Key to Magic 03 King

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  KING

  The Key to Magic: Book Three

  H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  © 2011 by H. Jonas Rhynedahll. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, scenes, dialogue, and descriptions are purely the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, real events, or actual places is entirely coincidental.

  Other Works:

  The Key to Magic: An epic fantasy series

  Orphan

  Magician

  King

  Emperor

  Warrior (2013)

  Wizard (TBA)

  Thief (TBA)

  To End a War (science fiction novella)

  Not Your Typical, Scantily-Clad Virgin Sacrifice (short story collection)

  Potatoes, Come Forth!

  Forthcoming:

  Tunnels

  Time Traveler's Currency Exchange and Pawn

  PROLOGUE

  16th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 80th Day of Glorious Work

  (Eighthday, Waxing, Harvestmoon, 1643 After the Founding of the Empire)

  Senior Archivist Brother Salhm’l used a clean cloth to wipe his forehead. Although he had a large tarp stretched above the sifting table to provide shade, the merciless advance of the sun had already heated the heavy tropical air and he felt as if he were wrapped in a sweltering blanket. The cloth came away damply brown. There was always dust in the air; the digging in the thousand-armlength square terraced pit only stopped with full dark.

  One of the locally hired laborers dumped another load of sandy earth into the wire-bottomed table in front of him. Like most of the workers, the young man had a sparse yellow beard and hand-drawn sienna designs on his neck beneath his left ear. As far as Salhm'l had been able to determine, the intricate marks had no other purpose than decoration, though each villager's designs were unique.

  “Gently, Gh’os’!” Salhm’l reproved benevolently, offering the fellow a kind smile. “Remember, some of the fragments are delicate.”

  All of the laborers would respond attentively to anything vaguely similar to “Gh’os’, which more or less translated as "good friend." The laborers were too numerous for him to attempt to learn all their names, even had they been willing to reveal them. Names were considered sacred among the Ehaerhoeferii and none of those employed by the expedition would admit to any name longer than two syllables, though written studies suggested that Ehaerhoeferii'n names grew over the lifetime of the individual, with phrases and modifiers aggregated according to a complex, little understood process. It was known that very elderly adults had names running to hundreds of syllables. Some scholars contended that these names enunciated the entire essential history of an Ehaerhoeferii'n life.

  “Of course, sir!” the laborer fired back in a rote fashion, feigning utter incomprehension. With hardly a pause, the villager turned to dash off back toward the dig site.

  The local Ehaerhoeferii spoke an obscure dialect of Old Lower Stroovish and though they all seemed to understand Imperial Standard well enough, none of them would admit to being able to speak more than a dozen words. Salhm’l and his brethren, Junior Archivist Khaelm and Senior Novitiate Ghevauch, had concluded privately that the laborers were fluent in Imperial, but considered it in some quixotic fashion humorous to pretend otherwise.

  Salhm’l wiped his forehead again and began raking his trowel through the load of soil. This site, like most here on the Ehaerhoefe’n sub-continent, had produced artifacts with the distinctive characteristics of Precursor Culture Number Eight. Based upon this prevalence, he had theorized that PC #8 had been the dominant political entity of its region and had proposed that it be so designated in the Comprehendium. With any luck, this expedition would discover sufficient evidence to confirm his theory.

  Salhm’l set his trowel aside as an encrusted lump came to light. He shook the fragment to free it of loose material and held it nearer his face to permit his weakened eyes to focus on it.

  It was plainly just another example of a relatively common find: a metal bracelet of a size that indicated that it had been intended to be worn on the wrist or lower forearm. Without fail, all of these artifacts, which came in many variations of size, decoration, and design, exhibited similar damage. Each had been exposed to an event involving extreme heat, which the stratigraphy proved to have been of short duration and near simultaneous throughout the region, and had thereby been rendered, to a greater or lesser extent, into slag.

  He took a small probe from his tool rack and scrapped at a section that seemed to retain a semblance of its original shape. Hints of blue in the bright metal beneath the surface accretion suggested that the bracelet had indeed once had a magical function. At digs in other locales from much earlier periods, he had found traces of the blue alloy in artifacts whose residual flux signatures had indicated artificial manipulation. This bracelet, unfortunately, had suffered much too severe damage to be able to provide any new insights. He could safely conclude that it was simply another casualty of the catastrophic event, but nothing more. He placed the lump on a tray to the side for later cataloging.

  Salhm’l’s Ability was non-existent, but he had no doubt that this piece, like all previous artifacts unearthed by the expedition at this site, would prove completely drained of flux when delved by Brother Khaelm. Not even a minimum of migrated background ether would be detected. Many in the College of Archivists supported the theory that some -- as yet unidentified -- ethereal event in the Period of Disruption had rendered such common magical items into a ‘negative’ or ‘anti’ flux state.

  Methodically, he continued sifting. Useless bits and pieces of vanished magic were the commonplace produce of his archival expeditions and contributed practically nothing to the advancement of the Work.

  Some time later, another of the laborers pounded up one of the ramps and dashed down the trail through the spoil heaps, skidding to an excited halt at the awning. Puffing from the run, the youth exclaimed, "Come quickly, sir! We have found something!”

