Gemworld

by Jeremy Bullard

  There was something about the Highest’s eyes, his demeanor, that was unsettling to him. What that something was, exactly, he couldn’t say. He just knew that it was there.

  Nestor had been in service to the Highest most of his life. One hundred seventeen years this Whitesong, he thought to himself. Far longer than his chiseled middle-aged looks belied. And he’d been Chancellor to the Highest for the last eighty, directing the daily workings of the Veylin government, serving as Chief General of the Earthen Rank, sitting as Patriarch of the Granite Order, and ministering to the personal needs of the Highest himself. If the Highest was the head of the world, Nestor was most certainly the neck.

  In all those years, with all those responsibilities, he’d served the Highest with zealous abandon, earning time and again his master’s favor. He thought he’d seen every side that the Highest had to offer.

  Until just now.

  He’d noticed something in the Highest’s face when he dispatched that cowardly emerald. It wasn’t fear. What had the Vicar of the Crafter to be fearful of? Neither was it anger. But whatever ‘it’ was, he had sensed it when he and the traitor Laryn had brought news of the rebel prince’s escape, the mystery emotion hidden beneath his lord’s fury.

  Frustration? No, certainly not. For that would mean that the rebels had actually dealt a blow to the ruler of this world. As if that were possible, he scoffed.

  But even as he mocked, the truth of the matter dawned on him.

  Uncertainty.

  Flaw.

  In all his years of service to his lord, the Highest’s power had been absolute. His every whim was law. His whispered word was death, immediate and torturous. No one had ever dared to oppose the Highest and live to tell it. His rule had been perfect, unblemished.

  Until this past Greenfield, just after the Festival of Sowing. The Highest had meant to crush the rebel prince publicly, humiliate him, and set him to slave his days away in the dungeons, thus depriving the ‘Cause’ of its precious martyr.

  Instead, he and his fellow conspirators escaped, and the will of the Highest was thwarted.

  Flaw.

  Was it possible that the Vicar of the Crafter might have erred? Preposterous! For an error meant an imperfection, and everyone knew that the Vicar of the Crafter was perfect, without fault, without...

  Flaw.

  That thought echoed in the corridors of Nestor’s mind, as loudly as the clop of his booted feet. For weeks following the escape, that same thought had plagued him, fading to near silence until he was almost at peace with himself once more, only to be given new life with the resounding defeat of the Earthen Ranks at Caravan.

  Nestor tried vainly to shut the thought out. Shaking his head violently in uncertain denial, he trod purposefully toward the mess hall where he would surely find more of his charges. A team would be assembled, then dispatched to Caravan’s last known location. They would get there around nightfall the next day, midnight at the latest. With the Crafter’s blessing, they would find the rebels there, and obliterate them. With the Crafter’s blessing...

  Nestor prayed that it would be so. Not for his granites—fifty of his best men were more than enough to deal with so few enemies. And not for fear of the rebels—the Highest had survived a thousand such uprisings. No. He prayed the Crafter’s blessing for himself. For if He didn’t grant His blessing, and the granites failed, could Nestor still see the Highest as the Crafter’s Vicar? And if not the Vicar, who was the Highest?

  He paused momentarily to shake his head clear, hoping to knock loose his doubts before continuing. But to no avail. The clop of his boots resounded off the walls as he went, keeping perfect time with his echoing doubt.

  Flaw... flaw... flaw...

  ***

  “And you know the rest,” Jaren concluded. “Retzu organized work details to pack up the remaining wagons and get them moving before the reinforcements get there. He set the amethysts to lifting the lot of them, getting them as far from the campsite as possible. He also set a handful of amethysts aside from the lift to disburse the auric trail that our magical transport would leave behind, so any Rank that might come looking won’t have any means to track us. Once he had set them to work, he dispatched a rider by pegasus to warn Wayfarer’s Rest and the other villages, and then sent us ahead to find you.” Keth nodded his concurrence.

  “I assume that you’ll be able to transport us to their location safely, Keth?” Reit asked rhetorically. He knew well what the young granite was capable of. Jaren could be overzealous with his praise from time to time, but he always gave Reit the absolute truth as he saw it.

