“The trial must be faced as soon as he has recovered from initiation,” Herazade said “so that the danger is not prolonged.”
“Yes,” Kell said. “And he will be reprimanded, in the strongest terms.”
Kell, Ing-Radi, and Herazade agreed on the plan. As they debated the wording of the reprimand, Elric felt a strange combination of relief and fear. Galen would not be cast away. He would be initiated, into a world of Shadows, trials, and destruction. He would carry his burden of power. And he would either learn to control it, or he would be flayed. He alone could master his impulses. Yet if there was any other way in which Galen could be aided, Elric would do all that could be done.
Across the chamber, Blaylock gave him a slight nod.
— chapter 6 —
Galen sat cross-legged on the mak within the small tent chamber, his hands on his knees. He breathed deeply, going through the mind-focusing techniques Elric had taught him. Visualize each letter of the alphabet appearing on a screen in sequence, and hold them all in your mind at once. Go through the prime numbers from one to one thousand. Create a mnemonic tree of one hundred objects and repeat them backward forward, every third one, every prime one, every one containing the letter T, every one that matches with your heartbeat.
Still, he could not hide from the truth. He would soon be cast away.
Elizar returned from the next chamber, where the Circle met. The energy he’d shown earlier, during the inquiry, had vanished. His mouth hung open, and his good arm was crossed over his chest, holding his injured arm to his side. “I was rebuked,” he said.
Galen stood. “I’m sorry. It was my fault.”
Elizar’s dark blue gaze fixed on him. “I have behaved erratically. I should not have spoken—as I did.”
“I would like to understand. I would like to help.”
“I know things, Galen, that I should not know and that I cannot share.” Elizar glanced back at the tent flap. “If you knew what I know, if you had the opportunity I have, you would do the same as I.”
“What are you doing?”
Elizar shrugged looking away. “Trying to save us all.”
The rune representing Galen’s name appeared in fire over the tent flap. Galen went to it. “It’s my turn. Whatever they decide, thank you for asking for leniency. It was generous of you.”
Elizar’s back was to him. “Do you remember how we used to dream of going on great quests, of doing great deeds?”
“We were to go as partners.”
“I realize now, Galen, that some quests seek not to bring about some great new good. They seek merely to save as much as can be saved before all is lost. And some quests, one must go on alone. I had hoped it would not be so.” Elizar sighed and turned to face him. “I’m sorry for calling you a technician. I know you don’t seek power for yourself. I—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.” He left through the far opening, his footsteps heavy.
Galen passed beneath the rune of fire to face the Circle. He again found himself in the great amphitheater, the place of origin of the Circle. The runes of the Code burned from the walls around him. Tier upon tier of stone stretched up into shadow. He felt great awe at being in this great place, before these great mages. He felt shame at the reason he stood before them. He had failed to live up to the Code.
The Circle was arrayed above him, Elric on the far right. Galen forced himself to meet Elric’s eyes, and the eyes of the others: Ing-Radi, Kell, Blaylock, Herazade. These five were the best of them. They had done great deeds, discovered deep truths, led the mages to peace and learning. He was not fit to be among them.
Galen could read no emotions on their faces. He focused on his voice, striving for control, evenness of tone. “I would like to speak, if it may be permitted.” Once they cast him away, they would not let him speak.
“We will hear no pleas for mercy,” Kell said.
“I have no pleas to offer. I will be brief.”
Kell nodded. “Very well then.”
“I apologize to the techno-mages and to the Circle for failing to live up to their Code. The techno-mages are noble and good bringers of beauty and mystery; I am unfit to remain in their company. I apologize for the time this matter has taken from the Circle, and appreciate the wisdom you have dedicated to the resolution of it. I am grateful to receive your judgment. I apologize most deeply to my teacher, Elric, who has given me everything an apprentice”—or a son—“could ask.” He drew a deep breath, struggling for voice control, and met Elric’s gaze. “I wish I had been a more worthy apprentice. I wish I had not failed you. What I have done reflects only on myself. If I could give the time back to you that I have taken away, I would.” Galen bowed, then forced himself to stand very, very still. He would hear their judgment, and he would leave.
Elric’s face was stern; perhaps he thought Galen’s words inappropriate.
Kell pushed himself to his feet. Though he was aged, his dark skin lined, shoulders hunched, he still had the bearing of a great leader. His large frame seemed imbued with power, and the short white fur cape over his robe added to his stature. His voice was vibrant. “The first word of the techno-mage Code is solidarity. In solidarity we meet, connected by a common dedication, common ideals, a common purpose. We seek to understand, we seek to generate beauty and mystery, we seek to do good. If our solidarity is violated, if we strike at each other, our purpose is lost in anarchy.
“You struck at a mage without knowing what he intended. You struck out of fear, not out of control. A mage must be master of his tech, his power. He must control it at all times. Only in control can you do good, the last word of the Code. And if you do not do good, then what are you?” Kell’s intense gaze seemed to see right into Galen, to know things about him that he himself did not know. The sensation was extremely uncomfortable.
