Tonespace
The Space of Energy
Volume 3 of
The Metaspace Chronicles
by Matthew R. Kennedy
Copyright © 2015 by Matthew R. Kennedy
All rights reserved.
Cover Image by Piotr Siedlecki.
This is a work of speculative fiction. It uses fictional characters in a fictional setting to tell a story. Any resemblances to real persons, living or dead, or real existing governments, organized religions, or organizations of humans in general is purely coincidental. Get over it.
Dedication
For my brother James,
tireless supporter,
generator of useful ideas
and The One Who Believed
Acknowledgments
Rare is the book that emerges from a vacuum. Most books have multiple inputs, and this one is no exception. I would like to thank the following people who made it possible: my extra-eyes Chassy, Susan, James, Jan, William, and Frank, and the Readers who make it all possible with their patronage.
Thanks to www.Taoism.net and Tao Te Ching: Annotated & Explained, published by SkyLight Paths in 2006 from which I draw my Tao Te Ching quotes.
Quotes from The Art of War by Sun Tzu are from the translation by Lionel Giles at classics.mit.edu/Tzu/artwar.html.
“Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside." – Alexander Pope
Prologue
New beginnings are always a dangerous time. A seed finds fertile soil, in adequate sunlight and accessible water. It sends out a taproot and the root hairs that will help it gather resources.
It begins to grow, spreading cotyledons, the baby leaves, to harvest photons, those bits of energy that began their journey in the heart of the Sun. In time, it may even drop its own seeds to sow the beginnings of a forest. But it is still vulnerable. The young tree may be blown down by a storm. It could be uprooted by a flood, or ravaged by a fire.
Or even cut down by the hand of man.
Xander had started his forest of wizards. His tree, the institution that would become known as the Xander School, was putting down roots and sending out branches.
But it was still vulnerable. Only time would tell if it would survive political upheavals and secret rivalries. The freedom and openness it stood for were not welcomed by all.
Chapter 1
Lester: Graduation's Aftermath
“Information is not knowledge.”
– Albert Einstein
He groaned and forced himself to roll out of bed onto his feet. The impact of his feet on the floor sent a wave of dizziness and nausea crashing through his head. Never again! Where had Esteban gotten that wine?
But even Xander had not dimmed the celebration when he returned from whatever had called him downstairs. He'd raised his glass with them, toasting their achievements as if determined not to dampen their jubilation. But Lester, watching him, had become convinced the senior wizard had received troubling news, news that he had decided, for reasons of his own, to keep to himself that night.
Lester hoped Xander's head hurt as badly as his own did.
He opened his coldbox and groped inside for a bit of cheese and an unopened bottle of cider. No matter what we achieve, he thought blearily, every day we wake up with empty stomachs and full bladders.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Carolyn's head hurts worse.
He froze as Xander's thought reminded him of her injury. Come to think of it, she hadn't been chucking back wine with the rest of them, had she? She'd been drinking an infusion of willow bark in water. Sounded awful, but apparently it helped with her own headaches.
As his head gradually began to wake up, he remembered noticing how close to her Xander had been when the seven of them took off from the 'scraper's roof to celebrate their acceptance as wizards. No doubt the old rascal had promised to help keep her swizzle staff from crashing her into the ground or another building. How else had he gotten her to take off days after her concussion?
Doubtless it had been a good idea of Xander's to get them all to participate in the celebratory flight, even if he had to coddle her a little to make it happen. Carolyn had been the first after Lester to solve the swizzle test; she deserved to be up there flying if anyone did.
Xander must have already arisen and eaten. He sat at the table, regarding a ring of bluish metal that lay a foot in front of his nose.
“And here I was hoping it wasn't only my head aching.”
“It's called a hangover,” said Xander, unimpressed. “Either get used to having them, or learn not to overdo it.”
“You were drinking as much as the rest of us, as I recall.”
“I have more experience,” Xander said. “And more bad memories and demons to drink under the table.” He went back to studying the ring.
“Have you learned anything from it?”
“Part of me was hoping it was just a reminder, just something familiar enough to trigger Kaleb to fall into a trance for the Queen's mischief. But it's an artifact all right.” Xander exhaled. “The bluish color isn't natural – it's some kind of metaspace weave I've never seen before. Not pathspace, spinspace, or tonespace.”
Comforting to see the old wizard baffled. “Too bad.”
“No, it's good. Or will be, if we can figure it out. According to Kaleb, when he put it on he could hear Queen Rochelle's voice in his head, and she could hear him. That's how she knew I opened the elevator doors. She had him making regular reports every night as soon as Esteban fell asleep.”
“Well, without help we might never figure it out.”
“Yes but if we do, just think of the possibilities! You and I can hear each other if we are closer than a mile. But with this,” he reached out and nearly picked up the ring, but stopped himself, “with this, or more probably, with two of them, she was able to communicate with him over a thousand miles!”
