Magic's Genesis- Reckoning

by Rosaire Bushey

  “We are very skilled with stone,” Hokra said, watching her reaction to the door. It was something he had said before and there was no arrogance in his voice, only a gentle reminder that the Chag Ca’Grae were masters of the earth.

  The bridge was almost perfectly smooth, like it had been polished by a thousand hands and its path narrowed only slightly as it neared its apex a few feet above where they stood. The rock was smoothly curved from the walkway to the sides and only showed its natural shape underneath, but even that was worn short. “Your people have worked a miracle here, Hokra. This is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.”

  “Yes, it is. I only wish we could take credit for it. Nothing we can do will match the mastery of nature given time.” The Chag prince looked up to see his guest still searching the path for a sign of imperfection. “There is none among us so arrogant to believe we could improve upon this and so we have left it alone to do as it will and teach us.”

  Lydria blushed and responded quickly. “I have never seen anyone cross the bridge before. I thought perhaps it was not used in case it should collapse.” Hokra let go of a laugh deep from his stomach and looked up to Lydria, stopping almost at once, “oh, you’re serious. I’m sorry, I thought you were making a joke. The stone bridge will remain long after we are gone – and there is little we could do to it simply by walking across it. Sturmgrae could roost here and be assured this bridge would not so much as creak at her presence. But you are correct in that we don’t use it often. There is no need. There are ways into the western wall known to those who need to go there. But I wanted you to be able to walk across the bridge. I see you often admiring it and thought you might like to cross.”

  Lydria smiled and gave the prince a sincere little bow and followed the direction his hand motioned through the now open doorway. That the bridge was solid was evident from her first step. It sounded like walking on solid ground and there were no vibrations from their movement. And even though it was at a lower vantage than others she had had in Safarngal, it was unique. Both sides of the city rose up from her as if she were on the ground; yet she could see below as well as above. And because there were no walls and only the relatively thin strip of rock, it was almost as if she were floating above the town.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered to the air swirling around her in the uneven eddies of the valley.

  “I thought you might think so, and perhaps it is, but for most Chags it is a little too open for their tastes. Personally, I think it’s quite refreshing.”

  “Have you used me as an excuse to come up here, Hokra?”

  It was the prince’s turn to blush, and as his brown skin darkened, both he and Lydria laughed. “Yes, partially. But also, because I thought you would appreciate it. And because I want to show you there is beauty in both the open air and in the hills.”

  Below them Relin and Haustis stood apart from the others, and Lydria could see she was showing the bone box to her western cousin. Hokra saw where she was looking and followed with his eyes.

  “She has received a gift?”

  “Yes. From Edgar, King of Wesolk.”

  “A proposal?”

  “I’m not sure that’s my question to answer.”

  “Then do not answer. I can see that they do not speak of the Melting Grae nor of Wynter, and that is good. There will be plenty of talk of them to come. For now, let us talk of other things as well. Perhaps thinking of something else will free our minds to discover what we need to find Wynter.” Smiling up at Lydria, Hokra inclined his head to the other side of the bridge and they continued to the western side where Hokra surprised her again by showing her another small entrance she had never noticed.

  “One day you will no longer be surprised when you see such things. You will merely think, ‘this is the work of a Chag’.” Opening the door for her, Hokra began to talk about how his people survived. “For generations we have maintained some gardens and orchards on the roof of Safarngal, but surely you realize that is not enough to feed us all?”

  It was a question Lydria had considered but not given serious thought. Obviously, the Chags had a source of food beyond hunting. Hokra nearly laughed again at her expression. “Sometimes being a wielder makes you forget about the things right under your nose, I see.”

  Hokra closed the door behind them and led Lydria on a path that fell slowly. Unlike the passages on the eastern side that declined steeply, turned and declined steeply again, the western path was wide and dimly lit with candles in alcoves, their light reflected by polished silver in the recesses. In the absolute darkness of the tunnels, the light was enough for Lydria to see the outline of the path but no more. For Hokra and his people, the light was perhaps more than they needed. Lydria ran her hand along the walls and was not surprised to feel that they had been carved. Where they were not, they were as flat as ice. The path continued down, never turning north or south until in the distance, Lydria could see proper light. As they moved closer, she could smell herbs – mint and lavender, and thyme. She could smell the loamy richness of tilled earth, and she could hear a low rumbling that repeated itself and varied in pitch.

  “Hokra, do I hear…”

  “Singing? Yes, Wielder, the Chag Ca’Grae still sing. Only we do it when we work, for there is a joy to be had in work that cannot be had in leisure.” They stopped, still out of view of the chorus, and listened. “They sing an old song, written before there was a Safarngal, when we were many and prosperous and when the world to the west was more well-known than it is now. The song tells the story of a young craftsman who has created a thing so beautiful that he loses the will to create. After a time, he takes a mate and when presented with his child, he thinks how foolish he was to believe a thing he crafted alone could be so beautiful. The song teaches us that it is not what we craft with our hands that makes us who we are, and that sometimes, in not looking for the best, we find something far more extraordinary.”

