To make matters worse, the savistator indicated that the etheric density was more than half of what is considered normal and standard in the rest of Callidore. By the time we achieved the rocky gate of Tyr Morannan, magic had become damnably difficult.
Thankfully, the threshold where we could not activate a hoxter had yet to be achieved. Once we arrived at the barren courtyard of the place, Gareth was able to produce a series of snowstone slabs around the tower from pre-prepared hoxters that gave the place at least some respite from the effects of the jevolar. By the time he was done, etheric density had declined by more than a third in the compound. That made the rest of what he conjured that much easier.
Before nightfall, Gareth had produced a slender, almost elegant refuge next to the squat stone shed. Boasting three stories instead of two, its slate-covered roof dwarfed the original structure. The conjured cistern that was included had been specially designed to be refilled at need through a second hoxter wand, back at Vanador, that was tied to a nearby well. Thanks to Gareth’s cunning spell, it would refill automatically once it was depleted two-thirds of the way.
None of it would have been possible, had he not placed the snowstone slabs. But it made Tyr Morannan a true outpost, and not a mere respite in the midst of the wastes. Indeed, a Waystone incorporated into the magical pillar in front of the place allowed access to the base camp outside the wastes, or anywhere else a High Mage or Alka Alon could wish to travel. Practically speaking that meant that the time it took to cross the wastes was halved. Future expeditions could transit to this point; or should they be retreating from Anghysbel, it had halved the journey for those who could use the Ways. That, alone, was worth the cost of the expedition.
Gareth was not done, though. A second hoxter produced a small stable, complete with hay. Our horses enjoyed a relatively normal evening munching oats and maize and sweet hay from the south while we relaxed in the mage-constructed hall of Tyr Morannan.
“You realize that the Kasari are going to be jealous of this place,” warned Fondaras that night, while we were smoking around the tidy little hearth in the new hall. Supper had been conjured – with similar effort – to celebrate the midpoint of the journey. “They spent centuries fortifying it for their journeys across the waste. Countless journeys that added to Tyr Morannan, stone by stone . . . and here the magi have bested their efforts in one day.”
“We do that sort of thing,” I shrugged. “The Kasari and all who require it shall have use of this new installation. Not the sort of place I would go on holiday to, but it might ease the discomfort and deadly nature of the journey. And make trips into the lost land more frequent.”
“I am unsure if that is a good thing or not,” confessed Fondaras. “There are places in Anghysbel that would be spoiled by too much of such commerce. And there are things within the lost land that should not be permitted to escape.”
“The Waystone merely shortens the journey for those who know the secret of the Waystones,” pointed out Lilastien, who was enjoying the relative normalcy of the hall. Half of her greenish face was red with irritation. Even the bodies of the Tera Alon, for all of their resilience, were subject to the penalties the wastes imposed on us. “The Wise. Others must cross as usual. Only, they can rely upon water being here, now. And food and fuel. That should not much affect interactions between the remote land and the rest of the world, overmuch,” she predicted.
“I do hope you are correct, my lady,” Fondaras sighed. “Anghysbel is a special place,” he insisted. And it is special precisely because it is so remote. Too much interaction with the rest of Alshar and I fear that its distinct character will be lost.”
“I am rapidly coming to the opinion that the very presence of the Spellmonger has an effect on the world,” mused Lilastien. “Where he goes, revolution follows.”
“And I am of the opinion that change, as remarkable as it can be, is not always an improvement,” countered the footwizard, as he packed his pipe from a leather pouch. “This land is unique, in all of the Five Duchies. More commerce could ruin that special character,” he warned.
“You think Vanador will tame Anghysbel?” I scoffed. “Nay, the few who may consider traveling to this desolate place already have power. To come to a place where that power is removed is hardly an allure,” I argued. “The very fact that some Narasi have managed to take root in such a place is remarkable – but it is not the sort of place that attracts the Wilderlords, or the Magelords.”