“You have behaved recklessly,” Kell continued. “You have used your chrysalis without supervision. You have attacked another mage without provocation. You have conjured a spell that you were ordered not to use. You have injured a mage. You have violated the Code.
“The damage you caused might have been much, much worse. The endpoint of the spell you conjured remains unknown, but its destructive power is potentially vast. You might have destroyed all of us, all of everything, with your one impulsive attack.
“You are forbidden from using your spell of destruction. You are forbidden from telling anyone outside the Circle how this spell was done.
“If we find any further evidence of this behavior, we will act without debate or delay. You will be flayed.” Kell paused allowing the words their importance.
“Do you understand?”
He wasn’t going to be cast away. He couldn’t believe it. They were giving him another chance. Another chance to be a mage.
Elric was giving him a stern look.
“Yes,” Galen said “I understand.”
“For your behavior, we, the Circle, reprimand you. You have fallen in our eyes. You are diminished. We are disappointed by your blatant violation of the Code and angered by your recklessness. Do not again earn our wrath.”
Galen felt as if his life had been handed back to him. He marveled at the Circle’s generosity, and vowed to be worthy of it. “I won’t,” Galen said. “No matter what happens, I will never fail you again.”
Galen felt as if he were floating, disembodied in the night mist. He was exhausted, light-headed from two days of fasting. But he was here, at the Becoming, the moment he had been working toward all his life.
They sat in a circle around the conjured fire, apprentices poised to become techno-mages. The light caught their faces—hopeful, determined frightened inspired. Tonight they would go around the circle, each asking questions of the next, questions that would define who they were as techno-mages.
The sea murmured quietly as Elizar said he would begin. He turned to his left, to Galen. “Who are you?”
“Galen.” Galen carefully visualized the equation, fel
t the echo of the chrysalis. He raised his hand and drew in the air the fiery rune that represented his name.
“What are you?”
“I am a techno-mage.” He transformed his rune into the rune that symbolized the mages.
“What is a techno-mage?”
He had recited the given answer many times over the years. “One who can alchemize science into magic. One who knows all that can be known. One who does not destroy. One who maintains the illusion, who keeps the secret. A breed apart, an ancient fellowship conceived in wonder, fired in discipline, proven in technomancy.”
“Why are you a techno-mage?”
This was the one question each individual must answer for himself, the question with which Galen had struggled. Elric had objected to the answer he’d come up with—to further the work of the ancients—saying that Galen must find his own work. But Galen’s attempt to be original had ended in failure. He had no other answer. “To revere and keep alive the traditions of the ancients. To devote my life to study and strive to further their work. To master control of the tech. To do good where I can.”
He turned to his left, to Isabelle. She flashed a nervous smile. “Who are you?” asked Galen.
He went through the questions, and she gave the correct responses. He was curious to see how she would answer the final question. “Why are you a techno-mage?”
Isabelle straightened with conviction, her eyebrows rising. “To penetrate the mysteries of magic, to see it whole and unadorned, and to reveal that the emperor need not wear magical clothes to inspire loyalty and devotion.”
The questions passed, and each declared his reason for being a mage.
Carvin smiled. “To create joy and wonder, mystery and revelation.”
Gowen brought his hands to his heart and bowed his head. “To be a keeper of the great blessing of the Taratimude. To revere their name and protect their benefaction.”
Fed scanned the circle and shrugged. “To make the rest of you look good, obviously.” Gowen grunted his displeasure, just as Galen had heard his teacher Blaylock do.
Razeel closed her eyes. “To assuage the needs of the tech.”
Elizar wiped his mouth and stared deep into the fire. “To make a difference in the coming dark times. To reveal the true power of the techno-mages and help lead them to an age of greater acclaim.”
Within the great stone circle marking Elric’s place of power, the mages stood, five hundred of them, arranged in a spiral. Though there was no formal order, the most junior of them stood along the outer sections of the spiral, while the eldest stood near the center. Ring upon ring, working steadily inward, each affirmed his identity in a loud voice, the rest listening silently. Again they answered the questions they were constantly forced to confront, questions whose answers life constantly revised.
Standing near the center, Elric thought of Galen, in a similar circle, and his heart was filled with pride. In the morning, Galen would be a mage.
At last, Blaylock asked the questions of Elric, and he answered looking out over the group that formed his extended family, his colleagues, his faith, his nation, his species. “To use my power for good, at my own discretion. To deny those who would use me for ill. To safeguard the knowledge of the techno-mages and to support this fellowship that has given me a place and a purpose.”
Beside him stood Alwyn, whose answers never failed to entertain. “To help those who deserve it, to knock sense into those who ask for it, to punish those who demand it. To fool those who are fools, to confuse those who are confused, to right those who are righteous, and to generally be a pain in the neck to all.”
The very last, Kell’s answers boomed out over the mages in a vibrant voice. “To give heart, and mind, and soul, and tech to the service of our great fellowship. To pursue knowledge through a universe of mystery. To follow the Code, above all. And to see us safely into the future.”
That last sentence, Elric realized, was new.
Galen sat at the cliff edge in a cocoon of mist, his palms flat on his legs. Behind him, Elric’s light globes cast a faint illumination, glinting off the moisture on the moss, the bare rock of the land’s end. Pale, ghostly shapes of mist drifted before his eyes.
