The other consequence, beyond discovering vector notation in the Gods’ Language, was discovering that his hexadecimal notation was wrong. Wrong, at least insofar as it didn’t follow the “natural” ordering the symbols had when representing actual numbers. Perhaps the largest error was the fact that Nate had mislabeled zero. In his notation, zero would have been a blank, which never appeared in his notation. In actuality, zero was the character where all the lines in the grid were “on”;
Nate had the scheme reversed. Removing lines from this base added powers of two to a “number.” After realizing this, Nate scrapped his original numbering scheme and adopted what the language actually seemed to follow. It took three days to revise all his notes, but it was comforting to discover that all his paired punctuation marks—“{ . . . },”“[ . . . ],”“...”—turned out to be numbered consecutively in the new order.
During the second week, what he was doing seemed to become more interesting to the ghadi. Why was fairly obvious. The first week he had spent most of his time in transcription, taking notes and simply thinking about what he was trying to do with the Gods’ Language. Not much of a show.
But while he had only concentrated on a single golden tablet the first week, the second week he was averaging one a day. In some cases, the spells were something to watch.
Each tablet seemed to follow a set pattern, two—in some cases more, but always at least two—spells set together for the purpose of comparison, highlighting the differences between them, and showing what a variation in the spell construction actually did. Technically, it was a mother lode of information.
As performance art, it wasn’t too shabby either.
The first tablet drew colored lights in the air. Nate was able to move them, change their color and their brightness. By the end of the day Nate had blue will-o’-the-wisp lights dancing all around the ghadi village, even sending one orbiting Bill’s head.
The next day, the spell Nate tried moved pebbles across the ground. Then rocks. Then he levitated a large chunk of earth. Then, when he realized the similarity between this and the wind spell, Nate was able to set the dirt swirling into a dirty spiral galaxy hovering in midair between him and a ghadi audience.
After that came sounds. The spells on the next tablet pulled sounds out of midair. A police whistle down to a foghorn, a single tone that he could easily modify by origin, frequency, and volume. That spell was so short that the single tablet held a half dozen examples. By this time, he was familiar enough with the vector notation that targeted the spell that he was able to concentrate on aim. He could put a wolf whistle inside one of the huts, up in the trees, or in the midst of the watching ghadi.
He also felt the ghadi were helping him cast the spells. He could feel the energy flowing from them into the spells as he cast them. With all of them surrounding him, even the complicated incantations seemed almost effortless. Whatever resources the Gods’ Language drew to power itself, the ghadi were closer to it. The runes that he invoked weren’t meant to inhabit a human brain, be drawn by a human hand, or spoken by a human tongue.
Nate knew that without the ghadi, he would have plumbed the depths of his own reserves long ago. . . .
These ghadi were giving him freely what the mages of the College took by force. Yerith had told him how the mages of the College used the ghadi, used them until destruction, and the acolytes who had captured Bill had seemed to be indulging in some sort of ritual theft of that inherent power. Despite that, the ghadi opened themselves to him.
The potential almost scared him.
The day Nate read tablet number five, the potential became terrifying.
He began as usual, after eating the fruit Bill had left him during the night and drinking some of the powerful ghadi tea, which was really more kin to a thick herbal soup. Nate picked a golden tablet and walked over to his work space.
Nate’s area was little more than a bare patch of ground about ten feet away from the hut they let him sleep in, but he already thought of it as his office. He had folded up a reed carpet to sit on, and had moved a half log with a near-flat surface next to it to act as a worktable. He had all his notes, brush and ink, and a small pile of stones to use as paperweights as he worked.
A selection of other tools had accumulated, some from the jungle, some from the ghadi cache of stolen human artifacts—all of which Nate used to take measurements and observe what it was he was doing. There was a straight staff that he used to take linear measurements, another pile of stones as equal as possible in mass, a length of rope that Nate attached to two sticks to make a crude compass, more sticks straight and strong enough to draw in the dirt, a wooden plate that he had appropriated—its edge now notched evenly around the edge, allowing Nate to use it to make angular measurements.
Nate sat down on his mat and positioned a golden tablet on the split log in front of him. First off, as always, he transcribed the runes into his notation. After a fair bit of practice, that step only took about half an hour. As usual, Bill came over and squatted down to watch him. The other ghadi would come to watch later, when he began to actually manipulate the forces he was studying.
When Nate was done with the transcription, he set down the brush and held up his work. He already recognized some familiar patterns. He already saw that there were what seemed to be another set of bracketing characters. Nate recognized the pattern because it had appeared in every tablet spell he had transcribed thus far. Four symbols, three of which were the same in each spell. The first, Nate already represented with a tilde, “~,” the character that told the spell that the label after it was the target of the spell, not the name of another spell to be invoked. The second and fourth characters seemed a new pair of bracketing symbols, implied by the fact they were consecutive in Nate’s new numbering scheme.
So the pattern was “~(?)” where “?” was some individual rune. The interesting thing was that the “?” was the same in the wind spell and the sound spell, but different in the dirt spell and the one he was transcribing now. . . .