  “Aye, Lord Reit,” the granite said with just a hint of irritation. “And don’t you worry that any Granite Guards will find my backtrail. Very few of the Highest’s men have ever met me... and lived. And none of those were Granite Guards. They wouldn’t know my aura, so they wouldn’t be able to sense me if I were standing on top of them, wielding an earthquake. And there are enough granite aura trails at the former Caravan site that they wont be able to distinguish my trail from another’s. They’d be chasing backtrails for weeks before determining which one’s mine, and by that time, we’ll be long gone.”

  “It also helps that we were lifted with the first group of amethysts,” Jaren interjected. “Keth’s trail to this site starts far to the north of Caravan site. There is no way the Granite Guard will come across it any time soon.”

  Reit sat in silence for a moment, stroking his goatee thoughtfully and eying the mages. Jaren was haggard, his robes filthy but whole, thanks in large part to the granite’s amazing magics. Keth himself, in his normal leathers, seemed no worse for wear. Yet both of them were exhausted, having searched the night through and half the day to find Reit. His heart went out to them, wished he could let them rest, but there were still questions he needed answered.

  “Casualties?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge the growing lump in his throat. Time enough for that later.

  “Minimal,” Jaren said, more upbeat than he felt. “All told, we lost less than fifty mundane warriors, and even fewer mages. All Heads of Order and Guild are accounted for. Menkal got a little singed. And Master Seti, the blacksmith, lost his sledge arm, but he was being healed when we left. All in all, I think we gave the Highest something to think about.”

  Keth glowered at the mention of his wounded master’s name. “We destroyed their whole force to a man. I’d say our dead have been avenged,” he said fiercely.

  Reit looked hard at the granite mage, whose cold, stone eyes stared vainly into the fire pit, seeing only memories of the battle. The rebel leader almost rebuked the granite’s callousness, but thought better of it. No man should have to witness such carnage, let alone deal it out. But at least Keth had been there. Reit wondered how callous he himself would have been, having gone through what this farmboy-cum-mage had. If only he’d—

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Jaren said, reading Reit’s expression. “We wouldn’t have let you fight even if you had stayed, so don’t even think it. You’re too important to the Cause.”

  Delana—who, with Marissa and a select few of the other refugees, had been listening to Jaren’s account of the battle—placed her arm around her husband, a gentle yet steadfast reminder of his importance, to her as well as to the Cause. No, he thought. I couldn’t have stayed. They wouldn’t have let me.

  Unable to stay silent a moment longer, Marissa spoke. Tears welled in her eyes, but to her credit, she didn’t allow a single one to fall. She asked in a small yet steely voice, “Where is Sal?”

  Jaren chose his words carefully, praising Sal for his courage and his selflessness. He was positive that Sal would turn up any time now, possibly already with Retzu and the other survivors. He was sure that Sal had escaped any serious harm. But if Reit had been a betting man, he’d have wagered that Marissa heard nothing beyond “I don’t know”.

  He felt like crying himself—for his people, for his missing friend, for himself. Instead, he started
passing orders, spurring the camp into action. The Ranks would be pouring through the Vale in greater numbers now, which meant that the Vale was no longer safe, so Caravan would have to stay on the move. Once Keth returned with the rest of the refugees, Reit would order the lifting of the entire village over the Icebreaks. He knew it would be taxing on the already exhausted amethysts, and he knew it would have to be done in sections, but he could see no alternative. Anyone separated from the village during the lift would have to fend for themselves, at least for the time being. But even those not privy to Reit’s plans for Harvest knew there were ways of finding their way home, regardless of where the village happened to be on any given day. By the time Caravan reached Scholar’s Ford, Reit expected that most would have rejoined them.

  He just hoped, for Marissa’s sake, that a certain one-eyed diamond mage would turn out to be one of them.

  ***

  The smell of burnt bacon tickled at Sal’s nose, coaxing him back to consciousness. He might have ignored it, returning instead to that restful darkness, but his stomach barked loudly, waking him as thoroughly as any rooster could.

  He moaned slightly as he stirred, opening his eyes. He found himself on a thick pallet of luxuriant furs, piled high in the corner of a dimly lit, musty room. He snaked one hand through the fur quilt that covered him, easing his fingers to the floor below. Dirt, swept and packed. He cast his eyes to the wall opposite him. It was wood—stacked log, actually—and lined with more pelts, stretched for tanning.

