Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “Essentially,” he agreed. “Know this is not my area of expertise. I know only the common lore of the Brethren on the subject. But according to that lore,” he continued, uneasily, “without a Celestial Mother in command, Callidore is in grave danger of drifting into the Realm of Light. It has happened before, hundreds of millennia before, and it was disastrous,” he reported. “The Celestial Mothers were able to restore the world to the Realm of Darkness, but it was difficult. Without them . . . the Vundel fear that they will suffer a similar fate, when Callidore next drifts into that realm.”

  “That’s . . . a lot to digest,” I said, after a long pause. “You are saying that the world is going to lose magic, and the Vundel can’t save us?”

  “My friend,” Moudrost said, his eyes unfocused, “without magic, the Vundel, themselves, will die. And that time is coming. If nothing is done, our world will return to the Realms of Light, magic will begin to fade in the light, and the Vundel with it. Their spells will fail. Horrific creatures will arise and feast on the dying. Eventually, nearly all life will go extinct on this world.”

  I was aghast. That was terrifying news. I knew that so many species depended upon magic, in one way or another, that losing it would be like losing oxygen. In some cases, magic was how a species respirated oxygen.

  “How long do we have?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Only three thousand years,” he informed me, sadly. “In a mere three millennia, all life on Callidore will be doomed. And ours along with it.”

  Epilogue

  Moudrost’s dark revelations and foreboding predictions about the fate of humanity did not make for a restful sleep. After the seamage bid his son farewell, and activated whatever magical transport the Brethren used, his words and the images they inspired haunted my dreams and induced a restlessness in my soul that stirred me from sleep night after night.

  At first, I turned to drink or simple magic to overcome the insomnia. But there’s only so much that alcohol and cantrips can do for a mind rocked by such an existential danger. Not even the solace of our doom being postponed for thirty centuries brought peace, for some reason. Perhaps it was my exposure to the long-lived and near-immortals of this world, but I felt the brevity implied in Moudrost’s dire warning.

  The insanely troubling aspect was that I happened to have a kind of Celestial Mother back in Sevendor. I could, conceivably, possess some means of changing our fate, if I knew how to use it. It had been a year since I laid eyes on the pulsing, semi-sentient Snowflake, the core of which was at the center of the Magolith. Though I had raised armies and castles and spectacular spells in Vanador, I had not taken the time to explore the Handmaiden, as much as employ her. And I had done almost nothing in regard to the Snowflake, my pet molopor, either. Suddenly, I felt terribly irresponsible.

  The problem was that I did not know how to approach the subject. Nor did I know if it was really helpful to get the Vundel’s dead grandmother’s corpse out of my basement and throw her at the problem. The only thing I did know was that by doing that I would be condemning me and my family, and perhaps my entire nation, to chaos and turmoil when they had been the subject of near-constant disruption. And that was if everything went splendidly with the Vundel.

  For weeks, I frequently found myself tumbling out of bed in the middle of the night, desperate for anything to distract me from that existential terror. Visions of volcanoes, rocks hurtling from the sky, and every living thing around me dying a miserable, suffering death consumed my dreams, as my imagination and subconscious dueled for title to my soul.

  Thankfully, unlike magic on Callidore seemed to be, bureaucracy was eternal. I always had mounds of parchment cluttering up my desk in my solar, and using my insomnia to get through them (or, conversely, using them to combat my insomnia) proved the most reasonable antidote to sleeplessness. Despite my new realms reliance on the arcane, there was yet no spell that could banish reports and authorizations into oblivion.

  Dwelling on the relatively inconsequential when faced with the cosmic is actually a fairly reasonable way to contend with that kind of crisis. Yes, the world was going to end. No, the stack of funding approvals was not. People needed to be paid, and the recent war had incurred a tremendous amount in wages for the soldiers, payment for supplies, and rental for certain properties. Most could be dealt with by my subordinates – or, more appropriately, their staffs – but a certain level of expenditure required my personal attention and approval.