If the ~ symbol is some sort of targeting word saying “apply this spell to . . .” then what follows has to represent the target. If it isn’t a specific label, then—
“It’s the air,” Nate whispered to himself. That’s what the four symbols meant in the wind and sound spells. It was telling the spell to target the atmosphere. The wind spell set it into simple accelerated motion, the sound spell set it into simple vibration. The major difference between the wind spell and the earth spell was just a matter of changing ~(air) to ~(dirt).
The sequence on the tablet wasn’t either of those. The “?” symbol was new, and wasn’t even close to the rune for “air” or “dirt.”
“Water, maybe?” Nate wondered aloud. One out of 4095 possibilities, and he couldn’t have been more wrong.
Once he had the spell transcribed, and Nate had taken all the notes he could on the runes that made up the spell, it was time to see what it did. Now he had an audience, the ghadi encircling him at a respectful distance. They had learned his routine well enough that they knew that something interesting was going to happen.
Nate positioned the tablet and leaned over, staring at the linear runes etched in the golden surface. He could feel the potential building even before he invoked the first character of the invocation. Halfway into naming the spell, Nate could feel the hair standing on the back of his neck.
The vector targeted a spot of ground about six feet in front of Nate. Pretty much the center of the ghadi circle. Nate didn’t even have a split second to look up as the spell resolved.
Out of a clear blue sky, a deafening thunderclap arced into the ground before Nate. The flash blinded him, and the force of it knocked him backward.
“Jesus fuck!”
Nate pushed himself to his feet. The air was rank with the smell of ozone and burning hair, the latter coming from him. His ears rang as he looked around. “Everybody all right?” He could barely hear his own words over the echoing thunderclap
in his skull.
Fortunately, he was the closest to the impact, so the ghadi were stunned, but unharmed. Most were blinking, covering their eyes or shaking their heads.
Okay, testing this stuff in the middle of the village is probably a bad idea.
Nate walked over to where the lightning bolt hit, and he could feel the heat of the ground through his sandals. What did I do? Did I just order all the electrons out of the vicinity? Nate suddenly wished he had paid more attention in his high school physics classes.
Nate looked up, and realized that all the ghadi were staring at him. Then, one by one, they genuflected. Their expressions were still difficult for Nate to read, but the broad gesture was unmistakable.
“Hell of a messiah,” Nate whispered, “I don’t even know what I’m doing. . . .”
BOOK FIVE
There was a time when men worshiped many gods. Even the men who served the College of Man would make offerings to the brothers of Ghad, the beings who walked between the worlds. Some men would even make offerings to Ghad himself, for it was Ghad who was most likely to answer.
It was a time of blood and war, for those who served one god would fight for power with those who served a different god. Those who served Ghad would fight against all.
The wisest scholar of the College of Man told those who served Ghad, “What does it gain you to be granted the greatest power, if you become a servant in the games between the gods?”
Much blood spilled on the ground before a half of those serving Ghad saw the wisdom of the scholar’s words.
—The Book of Ghad and Man,
Volume III, Chapter 72
CHAPTER FORTY
“THEY ARE COMING here, to Zorion.” The Monarch stood in the doorway of the apartments he had granted Uthar Vailen and looked like a petulant child.
“Certainly a counterattack wasn’t unexpected. Not with the bulk of the College’s military force closer to here than to Manhome.”
The Monarch shook his head. “It makes no sense. They should be returning, to defend Manhome.”
“And Manhome should have surrendered.”
The Monarch looked wounded.
“I serve at your pleasure, but I know the College. Their arrogance is without equal. But not without reason.”
“I must organize a defense before the day is out.”
Uthar rubbed his temples and cursed himself for ever considering allying with this fool. The dictators of the College at least earned their power and arrogance. This man was born into a position he was much too small to fill.
“What troops do you have?” Uthar asked. “What survivors from the attack on the Shadow College?”
“Two hundred guardsmen, and perhaps fifteen scholars from your Shadow College.”
“Fifteen? Out of three hundred?”
The Monarch nodded.
“You give me less to defend this city than were defending the Shadow College you sacrificed. Zorion will fall.”
“No. It cannot . . .”
“The College of Man has exactly the advantage you sought in Manhome.”
The Monarch shook his head. “What can I do?”
Die, you pathetic little man. Slit your own throat and allow your betters to salvage what can be salvaged.
“Zorion itself is only important because of you, sir.”
“Of course.”
“If you wish to save the city, and yourself, you and what force you can command, must retreat.”
“You say I should show weakness before the College?”
You are weak. “I cannot lead fifteen acolytes to defeat the College’s main force, but I can use them to hide a withdrawal so you can regroup at a place of our choosing.” A place of my choosing, where I may yet have guardsmen ready to serve you.
Uthar looked at the frightened child the Monarch had become. “You show wisdom,” the Monarch told him. “Tell me of your plans.” Uthar saw in the Monarch’s face that he was no longer demanding, but pleading for advice to salvage himself and his power.
