Gemworld

by Jeremy Bullard

  Things had been strained for days following the attack on the eastern slopes of the Aedenlee Foothills. Once the immediate danger had passed, the horror of previous week started to settle in. There was little laughter and carrying on, even among the kids. There was a glint of steel in every eye, a snarl in every word. The shock of the attacks was slow in wearing off. All to the good, as far as the protection of the village was concerned, but it had made life very drab, very hollow for a while. It cast a grim shadow over the village that seemed to seep into the bones. Keth didn’t know if it was that shadow, or his granite indifference trying to set in, but things quickly came to a head for him. He was determined not to fall into the same funk as everyone else.

  Keth pushed forward with his arcane studies, though he did so alone, without the instruction of the newest granites to Caravan. He had no idea why, but Jaeda refused to even see him. Gaelen tried to tell him that she didn’t want to impede the progress that he was making in his studies of Granite, but that just didn’t make any sense. What smith doesn’t pass his knowledge onto an apprentice? What father refuses to teach his son? He’d been half tempted to visit the other granite, the one called Nestor, but Reit was adamant in his command that the granite general be left alone. More than once, his oath of fealty bristled on him, but he said nothing. After all, he’d sworn to Reit of his own free will, and he’d bow the master of the Abyss before he broke his word.

  For endless hours, he would wield his granite magic, if for no other reason than to just be doing something. Oh, how he hated the waiting, the inaction he saw around him! Even with the apparent business of the village, it all seemed like so much window dressing, neglecting the heart of the problems they faced. So much more could be put into motion, so many plans could be made. Each second that passed could be a second devoted to getting Sal back, or improving Caravan’s defenses, or training the raid parties for the upcoming Festival of Harvest. Anything!

  He even turned to creating and destroying—then recreating again!—his little granite spheres to give his daily life a sense of purpose, however minimal. Anything to stave off the boredom. And whenever he felt his focus beginning to slip, he’d pester a shol’tuk lesson or two out of Retzu. From sunup to sundown, he stayed busy with one project or another. Got himself the doeskin, aye, and was less than a step away from the linen, but that was entirely beside the point. He’d even taken to becoming one with the earth, melting sword and all into the ground beneath him, to work his shol’tuk forms in utter isolation for as long as his focus could hold out.

  Crafter be praised, the people of Caravan finally started to come around. But the change was far from gradual. It happened so suddenly that it was almost frightening. One night he lay in bed, searching the silence for a cough, a whimper, anything to let him know that he wasn’t alone in the village. The next morning, the camp was abuzz with activity. Keth really didn’t care what brought about the change after weeks of nothing. He just blessed the Crafter and His Prophets that it had.

  Following the ambush in the foothills, Caravan had remained fully mobile, camping in a different spot each night. Pegasi and amethysts had been sent to gather up those straggling villagers that could yet be found, along with refugees from other rebel cells. There was more than enough work to go around, and now that the funk had finally lifted, people were getting after it with a vengeance. Someone was always needing something crafted, or mended, or altered. Master Seti’s forge may as well have been a tavern, for all the callers it entertained.

  Before, this might have suited Keth just fine. Crafter take it, he’d prayed for the day to arrive! But in those half-numb days immediately following the attacks, he’d actually gained an appreciation for his granite abilities. His “gifts”, as he referred to them now. And each new custom order took him away from his arcane studies. He couldn’t help but to grin at the irony.

  Each time he explored his gifts, he found new uses for them. Now he put his whole heart into his studies, far surpassing anything that Jaren could teach him, and quite likely Jaeda as well. And that enthusiasm carried over to other aspects of his life. Especially into shol’tuk. The precision of the stances, the fluidity of motion, the veritable melding of logic and creativity... he almost thought that his lessons with Retzu made him better able to explore his magic. Ridiculous! What did swords have to do with mana? No matter. Whatever the connection, its existence was evident. If he’d leapt into the doeskin hilt, he was virtually flying toward linen now!