“So what? We don't know anyone that far away.”
“What about Jeffrey? His capitol is something like seven hundred miles away. If he'd had one of these, then maybe...”
“Maybe what? What are you talking about?”
“That's right, you don't know yet.” Xander looked up from the ring, His eyes were troubled. “There's been a coup in Texas. A group of their Army officers has seized power. No one knows where Jeffrey is...assuming he's alive.”
Lester had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, if Jeffrey was dead then Aria would be staying in Denver. On the other hand...
“Don't look so happy,” Xander snapped. “Don't you realize this could end Kristana's New Union before it's even started? We could be facing war again.”
“A couple of rings wouldn't have prevented that.”
“Probably not,” Xander agreed. “But at least he'd be able to tell us he's still alive, and where he is.”
“If they're still looking for him, he's alive. Are they?”
“As far as we know. Probably the only thing keeping them from being ready to attack us.”
“What happens if they do? We've got their tanks and even more wizards this time. Which reminds me, what's the school's responsibility in the event of an attack? Esteban's from Texas. If they attack, does he have to help us kill their troops?”
Xander gazed at the ring again. “You know I'd rather not have wizards fighting in any war. The whole point of the school is to make us an indispensable part of mainstream society. We can't do that if everyone is afraid of us.”
“Yes, but we also can't do that if we let them conquer Rado and drive the School into hidi
ng. It'll be hard to get new students if they have to look under rocks to find us.”
Xander nodded, frowning. “There is that,” he acknowledged. “Which is why we're going to have to teach wizards to drive tanks.”
Chapter 2
Jeffrey: Living to Fight Again
“It requires more courage to suffer than to die.”
– Napoleon Bonaparte
How far were they taking him from his homeland? Lying there, huddled under the cart's false bottom, he was acutely aware that he had no idea even what direction they were traveling in. He might emerge in Mexico, Rado, Okla, or even some part of the Dixie Emirates.
For an awful moment he wondered if it was all some elaborate joke on the part of His Holiness. Could the Pontiff be planning to just wheel him around Dallas a few times and then hand him over the the revolutionary cabal?
The moment passed. It could not be. The Pope was a pragmatist, but, Jeffrey felt, not a cruel man. If he had planned to betray the Honcho to the ousters, he would not have bothered to deceive Commander Vaca. No, it was a ridiculous thought.
So why, if he was such a pragmatist, was the head of the Church aiding and abetting a deposed ruler? Whatever his reasons were, Jeffrey was certain they weren't sentimental. Either Enrique really did believe in supporting the legal ruler of the Empire...or he must believe that Jeffrey, young as he was, would be better for the country than a bunch of military malcontents eager for the spoils of war.
He wished the cart would stop and let him out. Surely they must be beyond the patrols hunting him by now. They didn't have to loan him a horse. He'd be happy to walk, if it meant getting out of this rolling coffin.
To distract himself, he reviewed his options. He could see only three at the moment. First, he could accept what had happened, try to fit in wherever he ended up, find a job and settle down to a life drastically altered from the one he had in front of him just a few days before. This option was the most feasible, in practical terms. He was young, he was good with horses, he could learn new skills, and for all he knew he might even be happy as an expatriate. Why not? Did it really make any difference in the grand scheme of things what he did?
The problem was, it was the easy way out, the coward's way, and he knew it. Those bastards were going to attack Rado again. Would he be able to live with himself if they did? Even if Aria survived the invasion, he had no doubt she'd be captured. With him out of the picture, she would never be Honchessa. No, she would be, at best, a plaything for corrupt officers, and at worst a political prisoner, awaiting death by execution after the cabal extracted 'confessions' from her. Perhaps they would accuse her of using witchcraft to ensnare their former Honcho and weaken the glorious Lone Star Empire with an alliance.
So much for the first option. His fiancee would be killed or captured, and the people of Rado who had accepted him as an ally – even after his father had attempted to subjugate them by force – would be conquered and made into slaves to mine gold for Dallas, and into cannon fodder to swell its armies as the Empire expanded.
His second option was to survive and slip back into Texas to raise an army of loyalists to restore him to power. Not as easy as giving up, but at least not as cowardly, either. The trouble with this options was it seemed less practical. The traitors would have time to consolidate their power while he laid low, and no doubt they would be filling the ears of citizens with slanders about his actions and motives, to justify their seizure of power.
He doubted it would be easy for them to arrive at a consensus - to let one of their number be exalted as the new Honcho, but if they did, and the new leader of the Empire was accepted by the people, his own cause might be doomed. And how would he afford to supply his army of restoration? He was a penniless refugee. Would he turn to banditry, and prey on his own countrymen to build up his forces, abandoning morality in the service of the greater good? Would he become just another thug like the highwaymen who preyed on trade caravans? So much for that option.