“You cannot make it easier to get to a place and not expect it to have an effect,” argued Fondaras. “The only solace I take is that those who might seek to exploit the conditions and peoples of Anghysbel will discover a country that has seen such turmoil that a few Magelords – bereft of our power – will have little effect on the land. No more than the Kasari, or the Narasi, or the Ancients. Anghysbel rejects such temporary incursions. The residue of ages collects there,” he promised.
“Then let us have what effect we can,” I argued. “If Anghysbel reflects the eternal, then let the Magelaw have what effect it may. Our mark on this world is ephemeral enough. In a mere few thousand years, it will be an afterthought, at best, if what I understand is true. What matters if we disturb a pristine land when it will all be gone soon enough?”
“That’s a gloomy perspective,” Lilastien observed.
“Is it in error, my lady?” Fondaras asked, surprisingly. “Humanity dwells on Callidore as aberration. Our existence is, by design, temporary, if what I know is true. It is clear that we exist at the indulgence of greater powers. While I worry about the onslaught of the Magi on Anghysbel – a realm where magic is utterly immaterial – my lord Count is not incorrect. This development may well be disruptive. Ultimately, it will have little effect on the doom of this world.”
“And you have knowledge of this cosmic perspective, Footwizard?” Lilastien asked, amused, her eyes sparkling in the light of the fire.
“Only a fool believes that his life has an eternal effect on the universe,” the old man argued, as his pipe obscuring his unruly beard. “Much less on one little world. The Good Fellows of the Road have centuries of rumors of our fate,” he revealed. “They may be cloaked in mythology or legend, but they come from prophecy, quietly whispered in groves and hedges across the Duchies, and across the ages. We brothers of the road know full well how tenuous humanity’s tenure is upon this world. It would take a remarkable and wondrous stretch of events to avoid our fate.”
“That is beyond gloomy and flirting with fatalistic,” chuckled Lilastien. “This is why I love your race. I appreciate the potency of the humani indulgence in existential questions, Master Fondaras, But surely no race can expect to leave a mark on the vastness of the universe.”
“Does that include the Fair Folk, as well?” the footwizard asked. “For all things must end, even the fairest.”
“As long-lived as the Alka Alon might be, we are content with our lack of importance to the greater universe. As conceited as it might sound, we feel our connection to the greater universe is superior to the other races,” she said, amused and skeptical at the same time.
“To my people it is more important to live well in the face of ignominy and destruction. We feel we can always elude our eventual destruction, for some reason I cannot fathom. As if our songs and poetry can stave off the inevitable extinction of our race. As if we will always find some escape from the mortality of the universe. Korbal’s answer to the existential questions might be repugnant, to any sane observer, they are not beyond the frontiers of the rest of the Alka Alon’s approach.”
“Who is being gloomy now, my lady?” I chuckled. “You are drawing comparisons between the worst of your culture and the best, and mingling their motivations. Certainly, the Alka Alon seek to preserve themselves, as every living thing does. But Korbal’s approach is, indeed, repugnant. It is one thing to seek to preserve your life; to do so at the expense – nay, with the eager pursuit – of another being’s life . . . well, that is abhorrent to
any good-hearted creature.”
“Do your cattle feel that way, as well?” Lilastien asked, one eyebrow arched.
I winced, realizing she had scored a point. “Perhaps,” I admitted. “I suppose all of our ethics and morals have limits of scope and scale.”
“Life often requires death, in order to survive,” Fondaras agreed. “It is our approach to such matters that is important.”
“All living things struggle to survive, though death is inevitable. All civilizations struggle to survive, though they, too, are finite – as Master Fondaras wisely points out. The lengths that we will go to in that pursuit cannot be imagined. Because we know not where our moral frontiers are until we confront them. Death haunts us all.”
“And life beckons,” I countered. “Indeed, it is persistent beyond reason. Anghysbel will survive a little more commerce and interaction, I think. Now, as delightfully morbid as this conversation is, I think I need some rest,” I declared, rising. For some reason I had a sudden desire for some life-affirming snuggling with Alya. Existential dread is good for that.
