Rough Magic

by Jenny Schwartz

  Istvan readjusted his wings. “That the Faerene concept of magic is built on a draconic conceptual framework.”

  The door of the cookhouse opened and closed. Griffins have powerful night vision. He and Nora watched Amy shuffle her way to the toilet block, while shielding a flickering candleflame.

  “Does it all come back to familiars?” Nora asked, contemplatively. “The more powerful of the original magic users, like griffins and dragons, subsumed yet buried their familiars’ other ways of using magic so that we evolved a single instinct for magic on Elysium. Could it be? Could that be how such different peoples manage to exist as a cohesive population?”

  Istvan glanced at her briefly, but kept his watch over the cookhouse with the orb inside it, and Amy who was jogging back to it, her candle extinguished. “Are there examples of different innate approaches to magic on other worlds?”

  The Faerene had migrated to six other worlds, after all. If his theory was correct, there ought to be support for it elsewhere.

  Nora rustled her wings. “I don’t know. When I think of the thaumaturgical people we’ve encountered on other worlds, I can’t recall any who resemble humans—both flightless and with the physical dexterity to manipulate the world with the equivalence of hands.”

  “Quossa approaches,” Istvan reported.

  “We have to discuss this with him,” she said urgently.

  “Yes.”

  The stallion plodded up to them. Unicorns were accustomed to napping through the day and sleeping a solid five hours minimum at night.

  Griffins were blessed with better stamina. Istvan existed on three hours of sleep a night, and given that his body clock was on American time, he wouldn’t feel sleepy for hours yet.

  Piros and other dragons could go even longer without sleep. A dragon could remain awake for a week, but would then crash unconscious for a day or more.

  “Why are you lurking out here?” Quossa grumbled his question, using magic to shape the sound waves, but didn’t stop. He kept plodding toward the cookhouse.

  “Istvan has a theory about human magic,” Nora said.

  “An idea. It’s not—”

  She cut off his protest. “Amy should be part of this discussion.”

  Yes. Yes, she should

  Chapter 5

  I sat on a blanket that was folded double on the floor beside Istvan. He served as a comfortable backrest as I grappled with his idea, as explained by Nora, that humanity’s instinctive approach to magic fundamentally differed from the Faerene’s.

  Nora spoke intensely. “Magic is the collective ‘what if…?’ of all the unused possibilities in the universe. Those possibilities combine like water molecules do to stream through reality. At least, that is how Faerene understand magic. We conceptualize it as flows. Istvan suspects that humanity understands it as filaments. You spin strands into thread. When you work magic, you knot those threads.

  “As we understand it, the ancient human mages embedded and hid quintessences in the latticework that kept Earth’s magic flows stable for millennia.” She paused. “The alternative idea of spinning magic is fascinating and frightening. The hypothesis is speculative, but potentially profound.”

  Quossa tossed his head in thought. “When the orb broke the latticework that had been holding Earth’s magic in a millennia-old pattern, the magic flows frayed. The world spindle was meant to feed the magic into a stable new pattern.”

  “Or allow time for that pattern to emerge,” Nora guessed. “The spindle was meant to control the rough magic.”

  I rubbed my hands over my knees. “Is it strong enough? If the pattern held Earth’s magic unnaturally stable for longer than my ancestors intended, might the magic now let loose have built up to a point that the world spindle can’t manage it?”

  Nora nodded agreement. “It’s possible. If the spindle proves unable to handle the avalanche of magic flows that we’re experiencing, its structure can still give us clues as to how the ancient mages envisaged it working. It may provide vital insights that we, as Faerene, can’t imagine.”

  “In short.” Quossa stamped a hoof. “We’re back at a conclusion we already reached. We have to find the world spindle.”

  “But we now have a new argument to present to the Fae Council to prioritize the search,” Istvan said.

  Nora tilted her head, fondly. “Istvan, they would have done so anyway, on your recommendation.”

