Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “After the rigor of the initial settlement, such forms were abandoned as ungainly,” the Aronin agreed, weakly. “Save for a few fanatics, who maintained them and bred them in a distant realm. They do not breed well,” he added. “They were all but extinct.”

  “Too damn tall,” agreed Azhguri, looking from the male to the female. His eye lingered there. “Might be worth the climb,” he conceded.

  “Master,” my new Dradrien servant called, from a corner of the room. “See this!”

  He’d found the garments for the two bodies: two nine-foot tall suits of closely-fitted, cunningly crafted plate armor. Every inch of the Alkan-like decoration on both sets was covered in brilliantly-polished gilt, with the blackened steel under providing a brilliant contrast. The two helmets were glorious and sinister, at the same time.

  “Pretty,” I observed.

  “Makamal clan,” he grunted. “Good. Not the best, but good.” He closed his eyes and whistled, before leaning his big hairy ear close to the larger set as he tapped it. “Knew it! Used kerje in third tempering!” he said, his eyes flashing under his massively bushy eyebrows. I had no idea if that was good or bad, but it seemed to amuse my new smith.

  “I don’t see weapons,” Sire Cei said, looking around. That made Master Suhi’s humor fade.

  “I made the weapons,” he admitted, guiltily. “Not here.”

  They weren’t anywhere in the place. The laboratory complex – which contained a palatial living quarters, a treasury of recovered Alkan sculptures and other art (which Master Hance obligingly stole, using a hoxter in his ring, and vowed to bring it to Aeratas’ new refuge in Hosendor) did not contain the two special weapons Suhi informed us about. But an alcove in the laboratory presented us with a surprise: most of my stolen crystals.

  The Pocket Stone, alas, was not there, but many of the other stones were. Feeling a sense of vindication and justice, I took not only the stones but all the other magical minerals in his treasury. There were some very intriguing-looking crystals that Azhguri was delighted to find, but I was immediately drawn to the goodly amount of irionite. Six big lumps of the stuff, each about thrice the size of the average High Mage’s stone, was set out in preparation for something.

  I took those too. Korbal owed me.

  “As fascinating as this is,” Sire Cei said, clearing his throat, “it occurs to me that every second we wait while we are this close to the fulfillment of our quest is a second we allow our foes to discover us,” he suggested. “We should proceed, as these creatures, as fearsome as they are, do not pose a threat.”

  “No,” I said, turning back around to look at the lifeless bodies. “But they might present an opportunity.”

  The long, chalky vein of Ghost Stone began in earnest just past the lab, beginning as a narrow layer among many, and widening to dominate the entire side of the cavern.

  The absolute widest exposure had been made into a little installation, with a slender Alka Alon pillar supporting an intricately-woven structure of crystal and silver. Or something. It looked like crystal and silver.

  “The Chamber of Ages,” the Aronin croaked. “Here, I may join my ancestors.”

  “And I might experience my beloved wife, again,” sighed Aeratas, closing his eyes as a memory overtook him.

  “How does it work?” I asked.

  They began explaining the procedure to me, while the others studied the magnificent grotto. It wasn’t particularly technical, nor do I want to explain it here, but the spell was challenging.

  “I shall go first,” Aeratas said. “It is my right as the Lord of Anthatiel,” he declared. I didn’t argue, and he stepped up to the pillar, after handing me the crippled body of the Aronin. He weighed next to nothing.

  Aeratas put his hand on the crystalline construct, closed his eyes, and relaxed. In less than five minutes, he removed his hand and stepped back.

  “That’s it?” Hance asked, an eyebrow raised.

  “I knew where to locate her, within the stone,” Aeratas said, barely above a whisper. “I did what I had to do, said what needed to be said. You may proceed, Minalan,” he said, nodding his head.

  “I . . . I don’t know what to do,” I admitted. “I was depending on Onranion to guide me to the Handmaiden. With him not here, I’ll just have to . . . to . . .”

  “I will be your guide, Minalan,” the Aronin volunteered.

  “Aronin, that could slay you,” Aeratas said, frowning.

