Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  It was a major setback, one that could not have been foreseen, and the timing could not have been worse. Sartean’s plan was now in jeopardy. Already, hundreds of laborers were in the throes of addiction to Flightfluid. Half of the supply that had arrived only a few days before had already been given to James Thallinson and his crews with instructions to use it to recruit thousands more. Given the speed at which the dutiful James carried out his instructions, the order could no longer be rescinded. As word and usage spread, the other half of the supply would soon be in demand as well, and by the end of the next cycle, Sartean would run out. The next crop was to have saturated Mor with his potion; now, he would not even be able to maintain supply for those who were already within the addictive potion’s grasp.

  And that is how my fate will come to pass, he knew.

  Yet something was missing. The laborers of Mor–even thousands of them–could not subdue Sartean. The wizard could burn a thousand men to ash before even requiring a rest. It would take much less to send them fleeing for their lives. He had his Incantors; they would defend Kehrlia with their lives. But would they defend you? Sartean asked himself as he turned from the railing and descended the steps to his library door.

  Of that he was not so sure, but it did not matter. His power was sufficient to protect his own hide. Then why the visions? The question echoed in his mind as he illuminated the room and sat behind his desk, clearing the ash from his body with a subtle hand gesture.

  There were not many ways to prevent Sartean from using his magic. He had mastered his spellcraft to the degree that he could cast all but the most intricate incantations without words, without gestures. Even bound in the stocks, as he had been in his visions, he should have been able to escape, or to kill any who came near him. Yet in his vision, he was helpless. To Sartean, this was the greatest enigma of all. Yet there were no clues to explain it, none revealed in his dreams, at least. That is not where the answer lies, in any case. Sartean considered. Somehow, if this fate were to come to pass, he would be subdued, he would be powerless, of that he was certain. He must discover a way to prevent this doom, not merely survive it.

  The wizard closed his eyes and sent his consciousness to the apprentice who would be awaiting instructions two levels below. Tea. Now. One was always in attendance, at every hour of the day, the duty rotating among apprentices as their instructors saw fit. Like everything else in Kehrlia, service as Sartean’s attendant was a test. Some considered it an honor. Those never became Incantors. It was those who found the task humiliating that Sartean was inclined to promote.

  Sartean knew that an uninformed observer would consider the idea to be counterintuitive; would not a Master of Kehrlia surely want his Incantors to be pliable and weak-willed, lest they seek to surpass him? Such was the case with Sartean’s predecessor, Arond Hantara, a powerful wizard who had come to Kehrlia from the southern coasts. “Stormslinger” they called him. He was highly revered by all who served under him–for he only allowed those who revered him to serve. It was his greatest error, one that Sartean subsequently exploited. When one is surrounded by sycophants, one becomes complacent; they fall victim to their own arrogance, failing to see threats as they surface. Halsen is such a man, thought Sartean. He had known others. No, to Sartean’s mind, one must recruit and promote those whose ambitions were clear—who openly displayed those ambitions. Particularly when considering the life an Incantor would lead.

  Upon graduation, Incantors were granted a cycle to return to their families, or to travel as they wished, before their service to Kehrlia began. They would then be expected to live and serve at Kehrlia for a minimum of four additional years. It was the Master who would decide when to release them from service; it was not uncommon for a young Incantor to be required to remain at Kehrlia for much longer. It was a matter of maintaining proper staff levels; if an Incantor were to die an untimely death during their service, as was common in the practice of spellcraft, necessarily a vacancy would need to be filled. That would be accomplished by retaining graduates for a longer period, or even, on occasion, recalling senior Incantors back to Kehrlia.

  Upon their release from service, an Incantor would be free for three years to live and work wherever they wished. Most served the wealthy families of Mor as a house wizard. Some traveled, some sought their own fortunes. Few married, though some did. Family life was difficult for an Incantor; after their third free year, and every fourth year thereafter for the remainder of their years, they would be required to return to Kehrlia.