  That included payment and reward for my senior officers. In short order I granted Terleman, Mavone and Sandoval each a small fortune from my treasury. I also granted them each an estate from a pile of blank deeds Gareth’s clerks had prepared for the purpose. Most of the properties were empty or abandoned, but it was land, and land was wealth, as long as you could defend it. I didn’t care if they developed the estates into going concerns or left them fallow, they deserved a reward and I had three fewer pieces of property cluttering up my desk.

  Gareth, himself, was paid by Pentandra, as her steward. Yet his service to the defense of the Magelaw had been singular. He got an estate, too, one near to Spellgarden. I wanted him close to Forseti, for consultation, and close to the Mewstower to be built nearby. That’s where Nattia would eventually be stationed. Her reward was a bonus to her pay and a palatinate charter for the Sky Riders of Vanador.

  Carmella, for her part, got a fee thrice as large as my commanders, combined, for her heroic effort in the defense. In addition, I gave Salik Tower a long stretch of land north of the tower, large enough for two or three villages. Salik Tower was growing far beyond its original bounds. She needed the space for expansion.

  I was working my way through the rest of the list, from Master Cormoran down to Sire Aveden, when there was a soft knock on my door. It startled me – it was the middle of the night, and the rest of the house was silent.

  “I was wondering who was awake at this hour, pilfering your desk,” Brother Bryte yawned, as he invited himself into my solar. “I was just coming back from the temple and was going to pour a nightcap. It’s cold out!” he said, fervently, as if he was offended by the weather.

  “It’s the depths of winter in the Wilderlands,” I reasoned, calling a pre-prepared bottle of spirits and two glasses to appear from a hoxter in my ring. Bryte lost no time in pouring us each a shot. “What were you expecting?”

  “Alas, the weather has entirely lived up to my expectations,” he sighed. “It’s only saving grace is that it discomfited the goblins even more than I. Cheers for that, by the way,” he said, simply, as he raised his glass.

  “You’re welcome,” I nodded. “I didn’t do much, though, particularly with the weather. But we’re relatively goblin-free, now,” I admitted. “Until spring.”

  “Until spring,” he repeated, pouring himself a second. “You will prevail then, too, I presume?”

  “You may,” I agreed. “But you may be wrong. Eventually, every soldier loses a battle.”

  “As every lawbrother loses a case,” he chuckled.

  “The difference is, when you lose in court you don’t see your holding razed and your women ravished,” I pointed out.

  “I could introduce you to some clients who would disagree. Including my previous client to you.”

  “As I recall, you won that case,” I remembered.

  “So I did. And got tied to a tree and smeared with shit as a result. The fruits of righteous victory . . . still, it got me this cushy job,” he decided. “Cheers for that, as well.”

  “You’ve fulfilled your destiny of being a Lawgiver,” I pointed out. “That’s got to be a bigger honor than being my chancellor.”

  “No, no, I’m not a Lawgiver unless my laws survive challenge,” Bryte pointed out. “A minor technical point. But my profession revolves around minor technical points. Believe me, it will – be challenged, I mean. That’s the nature of the law.”

  “Then you’ll defend it,” I reasoned.

  “Will I?�
�� he asked, surprising me.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” I asked. “You wrote it, didn’t you?”

  “Well, certainly, but that doesn’t mean I’d necessarily defend it, if it didn’t suit my case. In fact, challenging my own laws in court might be interesting.”

  “And a waste of my resources,” I reminded him. “We still have a tremendous amount of work to do. Work beyond mere law, but well within your scope as my chancellor.”

  “Oh, really?” he asked, grinning. I could tell the spirits were warming him nicely. “What can I help you with, my lord?”

  “A few matters. Starting with drafting a letter to the Count of Nion, and his associates. A really, really nasty letter.”

  “Oh, I like the sound of that!” he nodded.

  “Then, I want you to begin a more clandestine project. I want you to draw up a proposal for a treaty with the Ashakarl, the Goblin King.”

  “Don’t we already have a treaty with the Goblin King?” he asked, confused.