  There were various forms of authority. Istvan wasn’t a scientist, but he had led the sealing of the Rift in addition to being a magistrate. He carried the weight of a lot of people’s expectations.

  Resting against him, I breathed in the musky scent of his feathers and fur. Notes of forest and woodsmoke mixed with his ordinary scent. “They’ll send you to look for it. I’m coming with you. And Rory.”

  “Rory has responsibilities,” Nora said.

  “To the North American Magisterial Territory.” I winced at the exasperated edge to my voice. Tiredness didn’t excuse rudeness. We were in this together to find a solution.

  “The world spindle could be in the South American Territory, not ours,” Istvan said. He, at least, had followed my thinking. “It has to be somewhere that the ancient human mages believed was accessible for their descendants to reach the orb once they’d found it, despite their magic being locked away.”

  “But not too close.” I smothered a yawn. “We learned from the orb during your activation of it that they believed in the power of a journey. They wanted their descendants to think about activating the orb, how they and their world would change. The journey was meant to give them time to psychically prepare.”

  Nora fixed me with a severe glare. Griffins were experts at those fierce looks. “Precious few humans would have been involved in the discovery of the world spindle. For the vast majority, the unleashing of Earth’s magic flows would have come as a shock. You cannot assume—”

  Surprisingly, it was Quossa rather than Istvan or me who interrupted her. “On the contrary, assumptions must be made. We don’t have the luxury of time to research or debate endlessly. It’s getting worse,” he said, bleakly. “With each use of magic we seem to be intensifying the chaotic nature of the planet’s magic flows.”

  “It could be working to a peak before falling away. If we’re talking assumptions,” Nora added snidely.

  “You’re a better scientist than that,” Quossa chided her. “You saw the data trend, same as me. If it holds till two hours before Harold’s promised broadcast, then I’ll advocate—I’ll insist on—a moratorium on all magic use. Three days is the maximum the bunkers can be shut down.”

  Nora’s beak gaped. “You wouldn’t.”

  “The situation is escalating.”

  They glared at one another.

  “And in that three days we have to find the world spindle?” Istvan asked neutrally.

  “That would be best,” Quossa said with a quirk of wry humor. “You’ll have to portal to wherever it is, so you’ll need to be in place before the moratorium starts.”

  “A complete absence of magic use,” Nora muttered. “It’s an over-reaction.”

  Her boss ignored her. “The ancient mages expected their descendants to locate the world spindle without magic, and from my interpretation of the orb’s communications, without deliberately searching it out.”

  “Millennia have passed,” I said. “It could have been destroyed. Decayed. Buried…They’d have hidden it underground, in a cave!” Where else would you hide something that you desired to keep safe but forgotten?

  “It has to be somewhere that humans could reach,” Istvan said. “Which is why Rory is a good choice to be part of the expedition. Before the moratorium, he’d ensure he was in his human form.”

  I blinked. I’d forgotten about my husband’s other forms: the wolf and the half-form.

  “I agree,” Quossa said. “Nora, return to the bunker and focus on locating the world spindle. Have Chad help you. If the protections around the orb faded enou
gh for a kraken youngster to find it, there might be a variation in the magic flows that’ll point to the spindle’s location. Search in a three thousand mile radius from the Gulf of Mexico. Land, not sea.”

  That was a colossal amount of space to cover.

  Quossa wasn’t finished. “Meantime, Istvan and Amy, see if you can track back from mentions in the orb where the spindle might have come from.”

  I rubbed at my knees again in thought. “The clearest statement doesn’t really help. The Americas are west of where the orb was found. The communication in the orb was to the discoverers who’d ‘spun the sun to them’. I assume that means they were expected to travel east in search of the orb while using, or carrying, the spindle.”

  “If the predominant direction was east, then the spindle couldn’t have been transported from the far north or south,” Istvan calculated.

  Quossa snorted. “Hence my limiting the search to 3,000 miles. Nora, maybe prioritize within 2,000 miles.” He shook his head, mane flying as if shaking off pesky flies. “I’m going to eat, then sleep here for three hours before returning to the bunker. I will meet you there, Nora, and expect an update on your progress and on the magic flows and disaster reports. Amy, could I bother you to open a feedbag and place it on a chair?”