  It was the work they did in their free years that Sartean considered most valuable to Kerhlia, and by extension, to himself. A house wizard, for example, would know everything there was to know about a family, and would often come to wield considerable sway with his or her employer. Those who traveled Tahr seeking fortune became entangled in the most marvelous adventures, again, returning having earned influence abroad. Sartean wished to wield that influence for himself. It was a delicate balance, finding Incantors who were ambitious enough to gain power, yet loyal enough to yield it to the Master when he required access to it. Always the stick was present; an Incantor who failed to submit to Sartean’s will would find himself in peril. Yet a carrot was required as well, and it was this: those with ambition, to a one, hoped to someday become Master. What kind of Kehrlia did they wish to lead–an impotent one, or a towering beacon of power? And how would they gain their ascension within the ranks, if not with the support of Sartean? The right kind of Incantor, to Sartean’s mind, would be one who would shun the idea of having his or her own family, one who would seek power above all else–and possess the ruthlessness to gain it.

  It was for these reasons that Sartean D’Avers very much liked his apprentice Jarriah, who presently delivered his tea, disdain evident on his clean-shaven face.

  “Will that be all, Master?” he asked, not bothering to hide his disgust at the menial task.

  “It will not. Sit with me.”

  Jarriah frowned, confused, the invitation unprecedented in his three years at Kehrlia. He sat across from the wizard.

  “Tell me, Jarriah. If you were to seek to dispatch me, how would you do it?” Sartean sipped at his tea.

  Jarriah shifted in his seat, attempting to hide his uneasiness. “Ah…Master, you joke with me.”

  “I do not.” Sartean leaned in over his desk and set down his tea, folding his hands before him. “Tell me how you would do it.”

  Jarriah knew he was being tested but could not fathom to what end. He decided to be frank.

  “I would render you unconscious and drown you, Master.” The obvious answer.

  Sartean waved a hand, annoyed. “Yes, yes. The Sorcerer’s Death. Be more creative. Suppose you could not render me unconscious. Which you could not. What then?”

  Jarriah considered the question. He would need time to puzzle it out. “May I have a few moments, Master?”

  “You may.”

  Sartean watched the young dark-haired man as he mulled over the problem. He was impressed with the young wizard; most who were posed such a question would have been trembling, afraid that their answer would displease their master. Jarriah simply began the work of studying it out.

  “Well, the problem is this. Conscious, your magic cannot be restrained, correct?”

  Sartean did not answer.

  “Well, not without facing a power greater than your own. I do not know of one, not on this plane.”

  Sartean nodded. “Go on.”

  “So, it would take a collaboration, one of many Incantors maybe. That, or a summoning.”

  Again, Sartean remained silent.

  Jarriah narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Why do you ask this, Master? Surely you know the extent of my knowledge. There are only a few scenarios I can envision, and you would have considered them all.”

  “Surely. I suppose I had hoped you would surprise me.”

  “Unlikely,” he replied, his tone a bit too bold for Sartean’s taste. The young man thought for
a moment more.

  “There is another way,” said Jarriah.

  “There is?” Sartean asked sincerely.

  “Well, it would take some coordination, but it could be done, I suppose…though…”

  “Do not censor yourself.”

  “Well…this may be implying that you are, well, more ordinary than you would like me to say, but since we are speaking in hypotheticals…”

  “Hypotheticals, of course,” Sartean agreed, nodding.

  Jarriah regarded Sartean oddly. “Very well. If someone could, say, cause you to expend all your power, trick you somehow, leaving you defenseless…”

  “You have no idea how much power I possess, Jarriah.”

  “No, you’re right. I have no idea. But I can guess.”

  “Can you?”

  “Well, yes, I think so. The most powerful wizard in our histories was the Raven, yes?”

  “You are correct,” said Sartean. “Eyrelie Kehrlia, daughter of the namesake of this tower.”

  “Well, we all know how she died.”

  “Foolishly.”

  “Perhaps, but heroically, by all accounts.”