  Lydria couldn’t understand the words but the melody echoed off the walls and the lower notes reverberated through the stone. They moved forward until they left the passage and entered an open space and she used her magic to be able to see clearly. What she saw caused her jaw to drop and she inhaled sharply.

  “Stunning, isn’t it?” Hokra stopped to let Lydria complete her turn as she stood, spinning, looking in every direction.

  “There are passages above us, natural passages, that allow light to filter down to these spaces for several hours a day. In full light you might find this place even more magnificent than now, but we rarely come here then. There is also a small stream that runs nearby.”

  As Lydria turned she saw an enormous circle of planted fields, berry bushes, small groves of fruit trees. There were no fences or walls, no weeds or animals. The only things to give it away was the buzzing of bees who drifted in small enthusiastic clouds from field to field. Dozens of Chags went about their tasks, singing their songs, and creating the most beautiful thing Lydria had ever seen.

  Still gaping at the ingenuity of the place, Lydria was pulled by Hokra down a path through the center of the fields. It reminded her of the Causeway outside the Tower Cargile, her own home. Paved with field stones and lined with a variety of trees and shrubs that each provided food in the way of nuts or berries or fruit. The Chags who were nearby turned and saluted their prince, who returned their salute and called out to each one by name, congratulating them on their work, or asking of their family. When they reached the end of the path, the stones ended, and they resumed on the natural path which once again began a steady decline, this time in a slow and lazy circle.

  “Of course, historically, we are not farmers, but it has been generations since we have been able to trade our goods, so we have learned what we must to live. In doing so, we have made excellent progress in growing things. But our hearts as a people belong deeper underground, where we can dig stone and not dirt, and use what we find to craft useful things. Beautiful things.”

  They walked downward in sil
ence, the path taking long spirals. After a time, the walls became rough and the floor seeped with moisture. The torches and candles were more frequent now, but still only just enough for a human. Their orange light, however, was reflected by hundreds of specks from the surrounding walls. Blues, greens, reds, and brilliant flashes of light from chips of gemstones lodged into the rock.

  After completing two spiral turns, the path ended in an open area far larger than the fields above. Enormous columns the size of the Tower Cargile created a grand space glittering with colors from the light of dozens of torches.

  “We use more light here because the mining creates dust,” Hokra explained, leaning in and whispering in Lydria’s ear. “Anyone yelling down here would sound like a dragon,” he said, and to prove his point, he spoke in a normal voice, to a man a hundred yards away. Several people turned and waved to their prince, calling back in equally quiet voices that echoed around the chamber and reached Lydria’s ears as if they stood next to her.

  Catching her attention landing on the columns of rock, Hokra offered that channels were built into the columns that drew the dust out to the surface. “The channels are divided many times so the dust does not reveal our location,” the prince said, pride evident in his voice. “It also lets us see and breathe.” Indeed, as they walked by the columns, Lydria felt a rush of cool air as she walked around one of the massive monoliths. Each supporting pillar of stone pulled dust to the surface while bringing in fresh air through a different channel.

  Turning so as not to walk through the middle of the mining operation, Hokra led Lydria to a large, vaulted double door tall enough for Keldon to walk through with room to spare. The door, made of stone and metal pulled smoothly, though Lydria noted, it took effort for Hokra to open it. As he pulled it closed behind them, her senses were beset with the noise of hammers and metal tools. The quick taps made her consider the mining in the room beyond and how no tools at all had been used. Compared to this space the mining operation was quiet because the Chags used their hands to pull rock free and crush it to find the gems hidden inside. Here, there was more delicate work going on. Rows of stone tables and stools filled the room and at each stool there was a small candle, a large glass, a row of fine tools with large handles, and young Chags working under the supervision of elder craftsmen.

  “The youngsters’ hands are smaller and more capable of grasping the tools easily for detailed work,” Hokra said, again leaning in toward Lydria so as not to interrupt the workshop. “The masters will teach the young for part of the day, and then send them off for other studies and take up the benches themselves.”

  Hokra pointed out a wall at the back of the room where tables and shelves were filled with small casks of various raw gems, gold and silver bars, and ingots of steel and iron.

  “This is the gem workshop. We do manage a very minor trade in mundane items, but we do it through intermediaries so that it is never known that the Chags are involved,” the prince said. “Further down we have a foundry, and blacksmiths. All of these things we do underground because we have long since been unwilling to do them above ground. The problem with being a people who are few in number is that you must think of security first in all things. If the Qorghal, or any other enemy, were to attack us, we could easily move below ground and be as well off as we are at the riverside.”

  Hokra was correct, Lydria knew, but she was also saddened by the thought. He loved the light and the sun, and Safarngal.

  “There is one more thing I would show you before we begin our long climb back to the river, and it is through this door.”

  At the end of the shop, behind the desk of a Chag who appeared to be a supervisor for several young apprentices, there was a much smaller version of the door they had used to come into the shop. While half the size of the door to the gem shop, it looked to be made of pure silver, with an artfully carved series of curved lines running from the floor up and around the curved casing and back to the floor on the other side.

  “It is written in Chag,” Hokra explained. He knelt and touched his finger to the first word and followed the writing around, speaking as he moved. “Seek not the shine of gold or bright silver, for the truest wealth cannot be seen.”