  “I am a whisper away from death, as it is, my friend,” the ancient Alkan said. “Korbal took away my strength, my body, and nearly my mind. You have restored that, for a time. In this state, I may make one last impression in the stone, give the benefit and knowledge of my experience to our people. That way my suffering and sacrifice will not be in vain.”

  “If that is your wish,” the Lord of Anthatiel conceded.

  “It is,” the Aronin declared. “Besides, I am among the few who has made so deep a pilgrimage into the Ghost Rock before. I know where to find your Handmaiden. And how to get her back out, once again.”

  We set him near to the pillar and helped him place his broken hands on it. A sense of peace and serenity seemed to come over him as he sang the first notes of the song that initiated the construct. He gave me a single nod to join him.

  I reached out for the twisted silver bar and felt my hand drawn toward it. No, not my hand, I decided, but –

  And I wasn’t there anymore.

  The interior of the Ghost Rock is impossibly vast, arcanely speaking. It’s more akin to being in the Otherworld, though without the comfort and scale of the world below you. I’d experienced the perspective before when we fished the Celestial Mother out of the Grain of Pors, and scores of other enneagramatic impressions, but there were definite differences. Firstly, there was the impossible vastness I spoke of.

  But there was also far less of a sense of crowdedness, within. I had no doubt that there were far more enneagramatic impressions in the Grotto of Ages than the Grain of Pors, despite its recent acquisition of a host of human impressions (my own included), but the sense I got from the Grotto was that it had plenty of room for more. And more.

  I sensed the Aronin beside me – not in his crippled physical body, but in the enneagramatic representation of his self-awareness, as interpreted by my subconscious mind.

  That meant he looked like a perfect little Alkan lord, ancient, wise, mystical, all that. I don’t want to hazard a guess what I looked like to him.

  The more recent an impression, the closer it will be to this point, he explained, as we floated through the medium as if we were flying. All around us were crystalline representations of other enneagramatic impressions. Our own were formed the moment we contacted the vein.

  That’s Aeratas? I asked, as we passed a proud-looking structure.

  Touch it, and see, he counseled.

  I did. The experience was intriguing, like seeing into his thoughts and feelings, his memories and his experiences. It was confusing and chaotic, as they were mostly connected with people from his past, most of whom were long dead.

  Indeed, I sensed a great despair in the contact, a desperation and determination. It was brief, but so intense that it pushed me out.

  Yes, that’s him, I agreed, when I’d been expelled.

  It is not a simple process to connect with the impressions, the Aronin explained. It takes many journeys and much practice to do so, without the use of the construct to consolidate the perspective.

  Who did he visit? I asked, suddenly curious.

  Hynalinae, his queen, the Aronin said, pulling me toward her. This is the last impression she made, before she tragically died.

  How?

  She was slain by the Enshadowed, he answered, simply, as we swam – flew – to another bright cascade of crystal. The last time they tried to conquer Anthatiel. A stupid, foolish, petty raid some three centuries ago. They invaded while Aeratas was at council, attempting to seize his wife and child and use them to compel the Counc
il to release Korbal, but Hynalinae was a proud woman from a proud house, worthy of the greatest of her ancestors. She would not yield. She was a dedicated guardian of the City of Rainbows.

  That explains a lot, I observed.

  Indeed. Aeratas loved her desperately. Had he not had his baby daughter, Fallawen, we all feared he would have thrown himself off the cliffs of the city in despair. He hunted the cell who committed the crime and destroyed it utterly. He has visited her here repeatedly since her death.

  I could appreciate that. But Alya wasn’t dead. Not yet. And she was why we were here.

  I’m sure there are wonders aplenty in this realm, Aronin, but I am here with purpose. I would prefer not to delay more than I need to.

  Of course, he agreed, although time here is . . . different than it is outside. But I understand your eagerness. Come with me.

  I followed him by the simple expedient of willing my consciousness to follow him, as you would do with any directional spell. We sped by constellations of distinctive Alkan impressions, the enneagrams of tens of thousands of Alka Alon who had made the pilgrimage down those stairs to the Ghost Rock.