No, Uthar thought, correcting himself. Not serve you. Serve the idea of you. The little man you are is beside the point.
“You should have an escort. Take only those close to you who can be trusted, can wield a weapon, and can move with speed. Have your advisers escape in parties of two dozen or so, give them the lesser of your guard and what servants can be armed. Send them away from our route.”
“How many am I to sacrifice?”
How many did you sacrifice of my College?
“You are giving them a chance to flee the College of Man. You know that any of your household, all those that serve you, would have their lives forfeit should they stay here. Sending them away now gives them some chance, as well as camouflaging our own escape.”
“I will organize this at once. What of you?”
“Have me meet with the survivors of the Shadow College to form a plan to defend our escape.”
Yerith had never felt such a sense of doom. Even when the College arrested her father and started putting his servants to death, even then there was some feeling of hope. Even during the frantic retreat through the tunnels, Osif had managed to keep his handful of acolytes calm and quiet as he led them through tunnels deep into the ancient ghadi ruin, long past any signs of the invasion.
However, by the time they had flanked the College’s army and arrived at Zorion, the mood had become bleak. There had been almost infinite routes of escape from the old ghadi caverns, but despite planning for the possibility, the College had been too swift and too precise in their attack. They had finished two thirds of the Shadow College in the first five minutes.
Osif and his group were the only ones to escape. That was a bad enough blow to the small group of outsiders, but even that realization wasn’t the worst of it. All of them had held hope that the Monarch, the personification of all power outside the College of Man, might be massing armies, preparing to deal some miraculous counterblow to the College and its forces.
Their arrival in the city put an end to that hope.
Even before they reached the gates, they saw the signs. Farms had been abandoned. Livestock roamed the fields at will. What people they saw would see their robes and unmasked faces and flee long before they were close enough to even shout a reassurance.
Close to the city they were met by a unit of guardsmen that seemed to expect them. The guards were a pathetic sight, clad in ill-fitting uniforms, old and hastily donned. The men who wore them were too young or too old. Some looked to be farmers and shopkeepers who barely knew what end of their weapons to point at the enemy. They seemed to have been without sleep for too long.
If anything, Zorion itself seemed less defended than the Shadow College had been. And while no one had explicitly said so, the eyes of every guardsman told Yerith that the College’s Army was on its way here.
The Monarch would fall, and the College would select a puppet of their choosing to replace him. Or, worse, the College would dispense with the pretense of secular authority and declare themselves the sole rulers of men.
What little hope was left to Osif and his people was gone by the time they reached the ziggurat, center of the Monarch’s waning power. The Monarch’s guard led them to an audience chamber deep inside the ziggurat. No one made any attempt to hide the situation. They passed guards and bureaucrats madly racing from room to room carrying boxes of the Monarch’s wealth. Yerith saw a trio of boys rush past them to remove ceremonial swords and armor that had probably decorated the hall here for the past six centuries.
It is over, Yerith thought.
She hoped that, somehow, Nate Black and some of the ghadi might have escaped.
The guards left them in a chamber that had been stripped bare of all signs of wealth and luxury. For hours they waited. Long enough to worry that the Monarch might have forgotten them, abandoning the seat of his power and leaving them to fight the College’s invasion.
Nearly twelve hours after they had arrived in Zorion, Yerith heard a
familiar voice.
“Things have changed.”
It was Arthiz.
She turned to see the man responsible for her presence here, and it was obvious that things had changed. Arthiz no longer wore the blank white mask of an anonymous acolyte. His face was bare and his skin twisted with runic scars. Yerith knew little about status inside the College of Man, but she did know that the more glyphs of the Gods’ Language were cut into the skin, the higher the status of the scholar.
Yerith suspected that Arthiz must have been a high scholar in the College, just to have the temerity to fight the institution. But the evidence on his skin was a different thing entirely. Even his eyelids were marked.
As he studied the remnants of his College, Osif stepped forward. “Master Arthiz?”
“Yes.”
“Are there any others?”
The expression on Arthiz’s face said everything. They were all that was left. Someone muttered, “What do we do now?”
“There is a small force at an enclave north of Manhome. I plan to get you there before the College descends on this city.”
“Then what?” Osif asked.
“For the next sixday or two, survival is the only strategy of any importance. We can plan for the future once we secure one.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
MATE KNEW that there had to be a point where he would have to decide what he was going to do. He couldn’t study runes forever, and, at some point, all the crap he was hiding from would catch up to him. Nate told himself that he would come up with a plan, once he understood what it was he had to work with.
Apparently, time was too much to ask.
Less than three days after he had managed to call down a thunderbolt from a cloudless sky, a new ghadi came to the village. Nate was hunched over his notes in a new clearing farther away from the main village. He didn’t realize something was happening until he noticed that all the villagers who weren’t out gathering food were running toward one end of the village. Even Bill, who seemed to make it a personal mission to baby-sit Nate, joined the others.
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