Chapter Nine
The Realm of the Jevolar
No one who has lived with magic for most of their lives can fail to notice it, when it is gone. It is as if the air around you is tainted with the mundane realm, and you are no longer able to escape it. A wholly unsettling experience. While you get used to the effects of the jevolar in Anghysbel, as a mage, you never lose the feeling of abandonment when magic does not come at your command.
from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,
Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger
The fourth day was hard. It was the first day where the jevolar’s effect began to affect our journey. The little spells we’d employed to aid in our comfort and safety failed, and even the powerful enchantments began to wane in potency. Our traveling wards fell almost at once, and soon activating hoxter pockets was impossible. Personal protection spells I cast daily vanished. Magesight would not work unless you were physically touching both snowstone and witchstone. Indeed, snowstone’s effects were depressingly limited.
There came a point just after we descended the ridge from Tyr Morannan where I had to carry the Magolith, because the enchantment that kept it floating would no longer work. It was still pulsing, but the power it radiated was greatly diminished. Within three miles, I could not feel it at all unless I exerted tremendous will – and then I received only the slightest bit of energy from it. Far less than a regular witchstone. Less, even, than I could have drawn unaided. And the effort was exhausting.
Worse, it gave me a sudden sense of alarm and vulnerability. I felt naked, and that led to fear and dread. My perceptions were curtailed, and everything seemed less . . . tangible. Vibrant. Being in a horrific desert didn’t help. It was almost as if I’d blundered into one of Tyndal’s glyphs, only I knew that the effect was due to a lack of magic, not its expression.
As much as the jevolar dampened magic, it did not do so uniformly, we discovered. There were occasional pockets along our route where the savistator would rise ever-so-slightly – enough to manage a brief, dim magelight, for instance, or a simple cantrip. Gareth kept careful track of the readings along the way, which was helpful. There was even a spot we encountered late in the afternoon where, with the help of the Magolith and a block of snowstone Ormar dropped from his wagon, we could access a hoxter pocket. It took tremendous effort, but it could be done. We placed a sealed cask of water there, just for emergencies.
But that did little to raise my spirits. Alya and I rode in silence, as it was too difficult to speak and be heard through the leather masks. Indeed, breathing was difficult enough inside the damned things. Sweating, on the other hand, was ridiculously easy.
Every few minutes each of us would raise our masks and mop our faces with a cloth, and occasionally sip from our water skins. It was a miserable ride, without magic to ease our passage. There were no more cottages conjured from wands, from here on. We had the simple tents and tarpaulins that would have to serve until we crossed the wastes.
The horses hated it, and before the end of the day we lost one poor rouncey, though Lilastien tried her best to save it. Camp that night was grim and sparse, as the Kasari took us to a little cliff in a hill that overlooked the trail. Very little was said, around the fire that night. Indeed, we extinguished it immediately after dinner was done cooking to conserve our firewood. The cliff provided some shelter from the winds at night, but only some. As we were all exhausted, without magic’s aid, we curled up as best we could under tarpaulins and fell into a deep sleep.
“We’ll come to a bit of trouble, later today,” Fondaras warned us over a cold breakfast of pickled eggs, cheese, and bread which all tasted bitter. “Just as we encountered that spot where a bit of magic was achievable, ahead there is a vale where some magic can be done. But not all magic,” he said.
“What does that mean?” complained Tyndal.
“The jevolar doesn’t just dampen the arcane field, there are places where it changes it. The vale ahead is one such place. There, it is as if the Otherworld joins with our world,” explained the footwizard. “It is subtle, but many men have found themselves speaking to the shades of the dead, there. Or odd creatures with no tangible form. Or merely hear voices from the emptiness. It is best to take care, there, lest you wander from the trail seeking the voice of your grandsires, or the shades of travelers who died near here.”