  “Assuming they are correct.”

  “Yes, assuming so. But in any case, she died trying to reroute the flow of the Morline. And she nearly did.”

  “Creating Eyreloch.”

  “Exactly. But she could not sustain the energy required, and when she faltered…”

  “Yes, we all know the history. How is this relevant?”

  “Well, let us assume that you are as powerful as she was. We cannot assume that you are more powerful, since none have ever been.” He looked to Sartean to gauge if offense had been given; his master’s face remained impassive. “So, we know it took—what, a little over a day of her most intense efforts to exhaust her?”

  “Roughly that, if the legend is accurate.”

  “So there you are. No more than a day of maximum sustained magical effort, that’s what it would take. Assuming you are as powerful as the Raven.”

  Sartean scoffed. “And how do you suppose I could be ‘tricked’ into expending that much energy, Jarriah?”

  “Well, that’s the challenge. Someone would have to figure out a way. As I said, it would take some coordination. That, or again, you’d have to meet your magical match, as it were, who could strip you of your power.”

  Sartean thought silently for a turn, and decided to ask the question. “Tell me. How many Incantors do you think it would take to subdue me?”

  Jarriah sat back in his chair, no longer able to hide his discomfort. “Ah, Master, you ask me to directly assess your power, and that of other Incantors. I know very little about the power of my elders, only what is whispered about among the other apprentices. Truly, it is not my place.”

  “It is not. Yet I require your answer. What might these whispers suggest? How many to subjugate the Master of Kehrlia?” Sartean’s tone remained measured and calm.

  Jarriah met the wizard’s eyes and answered honestly. “It depends on which Incantors, Master.”

  Sartean cocked his head. “Does it?”

  “I believe it does, if the stories are true. If all save one were to align against you, I believe you could withstand them all.”

  “Save one?”

  Jarriah nodded soberly. Sartean did not relent.

  “Save which one, Jarriah?”

  The young apprentice took a breath, forced over a line he did not wish to cross.

  “Save Incantor Felsin, Master.”

  XVII: G’NAATH

  Oort and Thinsel responded to Cindra’s suggestion with disbelief. “Spies?” they asked in unison. When Cindra explained her plan, however, the pair needed little convincing.

  Cindra cared for the two gnomes, nearly as much as she cared for Shyla. Oort and Thinsel were the closest thing she had to family. Beyond her expectations, they had welcomed Cindra into the Greykin clan. Never had Cindra felt acceptance among her own people, among any of her own people. Her years with the elves had been the only period of her life that had given her any joy whatsoever, and most of that time had been spent studying. She had grown to love Vicaris Trellia, her instructor and friend. She had always loved Shyla, though it had been a lonely love, a sad love, one given from a distance. Now, she felt that perhaps she shared love of a sort with Oort and Thinsel. Seeing their affection for their daughter was a bittersweet thing for Cindra; she was joyed to know that her granddaughter had been so loved, but saddened all the same–she had never known such love, not even from those who had given her life.

  Cindra felt guilty for involving them in her scheme, but it could not be helped. She needed answers and could not be seen wandering about G’naath. Anywhere she went, eyes followed her every move, and her magic was not what it once had been. A younger Cindra could have walked unseen wherever she chose; now, her lífda was nearly spent. Oort and Thinsel, on the other hand, were invisible, at least for the most part. Surely, given Shyla’s expulsion, they were a bit more infamous of late, but compared to Cindra, they were hardly noticeable. They would run little risk of being discovered in their task.

  Cindra had spent several days preparing the pebbles before Oort and Thinsel had come to see her that night, before she had shown them the map. A dozen, small and round, had been imbued with a Listening magic that would allow Cindra to hear anything spoken in their presence. Their range was limited but more than powerful enough to function anywhere in G’naath. She had bestowed them with a second enchantment as well: should any of the stones find themselves within Listening range of a word of old g’naari being uttered, the ancient language of the gnomes, she would be alerted; the pale blue topaz ring she wore would vibrate, just a bit, signaling that she should Listen immediately.