  My God. A prison, a tent, and now a trapper’s lodge.

  It reminded Sal of his days in college, when an all-nighter could land him anywhere from a strange woman’s bed to the drunk tank at the county jail. He could almost hear his mother’s voice saying, “Jimmy, you’d better slow down or one morning you’re gonna wake up dead.” That one always got him.

  “Ah, ye be awake,” came a kindly voice. Sal stiffly craned his neck and found an old man—impossibly old, with skin as wrinkled and tough as the leather he was tanning—sitting next to the fire. He was very animate despite his age, and apparently strong as well, having brought Sal here from where he’d fallen. The codger shook an iron skillet over the fire, sloshing the popping bacon grease over the flames.

  “Nay, nay, don’tcha move,” the old furrier said sternly. “Ye were half dead when I found ye, and I’ll not have ye finishin’ the job.”

  Sal didn’t think he could move anyway. As he tried to sit up, the pain that had been a dull throbbing, dull and barely noticeable, flared brilliantly. Spots swam in his vision as dizziness stole over him. “Where am I?” he asked thickly, fighting a wave of nausea.

  “All depends on where yer wantin’ to be, I s’pose. Yer about a week’s walk northeast of Schel Veylin, or halfway between the Stormbreaks and the Icebreaks, or half a day north of the highroad, or a month west of Scholar’s Ford, or a month to twelve weeks from Bayton, take yer pick.”

  “Bastion, actually,” Sal said after a moment’s thought. If he had any hope of finding the others—of finding Marissa—it would be there.

  “Scholar’s Ford, then,” the furrier said sagely. “I dinna take ye for a trapper, and sure’n ye weren’t headin’ for Schel Veylin, not this far off the beaten trail. Methinks yer runnin’ from somethin’—hold ye there, friend, hold! I’m only aimin’ to help ye,” he added quickly, throwing up a placating hand to calm his startled guest.

  Sal forced himself to lay back on the pallet, still holding his host with a suspicious eye. Not like I could defend myself anyway, he thought sullenly. Right now, I couldn’t beat back a toddler with a loaded diaper.

  “I gave ye somethin’ for yer ails,” the man continued. “Ye were in great pain, thrashin’ around and such. Me herbs helped ye to rest. They should be wearin’ off soon, so I’m sure ye’ll be wantin’ to heal yerself. Milord mage,” he added nervously.

  Sal started, caught off guard. His left eye saw the old man as clearly as his right, with no hint of a green tinge. His eye was diamond!

  He remembered losing his grip on Emerald just before passing out. Not that it would have mattered much—the soulgem would have slipped from his magical grasp the moment he went unconscious anyway. But if the old man knew anything at all about the Gemstone Orders—and the fact that Sal didn’t exactly fit with any of them—he didn’t show it. He was just acting respectfully, if uncomfortably.

  “The other mage?” Sal croaked.

  “Dead, milord. Twisted around facing his rump, so he was. Took a mite to get him untangled, get his armor and whatnot from him. Sure’n ye’ll be wantin’ that for where yer goin’.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” muttered Sal dubiously.

  He wasn’t too sure about the old man. He sighed. Maybe I’m just a bit punch drunk from all the running, fighting, flying, falling, and near death experiences. That kind of crap takes it right out of you. Looking again at the old man, at the hangdog expression of the unappreciated, Sal softened. The old man was harmless.

  “Sorry, rough week. I owe you one.”

  The old man brightened immediately. Apology accepted, all was well again. “Bah, t’weren’t nothin’,” he waved the gratitude off very self-deprecatingly. “I done what I had to. Sure’n ye woulda died without me help. O’ course, I woulda mourned yer death,” he said, his voice trailed off wistfully.

  Sal started, and caught the shrewd glint hidden in the older man’s deceptively vacant eyes. Could this be a trap? What, out here in the middle of no where? Not a chance. Maybe he was just voicing concern for a stranger in need? Sal doubted it. Good Samaritan or not, what were the odds that he’d say those exact words to a total stranger?

