by D. H. Aire
When the apprentices entered the house’s Grand Hall, they found their master waiting, the tawny furred Raven curled at his feet. He smiled and raised his staff, which abruptly glowed. They turned askance as the doors behind them closed, seemingly of their own volition.
“Welcome,” George said, the staff blazing. The room then rippled and changed. Furniture of strange contour and design appeared all around them.
The Hall was now vast. Behind George lay a glowing translucent wall of solid crystal.
Aaprin raised his hand, knowing it had to be a clever illusion.
:Actually, this is one of George’s memories.:
“Uh,” Terus muttered, “who said that?”
George grinned and settled his glowing staff to the floor, then began to peel back the leathery covering that actually clung at its tip. Revealed was a fiercely blazing crystal, like the wall behind their master.
:Welcome to your introductory course on archaeology,: said that voice out of the ether that Aaprin was certain emanated from the staff in his master’s hand. Revit and Terus started at the sound.
“This is a DHR model computer,” George said.
:Data humanistic rapport computer, or Staff to my friends.:
The apprentices gaped, then Terus gathered his courage and asked, clearly puzzled, “Archa— what?”
Revit looked about him, “What is this place?”
“And exactly what’s going on here?” finished Aaprin.
“You expected magery, perhaps?” George said with a chuckle. “This place is the equivalent of the academy I studied in. Not a place of magic, but a place made possible through technology—human science, creative thought, and reasoning. Archaeology is my particular discipline and it will be the focus of our course. It is the study of antiquity— of peoples’ past in relating to our environment. Understanding the origin and development of things is important to understanding our world around us— particularly this one.” He frowned, “Vital to survival, actually.”
Aaprin glanced about him, “Where is this place?”
:This was a lecture theater at University,: Staff answered across the ether. :Location: the human homeworld of Earth, continent: Europe, sector three, declination…:
“Staff,” George said.
:Oh— sorry.:
“Human home –world?” Revit murmured.
“Yes,” George replied, “actually that is where much of your people’s history began.” Aaprin and Terus looked uncertain. Ruefully, George added, “Oh, elves appear to have had roots there, too— otherwise, I’d not be here. But be that as it may, Staff, let’s begin the programmed first session.”
:Acknowledged. Displaying.:
A desert appeared all around them. Raven looked about her, then lowered her head back down. :Area referred to as the “Great Waste,” location of first human pale of settlement upon world XR-287, so labeled by Colony Ship “Questor.” Note year of arrival does not correspond to historical year’s Earth Galactic Standard. Hypoth…:
“Staff,” George urged.
The desert sands faded. Grass and trees abounded.
Houses appeared, strange vehicles crossed down the road to the left. Metallic things flew overhead. People suddenly appeared frantic. There was fire in the sky. The image quavered. The desert returned.
“The War,” Aaprin whispered.
:Yes, your history is quite accurate. Men and elves made war. Technology, human science, fought against the powers of elvin magic and created a wasteland, mutations, and death.:
“But what has this to do with learning magery?” Terus asked, feeling a bit frustrated.
George shook his head. “What, indeed. The question is actually your first step in discovering our answer. Looks can be so deceiving. What’s this?” he asked, kneeling before Revit, picking up a small object and holding it out to them, “Do you know what this is?”
Gathering close, the boys frowned and Aaprin muttered, “It’s just a stone.” Wondering what any of this had to do with learning human magic.
“What do you think?” George asked Terus, placing the object in the elvin cast boy’s hand.
Revit peered at the object in Terus’s palm.
Frowning, Terus turned it over and noticed its jagged edge.
“It’s been crafted… it’s not a stone. Here, look.”
Aaprin grimaced, “It’s just a stone.”
“Is it now?” George murmured, closing his eyes. The staff flared. The object shot into the air above their heads. It twisted as it grew larger.
:Scanning, complete. Enhancing.:
The object seemed to expand along the smooth contour. The portion worn by sand and wind no longer showed pitting or scarring. A curved vaguely metallic object appeared where moments before only the small seeming stone had been.
Aaprin’s eyes widened. “That’s from one of the sky things.”
George smiled, remarking, “Take the supposition posited and display.”
The boys leapt backward as a huge craft appeared, sleek and gleaming beneath the desert sun. :Colonial Delta, model number DTA-981-35F, circa 1237 D.E.:
George walked around the vehicle, the boys and Raven padding awestruck and silent in his wake. “Hmm, Staff, compare supposition with known vehicles on Questor’s colony manifest.”
:Searching ship’s data files. Enhancing incomplete records regarding colony’s partially damaged original manifest.:
Aaprin glared, “How can you know this?”
George shook his head, “Through archaeology we seek existing records. Where we came across this particular tidbit will have to remain secret for the time being. However, I’ll tell you this. Before Alrex’s Summoning I knew nothing of this place.”
“Huh?” Revit and Terus muttered, looking enthralled by the flying ship before them.
:Core records inventory of twenty-three Deltas. No F class as this piece seems representative.: The image before them changed. The sleek lines replaced by a more rugged and worn look. :All were outmoded A and B class vehicles. Likely the best the colonists could afford at the time of their departure.:
George nodded, raising his hand. The desert vanished. The lecture hall re-appeared. The crystal wall flashed with schematic images of aged Delta craft.