  The Greykins’ task was a simple one: place the stones in various places around G’naath, places where the Elders would be expected to congregate. If possible, finagle them into the pockets of those Elders, or at least of a gnome who would regularly encounter one. The very next day, Oort had come to proudly report that Thinsel had done just that; she had come across Ky’rl Gypstone in a tunnel and devised a plan on the spot.

  ~

  “Me Elder, would yeh speak with me fer a turn?” Thinsel asked innocently.

  “Ah, well, I was just–”

  “I mean to thank yeh, me Elder.”

  Gypstone’s expression was incredulous. “Uh…yeh do?”

  “Aye, course I do! Yeh coulda sent me Shyla out ferever, but yeh only sent her fer eight seasons. T’was a kindness, me Elder, one I’ll not forget.” She embraced the Elder, who reluctantly allowed it, uncomfortably patting the woman’s back as she squeezed him. Thinsel reached into her pocket as she did. After a moment, she released him and took a step back.

  “Oh, me Elder, yeh simply must let me fix that rip in yer cloak!”

  “What? What rip, I don’t have a rip–”

  “O’ course yeh do, give it here now…” Thinsel pulled the Elder’s cloak over his head, too quickly for him to protest, the small knife concealed in her hand cutting a hole in the hood.

  “See, look there, a fine cloak like this, ripped. Yeh’ll let me sew it fer yeh now, won’t yeh?”

  “Ah…well, yeh’ll not need–”

  “I won’t take no fer an answer, me Elder, please, I canna bear not doin’ yeh a kindness.”

  “Well I suppose–”

  “Good! I’ll have it back to yeh afore the last horn, on me word. Oh, thank yeh, me good Elder, yeh are so kind!” She reached to embrace the Elder again; he pulled away quickly.

  “Ah, thank yeh, lady Greykin, I’ll look for that cloak afore the horn, as yeh say.”

  Thinsel nodded enthusiastically and ran down the tunnel the way she came, back to the Greykin hovel. She would keep her word; the rip would be repaired, good as new, and the hood returned to Ky’rl Gypstone that evening. She would even do a bit of work on the fraying hem…

  ~

  Cindra and Oort had laughed for tu
rns as Oort told the story. That woman! Cindra thought, recalling the moment. It would only be a matter of time, Cindra suspected, before the ring alerted her that the stone sewn into the hem of the Elder’s robe picked up the language of g’naari.

  G’naari had gone all but unused for centuries in G’naath, lost to modern times as the common language of Tahr took root among the races. It remained in use by the Elders, however, at certain gnomish ceremonies. Marriages, funerals, treaty signings, and other memorable occasions were often preceded by the recitation of traditional passages uttered in the antique language. As rarely as it was spoken, however, the preservation of g’naari was among the chief responsibilities of the Elders of G’naath. All were fluent in the melodious tongue; one could not even petition to become an elder if he or she could not recite the Or’d Vi G’naar, “The Words of the Living Gnome.” The passage was quite long, over a thousand words, and told the story of how, millennia past, before the gnomes had come to inhabit G’naath, when they had lived in the swamps south of what is now called Mor, a long-ago Elder of the g’naar people had petitioned a demon for the power of immortality.

  ~

  His petition had been granted, in a manner of speaking. The bargain he had struck was this: he would be granted longevity for so long as his bloodline continued. He would be required to marry and beget sons and daughters. An additional benefit of the bargain had been offered as well: his descendants, to a one, would all carry some degree of magic in their blood. They would not be granted access to it immediately, however. His progeny would be born bound to an unbreakable oath: should the demon ever call upon them to assist him, they would obey. The demon assured the gnome that he would call only once, and that upon fulfilling their oath, the gnome’s descendants would be released from the pact and the magic within their blood would awaken. They would be taught by the demon to use that magic, and the Living Gnome’s longevity would then become permanent.