  Here, the Aronin said, as we paused in the middle of the cluster. I thought you might appreciate this: one of the few humani ever to leave an impression in the Ghost Rock. One of the first of your kind to explore this region, when your folk descended from the horizon.

  What? A human ancestor? I asked as I circled the enneagram. I could tell at once that it was different than the Alka Alon around it, just as the enneagrams in the Grain of Pors were. I couldn’t resist. I ran my perceptions through its periphery.

  In an instant, I was bombarded with the same sorts of thoughts and feelings I got from Aeratas’ enneagram, but from a decidedly human perspective.

  But a strange human perspective. I reeled in confusion as I plunged through random seconds of a strange man’s life . . . a man who was born on a different world than Callidore.

  That was . . . interesting, I said, when I withdrew. Who was he?

  His name was Heinrich Gerling, a colonel in the Colonial Exploration Corps. He was one of the first humani to explore the Mindens. Aeratas was wary of the man, though he was eloquent in council. It took much persuasion for him to be allowed the opportunity to explore the Grotto. I met him, once. A nice man, very self-possessed. I think he went on to become a diplomat or an administrator, back on Perwyn. I thought you might want to collect his impression, while you are here.

  Really? To what purpose? I asked.

  If you have questions about the Forsaken, or other insights into your race’s past here on Callidore, this man might have answers.

  That made a lot of sense . . . and gave us an opportunity to practice the transfer process.

  One of the crystals we’d taken from Korbal’s lab became the host for the transfer. Once I returned to Sevendor, I’d figure out what to do with it, but it was nice to have. An unexpected prize for this expedition.

  When we returned to the endless emptiness of the vein, the Aronin pulled me far beyond the realms of the Alka Alon, and beyond sparse gap that intervened before we came to the true wealth of the Ghost Rock.

  Dancing before me were millions of strange and wonderful enneagrams, each wildly different and competing for my attention. In moments, we were surrounded in an overwhelming sea of them. The sheer variety and number made attempting to discriminate which was which impossible. Within the first few moments I thought I’d find impressions that I was certain were the Handmaiden. Each time the Aronin pulled me away.

  Instead we went far more deeply into the context of the vein, into the thickest portion. We whipped past so many strange and wonderful things that I became confused and disoriented almost at once.

  But then we stopped, suddenly, and I understood why the Aronin was so amused. This impression was infinitely more complex than anything I’d seen. Indeed, I’d only seen one that rivaled it.

  The Handmaiden of the Celestial Mother, he announced, as we both hovered nearby.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Necromancy

  The differences between the Handmaiden and the Celestial Mother were as striking as their similarities.

  There is no scale in the Ghost Rock’s arcane matrix, so it wasn’t a matter of one being larger than the other. Their basic structure was essentially similar. Both had six main nodes coming together at a central junction.

  But the Handmaiden’s pattern was far less tangled and complex than the Mother’s. It looked almost elegant, compared to the bursting sophistication of the Celestial Mother. Two “arms” of the Handmaiden’s enneagram were longer, more pronounced, and possessed of a complexity the other four lacked.

  The Aronin regarded the gloriously sophisticated enneagram serenely.

  In a time so distant that all the years since the Alon came to Callidore are but an instant, life on this world was largely contained to the seas, he explained.

  When the world was firmly within the Realm of Darkness, in that distant golden age, much of what we know as the Shallows were filled from shore to shore with glorious white coral, which evolved to utilize the sunlight above and the rich minerals below to combine into its wondrous form. Pure, primal magic conceived in the Realm of Darkness.

  In the peace and freedom from form the Darkness provided, the great coral beds came to use what we know as magic to manifest as perfect and ideal a realm in the oceans of Callidore.

  The deep ancestors of the Vundel emerged from this field – Callidore Magosphere, as you know it – to clean and tend the vast white coral beds, and feed upon the magical energies so abundant in the white coral. Chief among them were the Mothers, who came to coordinate the tending, and later the defense and cultivation of the coral.