  “The Kingdom does, through the auspices of the Prince,” I agreed. “I want a treaty between the Goblin King and the Magelaw. The previous treaty establishes the legitimacy of the one I want you to write,” I pointed out.

  Brother Bryte seemed both intrigued and appalled. “I can foresee that causing all sorts of problems,” he decided, after a moment’s thought. “For you and for the kingdom. Minalan, are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Perhaps not, but it’s what I want to do. I’ll go over the details with you, later, but you’re right. This is going to cause some trouble. The thing is, it will also cause a lot of trouble for Korbal,” I reasoned.

  “You would be foolish not to take advantage of rebellion in your adversary’s camp,” he agreed, thoughtfully. “But tread carefully, Minalan. A lot of people would look askance at you making peace with the Goblin King after so much destruction. Don’t forget, in the wider Kingdom, the people make no distinction between the Goblin King, Sheruel, and Korbal. They only know that there is unrest in the West and the goblins are at fault.”

  “It’s a strategic risk, but one worth taking. But I will heed your advice. I will tread carefully. From here on, I will plan as meticulously as possible. I must,” I affirmed, mostly to myself. “Too much depends upon my success. Too much is doomed by my failure.”

  Bryte studied me thoughtfully for a moment. “This is one of those times where you are referring to some obscure mystical bullshit that has little relation to the real world,” he decided. “So I’m going to hold my comments, because I don’t know the facts, the context, or what the hell I’d be talking about.”

  “You would be wise to do so,” I said, pouring my third drink. “Just imagine that the world is in danger and I’m one of the few people upon it to realize that.”

  “How much danger?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?” I retorted.

  “Of course it matters! There are always mitigating circumstances. Shades of meaning. Nuances,” he said, enunciating the word as if it tasted good in his mouth. “There’s danger, and then there’s danger. But we’re all going to die, someday, my friend. The law is certain on that point.”

  “That seems to be the case,” I agreed. “The thing is, it’s my job to see that we don’t all die at once. Or in great whopping waves of misery that feed upon themselves. And that, my dear monk, is what I contend with.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” he said, with genuine sympathy. “For you, that is. The rest of us are rather fortunate for having you . . . do whatever it is you do, apparently.

  “At the risk of violating professional standards, I’ll be honest: everyone here feels safer and more secure from being ruled by the Spellmonger. When I first came here, last year, I’ll admit, I was skeptical,” he continued. “I was working for a wizard? Who was building a city? In the middle of the Wilderlands? Under a bloody rock? The entire situation seemed tailor-made as a joke the gods were playing on me.

  “But then I watched it happen. I saw buildings go up, walls go up, food imported in, empty fields filled with grain, malnourished peasants with full bellies, and an entire industry the rival of any large city spring up over the course of summer.”

  “I didn’t do all that,” I dismissed, sourly.

  “No, you really didn’t,” he agreed. “Mostly you just stood around, talked to people, and convinced them to do it. Not with edict and orders enforced by armed men, but with reason, persuasion, and an appeal to their future. You got these people invested, Minalan.

  “I wasn’t here when the slaves were freed, or any of that, but I did see how miserable their condition was when we arrived, last year. Now I see a land with homes and shops, where no one goes hungry or is cold in the middle of winter. Usually it takes years to do all that. You did it in less than a year. Mostly by the simple fact of your presence and the esteem in which you are held.”

  “That’s magic,” I pointed out.

  “That’s vision,” he corrected. “Magic was helpful, no doubt. But what you had more was vision. And a large purse, but the vision part was more important, in the long run. That was your contribution to all of this. Just being the Spellmonger, the way you do it. None of the other wizards I’ve met seem to have either your ambition or your vision.”

  “And that is what has landed me in the position of defending all of humanity. All of Callidore, actually. Suddenly, I feel completely inadequate to the task.”

  “Yes, I wouldn’t mention that to anyone,” Bryte said, studying me carefully. “We’re all enjoying the safety and security of knowing you know what you’re doing. Don’t screw that up,” he suggested.

