages could not be created. When a mage died, the tech was cremated by magical fire, along with the mage.
“She has used my chrysalis, as have I.” She leaned toward him, the light from the passage outside painting a line down her cheek. “I have a plan to get more, though. The Well of Forever.” She spoke the name with a special reverence.
“You plan to find it?” Many had tried; all had failed. The Well was the legendary burial place of the earliest techno-mages, perhaps even Wierden. It was a focal point of immense power, a repository of great knowledge—and of tech. Its location—if the Well was even real—had been lost long ago.
She raised her eyebrows, her voice gaining intensity. “I will find it. And when I do, I’ll have enough tech, and enough of the ancient knowledge, to understand it all.”
The boldness of her dreams and the intensity of her commitment captivated him and humbled him. She knew who she was, what she wanted, why she would be a techno-mage. He was still struggling with those questions.
Suddenly he thought of the Becoming, where he would have to answer those questions. It would start in less than an hour. He shot to his feet. Elric would kill him. “I have to go. I’m sorry. Do you have my sensor-pad? That would help me find the quickest way out of here.”
Isabelle stood and pulled the sensor-pad from her pocket. “How could I have lost track of time? I need to check on Burell. Here. I was using that during your training session today. I recorded some energy readings from your last spell. You’re not going to believe them.”
Galen stuck his head out into the passage, found it was no longer a dead end. He stumbled out through the tent flap, and Isabelle followed.
“I’m going this way,” Galen said, starting right.
“I’m going that way,” Isabelle said, starting left.
“Meet you at the Becoming,” Galen said, jogging backward.
Isabelle gave a little spin and waved back at him.
He watched until she turned out of sight, his chrysalis echoing the pounding of his heart. He felt as if he had just come to life.
Ten minutes later, he thought he must be getting close to the outside. He recognized a few of the meeting rooms, though they were now all empty. The apprentices had the Becoming to attend; the mages had the Being.
He ran around a corner and thought he had turned that corner before, possibly several times. The passage beyond was darker than the others, lit only by the rune for science glowing on the far tent wall. Something moved in front of that light, blocking it out, and Galen stopped short. The head and shoulders of a man were barely visible in dark silhouette. “Can I help you?” Galen asked.
“Can I help you?” the man replied walking closer. He wasn’t a mage, for his voice was untrained yet it carried a smooth, threatening power. As the man approached the light from behind Galen illuminated more of him. He was a compact man, with dark hair, wearing a dark, tailored suit. A silver chain at his neck caught the light. His right hand was in his pocket, his left arm bent at the elbow, hand extended.
“Are you looking for something?” Galen asked.
“Are you looking for something?” the man replied.
Galen expelled a breath. He didn’t have time for this. “What do you want?”
The man smiled revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “That’s just what I was going to ask you.”
Elric climbed into the darkness of Burell’s ship. As the air lock closed behind him, the interior flooded with light, transforming itself into a vast portico decorated with sheer hanging linens. Egyptian hieroglyphs were chiseled in the stone floor. As he looked down the ranks of stone columns, Elric could see in the distance the vibrant blue sky of a late Egyptian afternoon. A breeze ran past him, and Elric appreciated the scents of myrrh, cinnamon, and sesame. It was a lovely illusion.
Burell was stretched out on a lounge in a tightly wrapped gown of deep cranberry, dark hair piled on her head and accented with small golden starbursts. Slave men covered by the scantiest of shentis formed a semicircle behind her, two cooling her with fans of feathers, one feeding her grapes.
Elric sat in an ornate chair at her side. “I thank you for dressing the slave men.”
“A token of my appreciation for your visit.” She waved the slave with the grapes away. “I apologize for taking you away from the convocation. I realize this must be a very demanding time.”
“You have something you need to discuss.”
“Yes.”
Elric saw her take a deep breath, gathering her energy. She was not doing well. Perhaps she had changed her mind about receiving healing.
“It’s about my home,” Burell said, surprising him. “I’ve noticed some disturbing activity around the spaceport on Zafran 8. We don’t get much traffic there—at least we haven’t in the past—for two reasons. We’re on a marginal hyperspace route that connects systems off the beaten track. And what trade does come through our jumpgate uses the spaceport on Zafran 7, which is a much better facility. We get the shadier trade on Zafran 8. The port is corrupt and poorly ran. It’s easy to pass through without answering a lot of questions, or with falsified documentation.”
Elric nodded. At least in her younger days, Burell had enjoyed the wild anything-goes atmosphere of her adopted home. Perhaps now she sought something quieter.
“Only Kell can speak to the activity on Zafran 7, but what I’ve noticed is a dramatic increase in traffic through 8. We’re now getting five times the number of ships passing through that we usually do. And it’s not just the numbers. Ships are coming through with unfamiliar designs. Those they carry are of races that haven’t been seen in a hundred years or more. Drakh, Streib, Wurt. Even poor records and falsified documents can’t hide something of this scope: a mass migration of intelligent beings and resources toward the last jumpgate on our route, the one closest to the rim.”
Elric and the Circle had been hearing rumors, seeing signs for the last two years. But the signs had been vague, unsubstantiated. Most of the Circle had dismissed them as unimportant. Elric had hoped his fears were unfounded, or if not unfounded, at least premature.
Burell put her palms flat against the arms of the lounge and pushed herself up straighter. “Where they go from there, I can’t be sure. But my probes and my sources bring me talk, talk of a world on the rim known in legend as a dark place. Z’ha’dum.
“I know its existence has never been confirmed, but the writings of the ancients support the existence of Z’ha’dum, and of its inhabitants, the Shadows.” Burell clasped his hand. Hers was cold. “Dark forces are at work on Zafran 8, Elric. And this can only be the beginning. History tells us what to expect—‘a time of death and chaos.’ We must gather information. We must be ready to fight.”
E
lric remembered his first day as a member of the Circle, the honor of serving as so many great techno-mages had served. Knowing of the many times of strife throughout their history, he had been glad he was serving in a time of relative calm. In calm he could do good, in calm he could build a future for the techno-mages. Yet mixed with his pride and honor had been an unexpected feeling of terror. It would be his responsibility—along with the rest of the Circle—to lead the mages through any crisis that might occur. They would depend on him for wisdom, for answers. His one hope had been that no great crisis would arise during his tenure. “If the Shadows are returning, it will mean a galactic war. Everything that has been built will be torn asunder.”
“I am not well liked in the Circle,” Burell said with dry understatement. “If I come to them with this evidence, I fear they may discount it because of the source. I don’t know if others have seen similar signs, but I know what I have seen, and I know we must take action. I need your support to convince the Circle.”
“They are never easily convinced of anything. Only if there is clear, compelling evidence will a majority endorse action.”
“Here is what I know.”
Elric’s implants informed him he had received a message. It was from Burell. In his mind’s eye, he opened it. The message contained all the evidence she had compiled. Elric scanned it quickly. Accounts of ships, passengers, equipment. Hyperspace routes. Covert activities. He didn’t know if the others would be convinced, but for him, the fear of the last two years at last took certain form, manifesting itself in substance and shape—the substance of darkness, and the shape of the Shadow. “I will go with you to the Circle.”
“Thank you, Elric.” She drew her hand back, shifting uncomfortably.
“We can meet with them after the initiation tomorrow. For now, it is time for the Being. Are you prepared?” The Being was central to each convocation. But it was a time for truth, not illusion. Elric didn’t know if Burell would attend.
Casting Shadows (The Passing of the Techno-Mages #1) Page 9