After the apprentices had answered their questions, they had each gone alone into the night, to meditate and wait. A mage would come to each, take hold of the apprentice’s chrysalis, and impose a challenge. Elric would tell him nothing of these challenges, so Galen had no idea what to expect He had heard only that they were not tests of power, but lessons of character. Alwyn had said they often served to focus a mage on his future and his purpose. Few had ever “failed” a challenge. In fact, the only one Galen knew of was Tilar, who had then been cast away. But after his failure with Elizar, Galen didn’t want to make the slightest mistake.
His anxiety was muted by fatigue, though, and after a brief mind-focusing exercise, he fell quickly into a meditative state. He followed the shifting shapes of the mist, the regular rhythm of the sea. The mist sparkled in the dim light, almost as if trying to communicate with him. Then it parted, and a table stood before him. On it sat a black, rectangular comp-pad. A message glowed in yellow on its screen. The comp-pad seemed weighted with import, as if it carried some great secret. Its secret both frightened and drew him. It was a secret about himself. It would change everything.
At the same time that Galen felt the profound truth of this, he realized what was being done to him. The mage challenging him was stimulating the temporal lobes of his brain. Stimulation of the temporal lobes caused extremely intense visions, weighted with emotional import. Galen had read about a spell that did this, and at his request, Elric had performed it briefly on him. Galen recognized the heightened reality, the dreamlike sense of significance. Yet knowing the cause didn’t make the vision any less compelling.
He approached the table, picked up the comp-pad. The yellow glow of the words burned into his mind. “To hide from others is magery. To hide from oneself is folly.”
The words were a revelation. They carried the wisdom he had avoided all his life. He hid from himself. He did not know if he had always been this way, but it was true of him since he could remember. He read, he studied, he trained. He did as he was told. He focused on each day, avoiding the past, avoiding the future, avoiding the big picture that might be revealed if he stepped back from the canvas.
At times he would become upset, or afraid, but these emotions were like messages from a distant galaxy, faint hints of the unexplored territory that lay deep within. He preferred to keep his eye close to the canvas, to tune out those distant signals, to keep still until they passed. He kept still so they would not find him, these signals sent from himself to himself. He did not want to hear them.
He hid from himself.
The comp-pad hit the table. It had been in his hands, and it had fallen through his hands, passing through his fingers as if he were a ghost. As he brought his hands closer, his flesh faded to white, dispersed in the mist. He had no body, no substance.
Galen screamed but he had no voice, no mouth. He had hidden from himself too well. He was lost.
Beyond the table stretched a long grey corridor. He sped down it, searching for his body. The corridor ended at a T, offering him two alternatives. The intersection was marked with the rune signifying ignorance. Galen took the right branch, rushed ahead. The next intersection offered three choices, the next four. Galen chose randomly, racing ahead becoming absorbed in the complex maze. As he swept around a curve he caught a glimpse of a hooded robed figure ahead. The figure turned a corner. Galen bolted forward but when he reached the corner, the figure had vanished down the corridor. He dashed after it, searching for another glimpse.
The corridors grew more and more intricate, the branches more and more numerous, leading not only in different directions on a single plane, but leading up and down to different levels. As he twisted around a turn, again he caught sight of the black-robed figure, only to lose him again at the next turn.
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Galen forced himself to stop, controlling his waves of panic. Reason told him he would never catch the robed figure. Not like this. If he had no substance, then the maze could not hold him. He raced upward through the countless levels of the maze and out the top of it. As he soared upward he realized what lay below him: a microchip. The corridors of the maze were the pathways of the chip’s circuitry. Somehow, he could see through the chip’s many grey layers to the passageways etched within, which glowed with a golden light. In one of those passages he saw the tiny black figure, running.
He, too, was lost, Galen realized. And afraid. They could hide from each other no longer.
With the inexplicable knowledge of a dream, Galen suddenly understood that he could manipulate the passageways in the chip. He blocked off the corridor ahead of the robed figure, and as it turned back, he blocked off the corridor behind. Then he shot down into the chip and through the many layers to the corridor where it stood.
Confronted the figure removed its hood. It was Kell, though he was Galen’s age, and not yet shorn of his hair. His dark eyes pierced through Galen. “You are not like us.” His words resonated with significance.
Galen found he now could speak, though he had neither body nor voice. “My skills are weak. I lack control. I lack originality. I will never be your equal.”
“A mage’s conjuries should be an extension of himself. They should reveal, express, and complete him. You have hidden behind your conjurings. You have aligned them in regimented rows to prevent any of yourself from contaminating them. Likewise, you have aligned your thoughts in these rows, keeping them safe and contained. You have hidden so well that any more you might have been is lost. You have become these regimented paths, and the places to which they lead. Yet you do not know it. You do not know who you are, and so you do not know what you are or why you are.” Kell took a step toward him, his body growing taller, broader. “Who are you, Galen?”
Galen felt a great emptiness where the answer should be.
Casting Shadows (The Passing of the Techno-Mages #1) Page 13