Key to Magic 02 Magician

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Settling the butt of the axe reverently onto the road, the big captain added his blood, and even greater shackles of magic, to those of the corsairs and Aerlon. His visage was fierce as he boomed, “With steel and blood, bound forever into the earth, I pledge my life and the lives of all my line to thee! I, Mhiskva nh’Khadreva of the house of Kael’n, hereditary chieftain of clan Earalae and overlord of Bhrisnia surrender my life to your service and name you my king!”

  All about the rowboat, in every direction, the men and women of Mhajhkaei began to kneel.

  FIFTY-SIX

  745 Before the Founding of the Empire

  The narrow dock appeared slowly from the mist. The much repaired wooden structure listed twenty degrees to port and gave every indication that it was simply waiting for the next gale to sweep it away.

  The young man rowing the skiff rested his oars and let it drift the last few armlengths. Nimbly, he leapt up to catch a rope dangling from a bollard, arresting the small boat’s motion.

  “There you are, Master Vlaskec! Tihmphre Village!” the rower exclaimed.

  The emaciated and pale man who had given his name as Vlaskec rose unsteadily from his bench. It was a league of mostly open water from the small island where the Dhugekc Royal Mail sloop had dropped him off and he had grown chilled.

  “You have done well . . .” He trailed off, realizing that he had forgotten his rower’s name.

  “Gheven, sir,” the young man reminded patiently. “You said a silver, sir, for the trip?”

  “Yes, yes, that I did.” Vlaskec – that name was as good as any -- reached into his oilcloth overcoat and brought out two small silver coins. Dropping one into the eagerly outstretched hand of Gheven, he held the other back so the rower could see it.

  “If you will come over to bring me the news after every ship comes in there in Oumthrehn, I will pay you a silver each trip.”

  Gheven began nodding before the old man had finished. A silver was a lot of money in Oumthrehn.

  Vlaskec handed him the second coin.

  Gheven’s eyes gleamed. “What should I do if we have two ships put in one month? That happens sometimes. There’s a merchanter that comes for the whale bone three or four times a year.”

  “Each and every time you see a ship,” Vlaskec emphasized, “bring me the news. I will pay you a silver each time. Now, help me up to the dock.”

  Grinning in anticipation of his future windfall, Gheven steadied the skiff against a piling with one hand and used the other to boost the old man onto the weathered planks of the dock.

  “You have family here, Master Vlaskec?” Gheven asked chattily, passing up the small bundle that was the old man’s only baggage.

  “No, no family.” The old man paused. “I have none left anywhere.”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir. Well, how long might you be thinking of staying in Tihmphre?”

  Vlaskec’s eyes grew distant. “A year or more, I would imagine.”

  Gheven’s smile broadened as he calculated his potential earnings.

  “Good luck on the crossing, Gheven.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir! I’ll be seeing you in around a fortnight and a half!” As Gheven bent his back to the oars, the skiff disappeared into the rising mist.

  Tihmphre had no inn, but an early risen blacksmith stoking his forge directed him along a cart track dusty with crumbled white rock. The solidly build stone manor with a walled yard was just a ten minute walk from the village. The well-maintained gate was closed tightly, but there was a large brass bell. Vlaskec rang it once, not insistently.

  After a wait of less than five minutes, a dark-haired boy of about fifteen popped a look-see hatch on the right side of the gate and peered out, rubbing sleep from drooping eyelids. When the youth saw Vlaskec, his eyes widened slightly. Strangers were a scarce commodity in Tihmphre.

  “Yes, sir? Can I be of service?”

  “The blacksmith down the way said you have rooms to let?” Vlaskec asked politely.

  The boy visibly brightened, then moved abruptly from view. Boarders were probably few and far between on seldom-visited Tihmphre. Vlaskec heard the bar being raised and the gates swung wide to admit him.

  “And you are, sir?” the boy asked, taking Vlaskec’s bundle

  “Vlaskec of…well, many places, none of them for long. I have come to explore the old ruins.”