  Salhm’l sighed, thinking of the long walk down the sun-drenched ramps into the musty labyrinth of the dig. Still, Brother Ghevauch would not have sent for him because of some routine matter. “Very well, let me get my hat.”

  Both Ghevauch and Khaelm awaited him at the lowest level, surrounded by a dozen laborers and their equipment. Some of the Ehaerhoeferii had taken the opportunity to lounge in the scant shade along the northern side of the excavation, but most were observing the Phaelle’n as if they expected something interesting or amusing to happen.

  Salhm’l nodded a greeting at his brethren.

  Ghevauch pointed down into a shored trench. “There is a plaque, with an inscription.”

  “The language appears to be in an ancestral form of Stroovish,” Khaelm added. “But I am unfamiliar with it and cannot make sense of the grammar.”

  Salhm’l was the acknowledged expert on languages of their group. He climbed down the short ladder into the trench. The other Phaelle’n followed and the laborers gathered around the lip to watch.

  Affixed to an intact section of solidified aggregate wall at waist height, the metallic plaque measured three span in width and one in height. The embossed characters, all majuscule, were about half a fingerlength tall and formed two groupings, one above the other. Salhm’l took a stiff brush from his apron and dusted the plaque, looking for ancillary marks or pictographs, but saw none.

  “This is clearly a Precursor script variant." He pointed out one of the characters. "This is a Subpart Sixth Eighth Linear and identifies this as a specialized dialect that has been associated with martial endeavors,” Salhm’l concluded.

  “Excellent!” Khaelm exclaimed. He was younger by a decade
than both Salhm’l and Ghevauch and had yet to have his enthusiasm tempered by the constant disappointments that their work normally entailed.

  “Have you a translation?” Ghevauch prodded.

  “The first word is uncertain, having been variously thought to mean ‘struggle of winds’ or ‘unfettered combat.’ The second has been exhaustively confirmed to mean ‘temple of protection.’”

  “We are below the original level of the ground here,” Ghevauch commented, pointing out of the trench to a dark stratum in the overburden. His early training had been in mining and the supervision of the digging and matters of engineering were his areas of expertise. “This could be the lower levels of a fortress or perhaps a shelter from attack.”

  “Has the context been disturbed?”

  Ghevauch made a gesture to include all of the wall section and the floor of the trench. “This area doesn’t appear to have suffered dislocation. The layers above this were composed of distributed material, mainly crushed brick and rock with discolorations that suggest decayed metal or wood.” He tapped the floor of the trench with a booted foot. The sound was flat, solid. “This floor, however, is the artificial stony composite, and the coloring suggests the enhanced, extremely durable variety described last year by Brother K'hraiw in his monograph. My guess is that the damage did not extend below this elevation.”

  “Could a chamber have survived beneath us?”

  “Yes, I think that likely.”

  “Brother Khaelm, have you detected any modulations?”

  The Junior Archivist nodded quickly. “There is a shadow around the plaque itself.”

  “Nothing else? You quartered the entire trench?”

  “As you say, brother,” Khaelm replied with a hint of annoyance. His Ability was a respectable one-and-one-eighth and he took some pride in it.

  Salhm’l moved about to study the plaque from different angles.

  “It may be an entry device,” Ghevauch suggested.

  “I agree,” Salhm’l said, stepping back. “Brother Khaelm?”

  The younger Phaelle’n advanced to the plaque, then hesitated. “Should we evacuate the site?”

  Salhm’l glanced at Ghevauch, received a quick headshake. It was clear that, like Salhm’l himself, the other man wanted to be present to view whatever might result, even if it meant his own injury or death. Opportunities such as this were rare. Salhm’l did not bother to consider the laborers. They could be replaced.

  “Proceed, brother,” he told Khaelm.

  Khaelm assumed a relaxed posture within an armlength of the plaque, closed his eyes, and began a whispered rhythmic phrase. The laborers stirred, murmuring amongst themselves. The locals had previously shown that they thought Brother Khaelm’s exercise mantra to be some form of magic. Salhm’l had judged it prudent not to correct that misunderstanding. The repeated nonsense-words, however, did nothing more than help the Junior Archivist regulate his heartbeat.

  After a moment, Khaelm leaned down and spoke a single word distinctly to the plaque. “Open.”

  “Any reaction?” Salhm’l queried after a moment or two.

  Khaelm sighed “None that I could detect.”

  “Perhaps,” Ghevauch suggested, “the spell is not sophisticated enough to key on meaning?”

  Khaelm shook his head. “In most cases, a spell keyed vocally will show processing feedback. Even if there were a particular pass phrase or the command had to be presented in a specific language and intonation, I would experience some type of flux wave.”

  Ghevauch frowned. “Movement or object key, then. Pity.”

  Salhm’l frowned likewise. If the key sequence were an arcane gesture or illustrative dance, then the probability of discovering the proper motions was miniscule. To date, no standard frame of reference had been established for such keys in regards PC #8. If the key were a specific object, then the chances of keying the plaque were zero. Any such objects surely would have been destroyed in the Period of Disruption.

  “Suggestions?” he asked.