  He hesitated a moment longer to choke down any remaining suspicions, then took a chance, hoping his gamble was the right one. “But the Cause must survive,” he answered.

  The old man cackled, slapping his leg in gratification and spilling a good deal of the bacon grease over the sputtering flames. “Aye, I thought so, so I did. I knew ye for one o’ me own soon as I laid me eyes on ye. Mikel du’Ander is me name, or Ol’ Mik as I’m called. I’m beyond carin’ which.”

  “Pleased to meet you. James Salvatori, or Sal as I’m called,” Sal replied with a small wave.

  “Sal,” Mikel said, the name sounding oddly familiar on the old man’s tongue. From far across the cabin common area, Mikel’s eyes seemed to flicker oddly, as if in recognition, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving Sal to wonder if it had just been a trick of the light.

  “Well met, milord mage,” the old man said finally, growing sober and somewhat wistful. “Well met, so we are, and glad to know ye. Odd name, that. James Salvatori. It’s been many a year since I heard the like.”

  “You’ve heard my name before?” Sal asked, at first startled, then just merely curious. If the old man had heard his name before, he’d surely learned it from his contacts in Caravan. After all, no one else on the planet knew he existed.

  The question snapped Mikel back to reality. “Huh? Wha—? Oh! No, not quite like that. Similar names, to be sure. Ye can hardly be the traveled man that I am without pickin’ up an odd name hither and yon. But yers is such a one as I ain’t heard in many a year. Aye, since I was a wee lad...

  “But that’s matters of a day long gone. Let’s have word o’ today, hmm?” Not waiting for an answer, Mikel leaned forward, his frying pan all by forgotten on a cooling grate near the hearth. “Word told o’ some big to-do far north o’ here. Troops amassin’ near Caravan, plannin’ to put the come hither on el’Yatza, the village, the Cause, the lot of it. Word come down to me too late to do much by it. Could only sit on me keister and wait to be useful. Thank the Crafter I did that, aye?”

  Sal grunted his agreement. Be it God, or the Crafter, or whatever, he was definitely running up a big tab with Someone.

  “Know ye if el’Yatza made good his escape?” Mikel asked, concern etched on his leathery old face.

  “Yeah, he got away. Wasn’t too pleased with having
to leave, but a certain emerald wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “That would be Jaren, so it would,” the old man chuckled. “Been lookin’ after his bacon since they was kids. And his twin?”

  Suddenly, Sal was uncertain, concerned. It had all happened so fast. “I don’t know. I was in the air and chasing down that granite before I knew what was happening. I know we were holding our own up until that point, but beyond that...”

  Mikel nodded his understanding. “The Cause is good and just, and what the Crafter wills, so shall it be,” he said with a confident nod. “Now then, let’s see to yer healin’. You can heal, can you not?”

  Sal thought for a moment, then just nodded. No sense in confusing his mundane understanding of the arcane. He obviously didn’t know much about it, if he didn’t notice that Sal’s eye was clear and not emerald-tinted.

  Reaching into his soul, he touched the emerald magic, drew it into himself. His gemstone eye shifted spectra, the familiar green tinge coming over his primary sight. He closed his eyes and got a sense of his body, his injuries. They were extensive, but not life threatening. He trickled mana into his body, dulling the various aches and pains he had. With Mikel’s help—the tottering old codger seemed to get in the way more often than not—they popped Sal’s hip into place. Even filled with mana as he was, waves of red hot agony shot through him as the joint slid home, bringing with them waves of nausea. He fought the pain, fought to remain conscious. Finally, his head cleared, and the pain subsided.

  With everything back in its proper place, Sal released the magic full on into his body, to seek out and repair any damage it might find. He felt the magic spread from his heart outward like ice in his veins. He shivered as the emerald wave flowed slowly from chest to neck, shoulders to arms, abdomen to legs, leaving healing power in its wake. He could feel cuts sealing themselves, forming the smallest puckered scars. A grinding sound issued from his ribs, his hip, his leg, as jagged bone fragments met, knitting themselves back together. The throb in his hip quieted as the stretched tendons mended. As the magic spread, the pain diminished, then disappeared all together. By the time the spell reached his toes, there was not a sore spot on his body. He was again whole.