  “Of course.” I scrambled up.

  “A moratorium is too much,” Nora repeated herself.

  “I’ll study the data in four hours,” Quossa said.

  Cold air gusted in the door with Nora’s abrupt departure.

  The unicorn whiffled unhappily. “It’s not that I want to frighten everyone with a moratorium. It’s that the consequences of using rough magic are worse. The disaster reports—thank you, Amy.” He began eating.

  I cuddled up back against Istvan.

  “Nora has reason to worry,” he said. “A three day moratorium will change the development of the Migration. Harold will have to give everyone warning.”

  “Three hours,” Quossa said.

  Istvan clacked his beak.

  “Desperate times, desperate measures.” Since Quossa’s speech was via a magical shaping of the sound waves, he kept eating as he talked. “If we continue employing the rough magic and it blows up our spells, glamours and charms, what then?”

  I began to comprehend the problem. “You’re concerned about how the humans will react. Without their glamours, Faerene settlements near humans will be visible to them.” Faerene towns like Atlanta, which nestled, overlooked and smugly prosperous, within the footprint of the human city. Glamours kept humans from noticing both it and the Faerene journeying to and from it. “Even when the magic is stabilized, humans won’t forget the location of the re-glamoured settlements, will they?”

  “No. A mind wipe of a few individuals is possible, but very rarely approved.” Istvan answered with his authority as both a magician and magistrate. “A town of humans learning of a formerly glamoured Faerene town is too big a target to wipe. I would never approve it. Some settlements might have to be abandoned,” he concluded heavily.

  He meant Faerene settlements. I knew he wasn’t cruel enough to force humans from the refuges they’d found to survive and rebuild from the apocalypse.

  The rough magic was revealing a fundamental flaw in Faerene society: their unrecognized utter dependence on magic.

  I just had to look at Justice to realize that its defenses were primarily magical. It was an open town. The rangers could recruit volunteers and defend it, but they hadn’t planned on doing so without magic. If humans had time to prepare in advance, they could overwhelm the town via sheer numbers.

  What would Faerene like the vampires of Memphis, who’d embedded themselves in amongst humans and whose location was known to human enemies like the militia, do to protect themselves? Would they have to leave their seethe and hide?

  “How long will it take humans to work out that the Faerene’s magic has failed?”

  I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out loud, so Quossa’s solemn response shocked me.

  “You’d be better at estimating that than us.”

  I shook my head, but in disbelief at the situation, not disagreement. “For those living glamoured right next door to humans, it could be a mere couple of hours.” And what would happen then? For individual Faerene already traumatized by their magic flaring and failing, how would they respond to suddenly being on equal ground with their human neighbors? Vulnerable. “That’s why Nora’s worried.” The possibility of violence was strong, and the spark for conflict might come from the Faerene rather than the humans.

  “For most Faerene, a three day moratorium would be an inconvenience and nothing more,” Istvan said. “For those nestled close to a human settlement, they’ll have to decide whether to defend or depart.”

  “There’d be looting, vandalism.” I imagined the horror. Before the apocalypse took away our modern technologies, I’d seen the violent breakdown of human cities on television and heard the stories from travelers, traders and refugees since. “And after the three days are up, the Faerene would reclaim their homes and businesses with magic and violence.” The Faerene were people, as flawed as humans. For some, in amongst the reclamation of what was theirs, there’d also be an opportunity for revenge against the humans who’d stolen from them. “We’re setting up a spiral of distrust.”

  “Only in a few areas,” Istvan said. “And three days may be a short enough time that humans can’t mobilize in sufficient numbers to take advantage of the moratorium. Where the Faerene claimed entire islands, like Crete with the capital of Civitas, and Manhattan Island in our territory, the sea is a sufficient natural defense for a three day moratorium on magic. However, if our magic failed entirely, became too unruly to use, mere geography would be an inadequate barrier against conflict.”