  “A ‘temple of protection’ might imply an emergency shelter or refuge,” Ghevauch mused. “A complex key sequence might hinder an evacuation. I would think that the entry would be designed to open quickly, with little effort.”

  “A palm tap or touch of the fingers?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Brother Khaelm?”

  “I concur.”

  “Proceed.”

  After another moment of preparation, Khaelm placed his palm on the plaque and pressed lightly.

  “Anything?” Ghevauch asked.

  “Wait. This--" Khaelm rotated his wrist, paused, then said quickly, “No, this!”

  Khaelm tapped his index finger once against the center of the plaque. Just beyond the Junior Archivist, a large section of the floor sank down silently and slid out of sight, leaving a dark rectangular opening. The opening extended beneath the split-log shoring and some of the retained burden slid downward with a hollow rattle of gravel.

  “Sounds deep!” Khaelm enthused, an excited grin stretching his thin face.

  Brother Ghevauch spun to the laborers and barked, “Torches, Gh’os! Quickly! Quickly!”

  A rope ladder fetched from the equipment locker let them down into the chamber. Salhm’l – seniority had its privileges, after all -- went first, descending carefully into the white rectangle of admitted light. Ghevauch and Khaelm followed. The laborers passed a lit torch from hand to hand down the ladder and jostled each other as they tumbled down behind the Phaelle'n.

  Salhm’l took the torch and walked slowly forward into the cavernous room. He stopped after a dozen paces when the dim light revealed huge objects of metal and glass towering over him.

  The devout Ghevauch fell to his knees. “Glory to the Duty, the Duty of All Men, and damnation to those who shun the Duty. . .”

  Khaelm gasped and then leapt into the air, shouting triumphantly.

  Behind the three, the voices of the Ehaerhoeferii began to rise in a mixed jumble: prayers to their gods, ancient words to ward evil, arguments over shares, awed exclamations.

  Salhm’l simply smiled. After forty years of work, he would finally see his name scribed in the Annuals of the Archivists and his monographs published permanently in the Comprehendium. Most importantly, he would be able to append the so very important letters to the end of his signature. Senior Archivist (Field Investigation Specialist) Salhm’l, D.R. – Discover of Relics!

  ONE

  Telriy found him hiding in a tree.

  Mar slid around the massive trunk of the white oak to stay out of her sight, hopping lightly from one waist thick branch to another, but the girl walked without hesitation to his refuge and scanned the thick foliage until her eyes locked on his position.

  “I know you’re up there, Mar,” she called softly. “There’s no point in trying to hide. I still can’t see the ether very well – it comes and goes like a light mist -- but you stand out like a blazing torch. Sometimes you make everything else look gray.”

  Mar grunted an inarticulate sound. For the moment, his encyclopedia of curses failed him, as he was unsure whether he should denounce Fflygao, the Under Oligarch of Foliage, or Aenhishk'lhe, the Leafy Goddess’s Stepchild. “What do you want?”

  Telriy, her upturned face barely visible through the profuse leaves, cocked her head and half-smiled. “And lo, the people did grieve for the King, having been turned away from his bier.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Legend of the Great King, Canto Six by Erstophe. It’s a very old poem but is quite well known in the Archipelago. You’ve never read it?”

  “No.” He did not bother to add that he found poetry -- not song lyrics or limericks or nursery rhymes, but real poetry, the kind published in self-important tomes and broadcast in public squares to non-existent audiences -- in and of itself pointless.

  “It’s a fantasy loosely based on the life of Great King Hnoro of the Middle Kingdom.”

  “He reigned over the
area occupied by the coastal provinces of the Empire from 590 to 670 BFE?” The small pamphlet The Good Kings had made an interesting read, but an even better fire during one bad winter.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Telriy cast off dismissively. “I was trying to make a point, but it’s clear that subtlety bounces right off you, Mar. Now, will you please come down?”

  “I’m not going back.”

  “Can you dissolve the Blood Oaths?”

  Mar did not answer.

  “I thought not,” Telriy confirmed in a calm, reasonable tone as if the question of his kingship had been resolved once and for all. She examined the ground at her feet, evidently found it sufficiently clear of roots and stones, and then carefully spread her skirts and sat. From a pocket, she produced a brush and then pulled the pins from her hair. Around her, the wind rustled the undergrowth and swept a few of last year's dried leaves in a noisy ripple.

  Sometime later, when he had grown tired of waiting for the girl to speak again, Mar drifted to the ground and said, “I’m leaving.”

  He paused, frowned. “Come with me.”

  Telriy continued to move the brush methodically through her hair, five slow strokes on the left, then five slow strokes on the right, tilting her head alternately to allow her hair to dangle straight for each pass. Without raising her head to look at him directly, she replied evenly, “Alright. Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “No, I’m sure it doesn’t.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The girl made a loop with the fingers of one hand, swept her hair behind her, and replaced the pins. Her nonchalance made Mar fidget.

  “You’re my husband and my fate, Mar,” she told him. “Wherever you go or whatever you do, I’ll be there.”

  “There are no gods and there is no fate,” Mar ground out. He disregarded her claim to a marriage. He had grown tired of denying it.