“Why weren’t we told about this earlier?” asked Ormar, frowning.
“There is no way to avoid it, and I thought it best not to concern you overmuch before we got there,” reasoned Fondaras. “We should pass through it quickly, though,” he advised. “Lingering there tempts fate.”
“Does other magic work there?” Gareth asked, curious.
“I’ve never tried,” admitted the footwizard. “I’m wise. I went through it quickly.”
We were in the deepest part of the wastes, now, as I assured Alya as we climbed aboard the wagon after hitching the team. Ithalia and Nattia were already overhead, scouting the route in front of us.
The Sky Riders had reported their birds were feeling the effects of the jevolar, too. Without magical support many of the spells that allowed them to fly so long and so well had forced them to rest more frequently and fly less far before landing. Thankfully, the jevolar did not reduce them to their former sizes; transgenic magic apparently was a permanent effect, in the realm of the jevolar.
We came to the grim vale Fondaras had spoken of near noon, and we did tarry there, against his advice. It was a long, dry gulch that split the land between two ridges, and during the wet season I had no doubt that it was a lively little stream of death. The air did seem to get thicker, when we took off our masks, and I could feel a heavy sense of foreboding that had no foundation.
Indeed, the place did have the feel of the zone around Castle Salaisus, where Dunselen of Greenflower and his bride had failed to replicate the snowstone spell. I wondered what a shard of bluestone, the magical calcium that had been the permanent result of their experiment, would do in the vale. I wasn’t the only one with that thought.
“He’s right, the savistator shows slightly less ethereal density, here,” reported Gareth. “But it’s erratic,” he frowned. “Without more advanced equipment I don’t think I could tell you how. But I can believe that the kind of bluestone effect would be present here,” he admitted. “This place is creepy as hell.”
“There is an unusual strata of sedimentary rock along the bottom of this stream bed,” noted Forseti, as the little carriage rolled across the lowest part of the vale. The face-like appendage extended above the six-wheeled wagon in a surprisingly human-looking way. “There is a significant amount of limestone matrix, but with a substantial amount of impurities.”
“He means it’s shabalathar,” grunted Azhguri, tiredly, as he peered at the trail of bare rock. “A degraded kind of Ghost Rock. Not pure,” he dismissed.
“Make sure Ormar gets a sample,�
�� I instructed Gareth.
“That would explain the reputed effects of this vale,” he reasoned, rubbing his chin. “Depending on what the impurities were. It might also mitigate the jevolar effects, somehow.”
“Try to do ordinary magic,” I challenged. “See if there are any other areas that might work, here.”
“Good idea,” Gareth said, wandering down the rocky strip.
“Not too far!” shouted Azhguri. “Shabalathar is notorious for messing with your mind!”
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
The old stonesinger nodded. “Aye, it’s frightful stuff. You don’t ever want to sing it,” he revealed, “lest your ancestors come to you and relate to how disappointed they are in you. Or sometimes past lovers,” he sighed. “It can trick you if you aren’t careful. Sometimes even if you are,” he said, wistfully. I was certain there was a story there, but I was cautious about getting Azhguri going. I wanted to get out of the wastes, someday.
To that end, I ordered the party to continue after only half-an-hour’s delay at the vale. To my knowledge no one experienced the reputed effects, but everyone agreed with Gareth. The place was just creepy.
“How much longer?” Alya asked, loudly, after pulling her mask up that afternoon. Her face was red and pouring with sweat, and she looked miserable.
“Two days,” I sighed, “if Fondaras and the Kasari are right. “Not much longer,” I promised.
“I don’t mean to complain,” she said, her voice wavering. “I just didn’t . . . I didn’t know . . .”
“I know what you mean,” I nodded, my mask pulled up over my forehead. “I haven’t been this bloody miserable since Farise. And I’ve seen a lot of miserable battles, since then.”
Alya bit her lip. “If I had known it was this bad . . . Min, why did you let me come?” she asked, her eyes crinkling.
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