  Either we controlled the feral magic or there’d be war between the Faerene and humanity.

  Quossa finished eating. He clip clopped to the other end of the room and let his head droop. He’d sleep standing up. The night outside was too cold for him, and he clearly preferred not to lie down on the stone floor.

  I looked at Istvan, and lowered my voice in respect for Quossa’s attempt to sleep. “Are you sure you don’t want the blanket to lie on? I have my coat and you. You’re like a giant hot water bottle.”

  “I’m fine, Amy.”

  I was silent for a while, my mind and emotions overwhelmed by the happenings of the day.

  “Justice is safe,” Istvan murmured. “Your family won’t be hurt. The citizens can defend the docks and Rory’s pack will probably change into wolf and half-form before the moratorium begins. They’ll run the perimeter. No forest is close enough for archers to hide in, and we have our own archers. Your family will be safe.”

  “They’ll fight alongside the other townsfolk.” I hugged the coat around me, tucking my chin down. “They’ve chosen their loyalties. Niamh is a Justice police officer, now. They know their neighbors and their neighbors’ families. None of them would sit by and let children be hurt or terrified.” I took a shaky breath.

  Digger and Mike were ex-army. Mike’s sons, Jarod and Craig weren’t, but their father had raised them with the values and ability to defend the innocent. Stella would stay at home and worry. For all her courage and character, she was in her seventies. The apocalypse had left her frail.

  I hoped desperately that the humans in the area, especially those traveling past by boat, weren’t stupid enough to try to enter Justice. The pact had to hold. The town’s leadership had agreed to accept human visitors and traders, but only if they arrived via Memphis.

  Memphis’s human mayor had recognized the changed reality of Earth and was trying to build bridges with the Faerene. He’d have to keep the vampires in his town safe during the moratorium. Would the vampires trust him enough to ask for his help?

  “About the world spindle.” The sooner we found the world spindle and got it working—if we could get it working and if it was the solution, or partial solution, to the rough magic—
then the sooner the moratorium could be lifted and violence and bad memories avoided. I had so many doubts, so many unknowns. “Do we really know how it’ll work?”

  “No. But what your ancestors bequeathed you in the orb convinces me that they meant well. They would have made the world spindle simple for you to use.”

  I smoothed his feathers, flattening them against his neck. “They also intended to lock away our magic for just a little while, and it lasted millennia.”

  He rested his tail on my ankles. “Have hope, Amy. When there’s a choice, always stand for hope.”

  Quossa woke and departed as I closed my journal and settled in beside Istvan to sleep. Between the stone floor beneath the blanket, the troubles, and the fact that my body clock was set to a different time zone, I expected a broken night’s sleep, and that’s what I got. I rose with the sun and was making porridge when Nora arrived.

  She and Quossa were losing a lot of time traveling to and from the bunker.

  She halted outside to shake the rain from her feathers and fur before entering. “I apologize. Inflicting the smell of wet fur on a meal space is uncouth, but I’m conserving magic use.”

  “It’s gotten worse?” Istvan’s question was very nearly a statement.

  “Quossa reported the increased intensity of the rough magic to the Fae Council. They’re discussing the details of the moratorium. They had no viable option but to approve it. Three and a half hours ago, the island of Dragao sank. There was a clan of goblins living there, fisherfolk, and two thousand humans. Fifteen survivors. Twelve goblins and three humans. Dragao was between Reunion Island and Madagascar. Too far from either for anyone to reach them in time. One boat made it out.”

  Silently, I divided the bacon I’d fried for Istvan onto two platters and put a pot of tea beside each. Istvan had hunted his own dinner last night, and his griffin metabolism meant he didn’t have to eat yet, but the hot snack would be appreciated. Nora seemed to need it even more.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  I understood her emotions. When you were mourning, kindness undid you. I patted her shoulder and sat down to my own meal of porridge. My churning stomach was grateful for its blandness.