  The boy quickly nodded. “We have had scholars here before, from time to time. Are you a scholar, sir?”

  “Yes, of a sort. What are you called lad?”

  The boy straightened. This obviously was a matter of great pride. “Named after my father, Faell, sir, who perished with his ship in the Great Storm. My name is Faellaen.”

  “I am honored to meet you, Faell. About the room?”

  “Yes, sir. Will you have your meals with us as well? My mother is a fine cook, sir.”

  “That should be fine.”

  “I would imagine that you will be staying more than a few days, sir? There is a better rate by the fortnight and the month.”

  “I am not sure of the length of my stay. That depends on my success in the ruins, but I would think that I should be here at least a month.”

  “Excellent, sir! And if you have need of a guide, I have tramped through them for my entire life and would be happy to assist you!”

  Vlaskec examined the boy carefully. “You find them interesting, do you?”

  “Yes, sir. It is a wonderful place. The old stones have strange feel to them, but I have always liked it there.”

  *************

  740 Before the Founding of the Empire

  Apprentice Scholar Faellaen, born on Tihmphre but for the last five years a vagabond following his nomadic master across the world in search of lost ruins and hidden scraps of knowledge, placed his latest find from their current dig on the table.

  Vlaskec picked up the slagged object and examined it. The odd look that meant he was almost remembering came over his face. “It is a . . . wrist com.” The old man’s fingers played familiarly across the frozen studs, taping out a code. He shook his head. “Dead. But it would not matter if it functioned, as there is no one to answer – “

  The humor faded and Vlaskec stared at the object incomprehensibly, as if he had no knowledge of it. The old scholar realized he must have had a lapse, and looked to his apprentice for a nod of confirmation.

  “Did I say anything this time?”

  “Yes, sir.” Faellaen proceeded to quote his master’s words precisely. He had an unusual knack for recollection. He could remember perfectly everything that had ever been spoken in his presence.

  Vlaskec shook his head reluctantly, but resignedly. “Meaningless.”

  “It will not always be so, master,” Faellaen encouraged.

  Vlaskec clasped his apprentice and adoptive son on the shoulder, and smiled. “The light is fading. Let’s find our supper.”

  *************

  715 Before the Founding of the Empire

  “We have a duty, Faellaen,” Vlaskec reiterated as he sat quietly before their fire, the night oppressive and the sound of crashing waves distant, “to work to restore magic to the world. Remember that. Always.”

  Faellaen, who had spent thirty years of his life searching ruins and following his master across half the world, responded fervently, “Aye, master, I shall!”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Traeleon leaned back, interlaced his hands on his chest, and observed.

  The throne room of the Mhajhkaeirii’n palace was full. Many of the old accoutrements had been removed, including the throne -- in whose place he now sat with his simple table and sturdy chair -- and the gallery chairs and desks of the Senate. Every symbol of the old order – banners, tapestries, sculptures -- had been erased from the hall. Until workmen could remove it, the great seal on the doors had been covered with a stretch of canvas. All signs of battle had been cleansed or hidden. Many Mhajhkaeirii were present, some eagerly but most hesitantly, some at the summons of
the Brotherhood, but others presenting themselves to make demands or seek boons. Numerous scribes and couriers, postulants and novitiates, awaited his bidding on the steps below. Others flitted through the queues and gatherings, bearing messages and parcels. Many brothers with skills in the merchant trades, tasked to serve as the city’s new bureaucracy, worked in the galleries, taking accountings and readying the merchants and citizens of The Greatest City in All the World to be taxed.

  Not surprisingly, the line of those who had come seeking admission to the fraternity of Great Phaelle was lengthy and growing.

  The Apostate, the child Prince, perhaps four thousand armsmen, and some of the nobles had escaped, but they could be dealt with later. Even with the aid of the Apostate’s magic, such a small force would not present a great threat. The victory was complete and the city was his. With the resources of Mhajhkaei now at his disposal, the Ascension of the Brotherhood would increase in pace many fold.