The third options was hardly better. He could survive and make his way to Rado to ask for their help. Even if they granted it, though, he could imagine how that would look to his people: a failed leader turned villain, returning with a foreign army to conquer his own country and be a puppet for distant rulers.
The road must have become smoother. The jolt of the cart stopping awakened him and he realized he must have dozed off. He only realized how long he had been asleep when he heard the squawks of displaced chickens as the hidden door was lifted to grant him a view of the night sky. Groaning from the stiffness in his back and the tingling of limbs that had been too long cramped in the narrow space, he allowed himself to be lifted bodily out of the hidden compartment, then stood and stamped his legs and waved his arms to restore circulation. “Where are we?”
The monks helping him stand appeared to ignore the question. Gazing about him he finally located Brother Marcus and marched over to him. “Your men won't tell me where we're going or where we are.”
Marcus was calm. “They've taken a vow of silence, Excellency. His Holiness thought it prudent to ensure that they would not be questioned on our way out, or upon their return.”
“Yet you're still talking, I notice.”
“His holiness thought it best that one of our party be excepted from the vow, in order to respond to soldiers. And so that you would have someone to talk to.”
The carts had pulled off the road into a stand of trees by a field. Some of the monks gathered fallen branches for a fire, which Marcus lit with the aid of an everflame. Others began putting up tents.
“So where are we going?”
Marcus appeared surprised. “Didn't you hear what I told the soldier?”
“Yes, to some monastery. I assumed it was a cover story.”
“The best cover stories are true,” Marcus told him. “Some people are better than others at sensing when they are being lied to. I could not afford to arouse suspicions. I knew I was telling the truth, so the soldier knew it too.” He replaced the everflame in a pocket of his robes and blew on the fire. “As I said, we are going to the monastery of St. Avory's.”
“Why go there?”
“It seemed a logical place of refuge for you, Excellency. Safe, secure, and remote. The searchers are unlikely to look for you there. You will have the time you need to plan your next move.”
If only he knew what that was.
Chapter 3
Raul: The Sword in the Stone
“We are twice armed if we fight with faith.”
– Plato
It wasn't going well. Had he expected it to? The men in the room should have been friends, comrade-in-arms. The step they had taken together could not be taken back. Together, they'd made their decision, together they'd acted, and only future events would show if it was the proper course of action.
Commander Raul Jimenez knew his fellow officers were no saints, Conspirators was what they were. A junta. But what point was there to sitting down together, if they could not stand together?
Their problem was a predictable one. It had been easy to agree that Jeffrey Martinez was steering the wrong course for the Lone Star Empire. Crushed by the death of his father, the former Honcho, Jeffrey had actually made peace with the enemy! And then, he had the temerity to suggest political Union with Rado.
Unacceptable! On this, at least, they were agreed, though perhaps each member of the junta had his own reasons for agreement.
For some, it was the rich spoils they had expected to flow from the invasion: horses, land, mines, and whatever else could be seized while pacifying the country. Jeffrey's peace had robbed them of their rewards for service. That couldn't be allowed.
Jimenez fingered the crucifix in his pocket. Some of us had different reasons, he thought. He wanted to believe that there were others who saw the danger in alliance with a country that harbored witches and wizards. Could a man shake hands with the Devil and remain pure himself?
They'd all agreed to depose the new Honcho f
or different reasons, but they had agreed. They'd also agreed that they wouldn't subject the Empire to mob rule: the governing structure would remain the same, under different leadership. Unfortunately, that was the last thing they'd agreed on.
The problem was, the men were all commanders, all leaders of men. Each, therefore, considered himself the right man to become the new Honcho.
Commander Jorge Vaca, for example, had great sway with the men who had labored at the Abilene armory to restore the war machines of the Ancients. This led him to consider himself the only modern contender in a group of traditionalists. He was probably intent on re-invading Rado to get his hands on the tanks Jeffrey had left in Denver. They would be a key component of future conquests.
Now Commander Hector Karlota, on the other hand, felt uniquely qualified for leadership of a military Empire because of his military successes. His army had carved several fiefdoms out of the vastness of Mexico, enlarging the Empire southwards. Doubtless, he felt that his victories there (compared to the Martinez failures in the North) were clear evidence that he ought to occupy the Honcho's office.
Eric Anderson, though he had neither Vaca's involvement with the jumped-up blacksmiths who called themselves the Corps of Engineers, nor the military victories of Karlota, considered himself the best suited to lead by his education and temperament. His family had old money, and ties to similar families in neighboring countries. Perhaps he thought he could buy the throne; he could certainly afford better bribes than the others.
And me? What do I believe? Jimenez wondered. I haven't tinkered, conquered, or bought my way way to command, like these other gentleman. Nor agreed my way into this room like the lesser officers around the table. What claim of priority do I have?
Tonespace: The Space of Energy (The Metaspace Chronicles Book 3) Page 1