  “That’s why I’m talking about it to a priest,” I decided. “I can’t discuss it with Alya, without worrying her. I can only tell so much to Pentandra without her trying to get involved in unhelpful ways. My friends feel as you do, that I know what I’m doing. And I do – when it comes to simple things, like Vanador or the war against Korbal. But the other matters I’m privy to – which I don’t feel comfortable speaking about – those are the ones that make me feel inadequate to the task ahead.”

  “Well, why wouldn’t you?” Bryte challenged. “Minalan, despite your title and your powers and your nifty toys, you’re just a man: mortal, ephemeral, and full of failings. You are going to fail, feel pain, and eventually die.”

  “And now I feel so much better about myself,” I said, sarcastically.

  “That was not my goal,” he promised. “Lawbrothers don’t make you feel better about yourself. We keep you out of prison and keep you from killing your neighbors out-of-hand. Most importantly, we advise our clients in the most prudent course of action in a given situation. If you want to feel better about yourself, try another temple.

  “But in this case my advice to you is to tighten your metaphorical belt and prepare to press on, just the way you’ve been doing, regardless of the dangers ahead. Because it sounds like that’s all you really can do about whatever grave situation it is that your fretting about. You’ll make the right decision,” he said, confidently. “And if you don’t, then you’ll deal with the consequences.

  “In the meantime, you make the rest of us feel much better about ourselves, and our future. So, keep your personal insecurities to yourself! The rest of us are trying to have a good time, here!”

  I had to chuckle at the passion with which he dismissed my worries. Brother Bryte could be caustic, sometimes, but his mixture of passion and cynicism was engaging.

  “So noted,” I finally said. “I suppose the curse of education is the understanding of just how inconsequential you are, in the grand scheme of things. Learning of the distant past and contemplating an uncertain future provides such scale that you cannot help but realize how pointless your existence is. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.”

  “A mitigated bliss, dependent upon the educated to keep civilization going,” he corrected. “Oh, I enjoy ignorant, smelly peasants who think the gods make the seasons change as much as the next monk . . . act
ually, I find them rather distasteful, but a client is a client. Your point is well-taken, however. I say this because your father is a working man, and he seems far more content with his life than you do.”

  “Dad fulfilled his worries by having five daughters and a wayward son,” I agreed. “Now he just wants to retire and enjoy his grandchildren. I’m envious.”

  “He’s an old man and you’re middle-aged,” Bryte nodded. “Different perspectives. But his attitude is correct. He’s worked hard for what he has, and he wants to spend the rest of his life enjoying it. Why can’t you?”

  “Because I know too much,” I complained. “I wish that I didn’t, but I do. I know that as much as I build here, someone, someday, will tear it down. I know that my children will experience tragedy in their lives. I know that the world will end, someday.”

  “None of which is a different concern than those any other reasonable man worries about. All men are anxious about their survival. And their family’s. You’re just taking it to an unreasonable extreme.”

  “That’s what wizards do,” I said, with a shrug. “We’re given the power to fundamentally alter Nature. Alas, we are rarely given the wisdom to use it properly. We’re given insight into the very workings of the cosmos. Alas, with all of our powers, we’re still impotent against those forces,” I lamented.

  “Ishi’s tits, do you ever stop bitching?” Brother Bryte asked, annoyed. “You have wealth, fame, power, title, lands, a beautiful wife, wonderful children – if you like children – and the admiration of your friends and subjects. And you’re worried about a little cosmic crisis? Luin’s staff, Minalan, you are blessed! Not just figuratively, I heard about the gods showing up in Sevendor. You are literally blessed by the gods . . . and it still isn’t good enough for you.”

  “The gods aren’t all they’re supposed to be,” I countered. “And I am blessed. I’m just also cursed.”

  “Lawbrothers usually discourage internal arguments in our clients,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “Mostly because we can’t charge a fee for those arguments. But partially because it’s easier to proceed when your client’s mind is settled. Whatever it is you have to do to make yourself feel better, do it. You have my sympathy for your mental anguish over it, but for all of our sakes keep it to your godsdamned self.”