  Master Seti noticed his new enthusiasm as well. Or rather, he noticed that his apprentice often had his mind on other things, far, far away from the mechanical clunking of his hammer. More than once, Keth would awake from his thoughts to find Master Seti’s eyes on him, the blacksmith shaking his head and snickering good-naturedly. He knew well where Keth wanted to be. So even with the increased demands of the forge, the blacksmith let the young granite go his way whenever he could spare him.

  Often, Keth would use this time to simply sit, and look. The object of his study didn’t concern him, only the studying of it. He found this ironic as well, after all his complaining about inactivity, to sit idle and watch a flower open, or a gnat buzz around a rotting fruit. He would study the object closely, examining the patterns that made it up, and the bits that made up those patterns. Other times, he would take those bits and push at them magically, watch them strain against the natural bonds that held them.

  One day, those bits moved.

  He hadn’t expected it really. He was simply thinking back on the night that he’d first learned to consciously wield. He had been looking at a wooden stick, but he saw that loaf of bread, the petrified bread that he turned into steel. In his mind, it was still so vivid—the bits that formed the bread, the way he rearranged them to fit the pattern of the steel in the dagger. He didn’t realize what he was doing until the stick grew cold in his hand.

  Amazed, he stared at the now-steel bar. He could still see the minute ridges and valleys of woodgrain within the bar, the knotholes and leaves that sprouted from it at odd angles, all metallic. He could see tiny fissures in the branch, where he’d attempted to cut through the stick with a knife earlier. The fissures gleamed a lighter blue against the blue-black of the rest of the branch, telltale signs of the steel’s weakness in those spots. Still, it was strong, solid throughout.

  He’d done that! He’d turned the wood into metal, with only the force of his will. He’d pushed at the bits of wood, and they moved...

  Moved?

  A new, peculiar thought occurred to him. Concentrating on the bar, he drew upon the granite magic, and wielded. Mana flowed from his arm, into the steel. As he watched, the woodgrain smoothed out. The knotholes filled and the leaves melted. The branch elongated, thinned out, became straighter. Its edge sharpened visibly. With each passing second, Keth’s understanding of his “gift” became more defined. He wasn’t just learning his abilities. He was bending the very laws of nature.

  He starred at the object in his hand, formed seemingly of its own accord. A mixture of pride and awe filled him. Had his eyes been natural, he might have had to shade them from the gleam of the magic-wrought steel. He might have seen the beauty in it, the shadows of woodgrain still in the blade. He might have seen the love that he’d put into the hilt—which later that night would sport his doeskin strip—or the menace in the keen edge. But all he saw at the moment was his accomplishment. He saw his growing mastery of his talents. And it all started with a suggestion from Sal...

  Keth’s eyes snapped open, and he stared out into the rippling orange of the tent as it stirred in the night air. It always seems to come back to Sal, don’t it?

  Keth fought the sudden urge to go out looking for him. I’ve been commanded not to, he reminded himself viciously. You will keep your word.

  He’d fought many such urges since that day a week ago that he’d told the others that Sal was still alive. He couldn’t believe how callous el’Yatza could be, writing Sal off without even trying! Sal was sm
art, innovative, and a natural leader. He was an extremely valuable asset to the Cause. It seemed only logical that Lord Reit would order a rescue attempt, but he was too busy making excuses as to why he could not.

  The young granite raged at the excuses, seeing them as unacceptable weakness, and raged at himself for even thinking such thoughts against his sworn lord. Sal had to be in grave danger for him to not try to find his way home, and yet Reit—Lord Reit—would do nothing. The Heads of Order and Guild would do nothing. No one, not even the artisan, seemed willing to do anything. Keth begged them to at least let him go out alone, but they refused that as well. Lord Reit didn’t want to risk losing Keth to the Highest. Jaren didn’t want him to get killed. Miss Marissa wouldn’t say anything, just stare off into nothingness and cry softly. They all felt how important Sal was to the Cause, the mages more than any, and yet everyone seemed content to sit back on their haunches and do nothing!