  By the time that Callidore began to emerge into the Realms of Light, the Mothers had become the Great Mothers, and eventually the Celestial Mothers. Their long lives – many times the longest-lived among the Alon – and their endless responsibilities demanded an increasing sophistication and complexity. One that they, themselves could not continue.

  For this purpose, over time they delegated those functions to six subsidiary organisms. They have had other names, but you would call them the Maid, the Butler, the Coachman, the Messenger, the Midwife, and the Handmaiden.

  The Vundel you know today are descendants of the Maid and the Butler, you would say, those responsible for the ceaseless task of cleaning the remaining corals. Their functions were active and intercessory. In the absence of the last of the Mothers to guide and direct them, they evolved into their present form, continuing their ancient function.

  The other four symbiotic servants to the Celestial Mother were dedicated, he continued, unhurriedly. Without her to serve, they had no purpose, and died away.

  Chief among them was the Handmaiden, an entirely independent entity charged with monitoring and repairing the enormous complexities of the Celestial Mother’s psyche. From the lore of the Vundel, the Handmaiden was responsible for combing through the tangled skeins of her complex self-awareness and ensuring that there were no injuries, conflicts, or issues with the Celestial Mother’s mind.

  So she served as a sort of conscience, I observed, unable to pull my awareness away from the magnificent arcane fossil before me.

  In a manner of speaking, conceded the Aronin. She served as an independent entity to survey and determine what elements of the Celestial Mother’s mind were spiraling in dangerous directions. The decisions she made affected millions of entities; the Sea Folk were meticulous in how they managed such things. They would not chance disaster in such a delicately balanced system because the Mother was not feeling well.

  How did this one get here? I asked, curious. Without all of the others from the staff?

  It is a mystery, lost to the ages, the Aronin admitted. Oft have the scholars of the Alon contemplated just such a thing. There are theories and speculation, but no one knows for certain.

  Not even the Vundel?

  The V
undel have a . . . strange relationship to their past, he tried to explain. It is difficult to learn the truth from them, even considering differences in perspective and language. For ten thousand years we have attempted to discover the truth of their past, but we have gotten only scraps and pieces.

  Yes, I know how frustrating it can be to get a straight answer from another race about things in their past they feel guilty about, I said. If I’d had eyes in that medium, I would have rolled them.

  The irony is not lost on me, Minalan, the Aronin smiled. Indeed, there are important parallels in the two cases. The difference is that we, like the humani, are guests on this world. The Vundel own it. You are free to continue probing into the crimes and transgressions of the Alon – and they are many. If either race questions the Vundel too deeply about matters they are sensitive about, then we transgress against our hosts. To our mutual peril.

  I understand that. Which is why I’m confused by the Alkan council’s attitude toward us.

  Take it up with them, the Aronin dismissed. Such things no longer concern me, not that they ever did, much. But my perception is that they thought they could tame humanity, once it was removed from its dangerous roots. Once Perwyn was destroyed, and your last link to your old culture was gone, the council’s attitude was one of benign neglect in hopes that you would eventually assimilate into peaceful servants, like the Tal Alon.

  And then the gods and the barbarians showed up and ruined that plan, I mused.

  Essentially, he agreed. By that time, many of us lost interest in your novelty. And those who were against the policy were in ascendance. But that is not the concern of the moment, and I leave it to you to sort out, should you survive this journey.

  I’m halfway there, I said, regarding the Handmaiden. I’m starting to feel hopeful.

  There is great risk in what you do, Minalan, he counseled me. Not merely for yourself, but for our peoples. There is a chance that the Vundel will take it amiss that you have disturbed one of their ancients.

  There’s a chance that if I fail, Korbal is going to awaken the Formless, I countered. I’m guessing they’ll be too busy with that to be concerned with the theft of an arcane antiquity. But what risk is there to me? I asked, suddenly concerned. We transferred the Celestial Mother without any serious problems. Into a multi-phasic crystalline quasi-molopor made out of enchanted crystal, I conceded, but we did it.