  Junior Ascertainer Plehvis, the Archdeacon’s personal scribe and a member of his own Order approached. Plehvis, like many of the other brethren present, had arrived with the Second Fleet. “Preeminence, Brother Zheltraw wishes to speak to you.”

  The Archdeacon frowned. The First Promulgator had served his penance, but Traeleon had expected the zealot to keep his distance for at least another fortnight.

  “Send him away.”

  Plehvis bowed. “Yes, my lord. However, Brother Zheltraw requested, should your schedule not permit time for him to be seen, that I convey his report.”

  “Which is?”

  “His exact words were, ‘Progress has been made with the special convert.’”

  Traeleon straightened. This was welcome news. “Admit him.”

  Plehvis bowed again and signaled a neophyte, who departed for the anteroom. In seconds, Zheltraw appeared through the great doors and scurried down the long aisle.

  To Traeleon’s utter disgust, the zealot immediately prostrated himself at the foot of the dais steps.

  Aware that many of the brethren had taken note of Zheltraw’s arrival and were watching with discreet interest, and recognizing the moment as a strategic opportunity to demonstrate his beneficence, the Archdeacon rose and beckoned.

  “Rise First Promulgator, penance is passed. We are all equal in the labor of the Restoration.”

  As Traeleon sank back to his seat, Zheltraw advanced up the steps, his expression guarded.

  “Thank you, Preeminence, for receiving me. One again I wish to affirm my --“

  Traeleon spoke quickly to interrupt the cretin’s fawning. “You told Brother Plehvis that progress had been made with the special convert?”

  “Yes, my lord. As instructed, we have submitted him to the full brunt of Scrutiny.”

  “What did his Ability measure?”

  “Nothing, my lord. We --.”

  Traeleon’s eyes narrowed. “That is not possible. He shot enervated bolts from his hands, First Promulgator. I witnessed this myself.”

  Zheltraw shrank back slightly. “Your pardon, my lord, I misspoke. We have thus far been unable to measure his Ability accurately. There are indications of magical constructions within his body, but we have been unable to precisely identify them. Perhaps these constructions allowed him to fire the bolts.”

  “Can these constructions be removed?”

  “We do not believe so, Preeminence. They appear not to have a physical existence.”

  “They are composed entirely of flux? Intriguing. Did you have the convert demonstrate the use of these constructions? Surely much can be learned from observing this operation.”

  Zheltraw hesitated.

  “Speak,” Traeleon commanded.

  “The convert was unable, even under severe compulsion, to produce any magical effect whatsoever. The Chief Skryer verified that the convert does not possess knowledge of the operation of the constructions and is unaware of them on any level that he can discern.”

  Traeleon waited, allowing his impatience to show.

  “Our Elder Brother believes,” Zheltraw continued hurriedly, “that the convert has suffered some type of head injury that has left his mind disrupted. This would explain his inability to use the constructions consciously. Also, the natural flow of his flux is disrupted in indecipherable ways.”

  “And what exactly does that mean?” the Archdeacon demanded sharply.

  Zheltraw winced at the tone and then answered cautiously, as if anticipating a rebuke. “Some of his readings resemble those of a corpse, Preeminence.”

  Traeleon took a moment to consider this. The First Promulgator, exceeding the Archdeacon’s expectations, realized that he should remain silent. The Archdeacon meditated at length, matching facts and conjectures.

  “How did he fare on the Examinations?” he asked at last.

  “Poorly, my lord, in all save the last.”

  “He has foresight?” Foresight was the rarest of all magical talents; no member of the Brotherhood had shown any skill in reading future events in more than two centuries.

  “Yes, Preeminence, of the highest magnitude. While in a stupor of drink and herbs, he was able to predict indeterminate events with complete accuracy.”

  Traeleon leaned forward interestedly. “To what measure?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “No further?”

  “Unfortunately not, Preeminence.” The Brohivii hunched his shoulders, as if expecting the convert’s inadequacy to be assigned to him as a personal failure.