  The supervisor provided Hokra with a key which he took to a small hole at the base of the left side of the doorway. The supervisor, using another key, climbed a small ladder to a keyhole at the top of the arch and together they unlocked the door. Hokra handed the key back and nodded to the supervisor who spoke to Lydria. “You are the first non-Chag to ever see what’s behind this door. Even among us, very few have been here, for beyond this door lies treasure that would ruin kingdoms.” The Chag bowed to both Hokra and Lydria as he took his keys and returned to his table while his prince opened the door, escorted Lydria in and closed the silver door behind him.

  Lydria gasped at the small room the door opened upon. The darkness was complete and, being as far below ground as they were, she knew it would be so, but she was unprepared. All through their walk there had been candles and torches that had at least allowed her to have a reference. Here, there was nothing.

  “What do you think?”

  “Even with my sight enhanced by magic, I can see nothing.” Lydria turned to look where she thought Hokra was and then looked down at her own chest. She could see only the faintest of glows emanating from around her neck.

  Hokra laughed quietly and cracked open the silver door and said something in his native language. A moment later Lydria could hear a small ripple of liquid and caught a whiff of oil. A second later a dull ribbon of flame circled the room at the height of her knee, and then a second at her chest, and then a column of fire erupted in the center of the room. Still, there was nothing to see beyond the flame. A heavy sound, like the turning of a windlass filled the room.

  “Silver mirrors are being lowered to help reflect the light. In all Safarngal, this is the brightest place you will see below ground.”

  Hokra was right. The mirrors multiplied the fires so that light reached out in all directions. But still Lydria saw nothing.

  “Have you not guessed?” Hokra said, a note of surprise in his voice. “This is all the Farn’Nethyn east of the Lang’Al – at least, all we are aware of. All of it was brought from Nethyngal. For as long as we’ve lived here, we have not found enough to pinch between our fingers. My father tells everyone that we have none of the metal. If it were known that even this amount existed here, we would be fighting off every mercenary who knew what Farn’Nethyn was. And rightfully so.”

  Lydria moved forward, her eyes finally able to make out the edges of Farn’Nethyn blocks against the table tops they rested on. She ran her hands over objects and guessed at their purpose but found nothing she could identify.

  “The Chag are ever miners of the Farn’Nethyn. Never have we been able to create anything of use with it. Each apprentice, when it comes time to take on the title of master, will be given a piece of the stone and they will be provided whatever they need to try to craft with it. Only once has any Chag ever come close to making a thing of use.” Hokra walked around the front of Lydria and turned, half his body hidden behind a mass of blackness.

  “What is it?” Lydria ran her hands along the metal, discovering edges from the outline of what was behind it.

  “This is a breastplate – or what should be a breastplate,” Hokra said. “It barely resembles one actually. I made it well over a decade ago. It is very thin and very brittle – hardly something one would want to take into battle. This is why my father was so overcome when you presented him the knife when we first met. Even given its relative crudeness when compared to the Sword of Wilmamen, it is far more stunning than anything we have ever managed to achieve.”

  Lydria was impressed Hokra had been the only Chag to ever succeed, even partially, at working Farn’Nethyn, but she was not surprised. “Was it made for a child?”

  “No, when we make a thing for the first time, we are taught to make a small version of that thin
g, that others can use as a guide. It uses less material and takes less time. So often these things end in failure.”

  Lydria was silent, trying to make out shapes by looking at the edges which she found as exhausting as searching for someone using only the corner of her eye. “Have you tried to shape the stone with magic?”

  There was a pause and Hokra moved from the back of the armor, so he was fully visible again. “Yes, in fact, I have. Whatever skill the Eifen have to shape Farn’Nethyn they take from themselves because my meager magic will not produce half as good an item as what I produced here as a boy.”

  “Perhaps those who escaped to the west will return with others, and the Eifen and the Chag will work together once more to produce items of beauty and utility.”

  Hokra smiled, took Lydria’s hand and kissed it. “I hope so, Wielder, I dearly do.” With that, he opened the door again, and the mirrors were moved back into the ceiling and the flames doused. The prince and the Chag behind the desk locked the door, and Lydria thanked everyone in the shop for the honor of the visit.

  As they retraced their steps to the top, Hokra answered questions about his people, and how they lived much longer than humans, their history, the legends of the great trading route that used to run to the west, and much more. As he told her the history of the Chag Ca’Grae, Lydria’s attention drifted. Something in the small room teased the edges of her senses, like trying to find the edge of a piece of Farn’Nethyn. Just when she thought she had caught hold of the connection, it would drift away, lurking just beyond the edge of her mind’s eye.

  When they reached the surface, the fading autumn sun was bright, even for Lydria who stood still for a moment, enjoying the warmth on her skin, and letting her eyes adjust to the brightness. Hokra had moved smoothly across the stone bridge, pausing for a moment at the center looking out across his people while he waited for her to make her way to him. She was in no hurry to get across the river where she knew they would likely go to the archives once again to check on the work of Pars. The sun was warm, and she felt she could stand in one spot for hours letting the heat seep into her skin.