  With each passing moment, his ire mounted. Ire quickly gave way to outrage, and that to a righteous fury. He felt torn, straight down the middle of his soul, with each half vying for control of the whole. We cannot win without Sal. We cannot win, he shouted silently, only to hear his own voice echo back, You swore an oath. You must trust that what your liege lord commands is for the best... We cannot win...You cannot betray your vow...

  He grabbed at his head with both hands, panting against the urge to cry out, trying to rip out his frustration with his hair. Pain brought tears to his eyes, his jaw clenched.

  Good, good. Pain was exactly what he needed just now.

  Death is raw, like the hide of a newly skinned bull.

  The near-magical words of the mantra worked their way into his soul, as they always did. His focus sharpened. He could feel the tattered remnants of discipline drawing slowly together. His breathing slowed, his fingers went slack. The screaming in his scalp eased.

  Death is soft, like the doe in her winter coat.

  Focus. Calm.

  After the first recitation, the words came easier to him. Again and again he repeated his hilts, absorbing every last drop of control the incantations offered him, until at last he felt his shoulders relaxed, the knots in his back ease. He let go of his hair altogether, and rubbed his sweaty palms against his jerkin. For good measure, he silently recited his hilts once more. Finally, he deemed himself able to think rationally about this, his emotions once more in check.

  He admitted—grudgingly—that Lord Reit’s refusal was wise. There was no excusing the danger that the Resistance would face in an all out attempt to rescue one man. The ends simply did not justify the means. But that changed nothing. The Resistance needed Sal, now more than ever.

  Lord Reit, in particular, needed Sal. The one-eyed mage saw things differently that anyone else, picked up on things that others missed or took for granted. In the fight for freedom, such an asset could be the difference between winning and losing. The Highest might be able to anticipate Lord Reit as he had every other upstart rebel leader throughout history, but not Sal.

  Miss Marissa needed Sal, too. With him gone, she could hardly work, could hardly even eat. And right now more than ever, her expertise in magical weaponry was vital. If she could not concentrate on her work, the mundane people of Caravan would suffer in their ability to survive another attack, much less mount one of their own.

  Master Retzu, Menkal, Jaren, Senosh... the list went on and on. Everyone in Caravan needed Sal in one form or fashion. True, it was too risky to attempt a rescue. But, in Keth’s opinion, it was just as risky not to.

  Feeling his frustration simmering anew, Keth took a calming breath, reciting his hilts again out of reflex. Even if his sworn lord had not given him a direct command to leave Sal in the hands of the Crafter for the time being, there was still nothing he could do at the moment. He had no idea where Sal actually was, or whether he was really being held captive. All he knew for certain was that Sal was alive. The rest was speculation.

  Keth forced himself to relax, and wriggled deeper into his pallet. When he was settled, he dropped his hand to the floor below. The ground rippled as he melted his hand into the dirt. Every night he held a similar vigil, feeling for Sal’s aura—the structure of Sal’s magical presence—across miles of night-cooled earth. Sometimes he felt it faintly, far off to the south. Most times, like tonight, he felt nothing.

  Still, he lay there, joined with the sleeping earth, its peace eventually lulling him to sleep.

  ***

  Nestor peered through slitted eyes at the nodding Jaeda, holding sleepy vigil in her chair by the door, as had become her custom. He shot a quick look out the door, then back to Jaeda.

  The door was propped slightly open, allowing a draft to come in, and a hasty exit, should Jaeda need it. Long weeks ago, Reit’s guard rotation had become lax in their duties, either nodding off themselves or taking long, leisurely strolls through the night air to stay awake.

  Tonight, the guard’s chair was empty.

  ***

  Sal sat bolt upright in bed, his lungs heaving with imagined exertion and fear. Instinctively, he took hold of the emerald magic, its power suffusing his being, ready to heal or deal out death, whichever was needed. Gradually, he realized that neither were needed. Snores replaced the din of battle in his ears, candle lit blackness replaced the blood drenched field. He lay in breeches upon a woven bunk, not on a gurney beneath a shroud. He’d been dreaming.