  Traeleon frowned in disappointment. “Hardly useful. Very well, First Promulgator, you may proceed with the Scrutiny. Learn all that may be learned from the convert, even unto the rendering of his life in the Work, so that the Restoration may come nigh.”

  The Archdeacon waved a dismissal.

  Zheltraw did not immediately withdraw.

  “Yes, what else First Promulgator?”

  “Preeminence, while in the prophetic state, the convert has produced writings.”

  “Yes?”

  The Brohivii pulled a small scrap of paper from a pocket. “They appear to be in some variant of Old Irhfeii’n, but none of the junior brethren have been able to translate them successfully. They indicate that they are stymied by an unknown diphthong transposition and irregularities in grammatical structure.”

  Traeleon had an acknowledged flair for ancient languages and had researched them extensively as a novitiate. He had continued his studies after he had achieved full fraternity, though his induction into the Salient Order had steered his main focus to other pursuits. He gestured for the scrap and studied the wandering handwritten letters.

  “It is not Old Irhfeii’n,” he announced absently as he read, “but an older script that may have its roots in Forebearer’s Script. Only one example of this exists in our archives, a death poem from a tomb in eastern Aehrfhaen.”

  “Shall I direct the junior brothers to study that document, Preeminence?”

  “No,” Traeleon countered quickly. “I will undertake the study of this writing myself. In the hope that these prophecies may prove useful to the Work, I direct that the convert be not subjected to further Scrutiny. Maintain him constantly in the prophetic state and bring any other writings he produces directly to me.”

  Zheltraw looked surprised, but nodded eagerly. “As you say, Preeminence.”

  “First Promulgator, you have demonstrated a diligence in this matter that, I am sure, will progress the Work.” As expected, Zheltraw’s eyes gleamed at the praise. As the zealot gave every indication that he was about to fall on his knees in prayer, Traeleon continued immediately, “Go now to your Duty, brother.”

  Zheltraw bowed deeply, his face shinning, and marched away. Before he had departed the throne room, he began singing hymns to the glory of Great Phaelle.

  Traeleon watched the First Promulgator depart. He had considered having Zheltraw poisoned, either discretely or through the normal channels, but now realized that to do so would be a ridiculous waste of such an easily manipu
lated fool. Better to wait until the man’s life could be expended to some significant purpose. Several of the philosophers of the Mhajhkaeirii’n Senate had proven intransigent. Perhaps Zheltraw could be used to supervise their execution and then betrayed to the philosophers’ followers. The subsequent suppression of these rebels would facilitate the removal of other suspect brethren as well as numerous uncooperative Mhajhkaeirii.

  The Archdeacon turned his eyes back to the paper. It had been he who had translated the Aehrfhaenii’n death poem and he had no trouble translating the convert’s words.

  “He is the Key.”

  “Do not destroy the Key.”

  “He will restore magic to the world.”

  “He is of the pure blood.”

  “He will breed sons and daughters of the pure blood.”

  “Do not destroy the Key.”

  “He will unlock magic.”

  “He will loose the future.”

  “His name is Mar.”

  “Mar is the Key.”

  END BOOK TWO

  The Key to Magic continues in Book Three: King.

  Addendum

  An incomplete accounting of The Forty-nine (give or take) Gods

  Awandrehachor, God of Poems and Sonnets

  Alosth, Sublime Half-Quarter-Goddess of the Rapine of Civilization

  Bhalrgam, Mystical Lord of the Fleet of Foot

  Bhenthiabuka, God of Condiments

  Bhurghrah, God of Waste, Sewage, and Refuse

  Cyhalis’ts’psqo, God of Boats, ships, rafts, and buckets of all sorts

  Ephtehg’rha, Lord of Shipwrecks

  Gwolth, Invisible Ultimate Priestess of the Arcane Rites of Sand

  Gz’l, God of Heretics

  Knorthrha the Night God

  Luftorh, God of the Oceans

  Mhokh, God of Death

  Mehl-shzu, God of Nautical Trades

  Myrae’n the Snake Goddess

  Nhal-bhy-chu, Goddess Mother of Chance Events