  The barracks. I’m in the Earthen Rank barracks at the training camp on the outskirts of Bastion.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and scrubbed his sweat-slick hair, the remnants of the dream quickly fading now. Already, he felt fatigue threatening to steal back over him.

  His hands still shook from the adrenaline rush brought on by the dream. He stood and stretched to the sound of stiff joints popping. Spying the wash barrel, he padded over, his toes curling on the cold, flagstone floor.

  ***

  A tickling sensation woke Keth. He glanced at his hand, still one with the ground beneath it. It was no dream. He felt Sal.

  The sensation was very faint, diluted by thousands of miles of rock. Had it been an aura that Keth was less familiar with, he would have never noticed it, but there was a distinct signature in the aura of the world’s only diamond mage. It was him, but the aura was almost too faint to follow. The voices of doubt sprang up in Keth’s mind. We can’t risk losing you too, Reit’s voice argued. It’s too far away, said Jaren’s voice.

  Keth’s own voice joined in the chorus. I never feel Sal for more than a few moments at a time. Why should tonight be any different? If I can’t feel him, I can’t find him. And what if Jaren and Lord Reit are right? What if the Highest is waiting for me?

  We’re not talking about a rescue here, the thought came to him, wholly unbidden. One might say, by inspiration. We’re talking reconnaissance.

  Keth couldn’t argue with that logic, and couldn’t justify wasting time in trying. With a grunt of stubbornness, he banished the voices and rolled off his pallet, falling into the dirt floor.

  He floated there in the soil for a moment to get his bearings. He could feel his friend’s presence off to the south, though he couldn’t tell where or how far. He willed himself forward, speeding through the earth and rock toward his target.

  As he traveled, the structure of Sal’s aura slowly became sharper, more defined. Like a bloodhound sniffing out a trail, Keth used his friend’s aura to guide his search. He made minor adjustments as he went, until he was satisfied that he was heading straight for Sal. Confident, Keth drew fully on the Granite soulgem, and launched himself with abandon toward his lost friend.

  ***

  Sal shook the water from his hair, wiped the excess from his face. Behind the wash barrel stood a mirror. He gazed into it for a moment, noting the changes to his appearance that fourteen or so weeks in this strange world had brought him.

  His hair was still close cropped, though not as neat as the high-and-tight he was used to. Rank barbers were not a
s skilled as Navy barbers, to be sure. As long as the hair was short enough that an opponent couldn’t grab it, that was good enough for them. His chin was covered in a week-old growth, giving him a rugged look that suited his grizzled “Rank soldier” role nicely. The leather patch clung to the right side of his face, covering his remaining natural eye. The other eye glittered back at Sal through the mirror, candlelight reflecting off the orb’s smooth, emerald surface.

  Sure that his colleagues were asleep, Sal drew on Ruby. He watched in awe as his emerald eye dimmed, shifting from its accustomed green to a fiery red in a swirling blend of color. Sal chuckled in bewilderment. It didn’t matter that he’d done this a thousand times before, standing in front of this same mirror and doing the same parlor tricks. No matter how many times he saw it, it never ceased to amaze him.

  Leery of being found out, Sal quickly recaptured the emerald magic. Still grinning his amusement, he meandered back to his cot.

  ***

  All of a sudden, it was gone.

  Keth stopped and waited for a moment. Sometimes Sal’s aura would disappear for a few seconds, only to reappear soon after. But seconds went by. Then minutes. Still Keth waited, despairing, hoping desperately that he would feel Sal’s aura again in the distance.

  It’s no use, he thought finally. He’s either put his boots on, or climbed back into bed. Frustration tore at Keth. He would have screamed, if the earth permeating his lungs and throat would have allowed it. He resigned himself to silent oaths, cursing himself for not moving fast enough.

  He willed himself upward, exhuming himself from the magical grave. The earth rippled slightly as he broke the surface, sending waves through the tall grass above. Free of the ground below, he released the spell. His vision flashed brilliantly for a moment, then returned to its normal multicolored state as it always did. Funny that I should think of this as normal, he thought to himself. Keth looked around, searching for any landmarks that he might recognize.