:Core memory record complete,: Staff announced.
“Is this human magery?” Terus asked, looking at the displayed words and numbers that he oddly sensed spoke of stress level loads, speed, durability, and maintenance requirements for various components.
“Not quite. This is a computer simulation. The exercise was selected at random. You see, Staff and I work ‘enrapport’— share in ways that utilize my mind as part of the machine. Actually, right at this moment, you are experiencing ‘rapport.’ Not as I do, but included in my perceptions. That you can ‘hear’ Staff at all speaks a great deal about your potential to learn what I have to teach. And, much of what you shall learn will be quite mundane in nature.”
“The secret to inner discovery and growth is to experience and question. Do not accept what I tell you as absolute truth. What I do seek is not blind belief. Look for yourselves— seek answers, the reasons why.” They looked at him uncertainly, yet he sensed a willingness to try. That would be enough for now. George smiled, “Do you have any questions?”
Revit looked impishly at Terus, “Can you bring back the flying ship?”
“Can we fly in it?” Terus asked, his eyes going wide.
“Please, Master?!” the pair chorused.
Aaprin stared at the two as his new master laughed. The scene around them changed and the flying ship lay before them. There was a swooshing sound and the side hatch opened, displaying the interior compartment.
:Auto pilot is most happy to engage,: voiced Staff seeming from within.
The boys, even the more hesitant Aaprin, raced inside.
George shook his head as the engine began to warm, “And at my first class I picked what turned out to be only a piece of pottery. Oh, hey, wait for me
!”
Balfour was making his rounds, feeling the watchful eyes with a sense of foreboding. His dwarven escort had seemed to leave him once he had entered the Hall, but he knew they were about nonetheless. A warden had already remarked at the unusual number turning up sick and injured today. He had quietly suppressed a groan, hearing that and quickly moved on.
There were those who were not dwarves watching him with something less than his best interests at heart. Patients looked at him wonderingly, uncertain— and his fellow elfblood healers askance and with distrust.
His patients healed rapidly— those he was allowed to treat at all, now that he had given up all pretence of spell casting and magic. Many patients had been quietly restricted to traditional healers; although, his Uncle Ofran, Master of the Hall, had ordered that practice stopped as soon as he learned of it. But Ofran was often at the home of the Highmage these days and Balfour had no desire to make a practice of running to him regarding every slight.
He heard shouting and rushed across the ward to one of the side chambers. Three elfblood healers were chanting, working to settle a man undergoing a convulsion. Their entourage of human medics hovered in the background, assisting instantly at a Master’s gesture or glance.
The words of the elvin chant were lost as the spell to end the convulsion grew in power. Suddenly the convulsion ceased. The man paled, his breathing stopped. The healers groaned at the spell’s fierce backlash. The medics rushed to support each of them even as they worriedly stared at the now too still form before them.
“I’m fine,” muttered one, unsteadily moving closer to his patient’s side. Forlorn, he shook his head, while his companions looked on in sympathy.
Balfour stood watching in the doorway, recognizing their look of helplessness. “Have you given up?”
“Get out of here!” the foremost exclaimed. “Can you not see this man is dead?!”
“Clinically dead yes, but his spirit and mind are still his own for a time yet. Give me that time to save him.”
The medics gaped, the healers glared, then one smiled, “Let him try, Kylian... The man is already dead. What harm can he do?”
His companion stared, noting the mischievous gleam in his eye. “Do it, but I shall not be here to witness your folly,” he said, striding briskly past and out of the chamber, followed by the uncertain third healer.
“I could use some assistance,” Balfour stated, coming to his patient’s side. The medics took a step back, hesitant and fearful at the watching healer’s glance. Balfour ignored them; if he had to do all himself, he would. He half closed his eyes and concentrated. He could feel the oxygen starvation beginning to scream from the man’s very blood. He probed further, seeking the reason for the convulsion that had finally brought the patient’s heart to stop. Slowly, warily, Balfour began to impose his will upon the inert form before him.
“Uh, I’ll help, sir.”
Balfour felt the medic’s supportive presence as others hurried away, following in the wake of the two of the three remaining healers. Mister Smiles remained behind to witness. Witness this you lout! Balfour mentally cried and began.
The human medic assisting him was young, not as set in Hall experience as he otherwise might have been, Balfour realized. Working with him was actually a relief.
The medics generally distrusted him since the moment Balfour discarded all pretence that he practiced traditional healing magery. For Me’oh, working in the herbal gardens and the pharmacopoeia, it had been easier. Magery was not so much an expectation there; although it enhanced many medicinal properties. Balfour was the revolution of the Hall. His ideas, his suggestion of opening clinics— semi-private Healer Halls throughout the city Tiers, had been greeted as just another aberration.
“Might as well open up tents in the desert!” a healer had scoffed.
“Master Balfour,” the young medic whispered.
Balfour turned and noticed the medic glancing back at the man, who minutes before had, as far as the rest of the Hall was concerned, been dead.
“He suffered a cardiac arrest due to the damage his seizures caused.” At the lad’s blank look, he explained, “His heart stopped. The spells to strengthen its beat could not fight against it.”
“But he lives— he is breathing, Master!”
Taking a deep breath, Balfour nodded, disengaging himself from his patient’s inner rhythms. Opening his eyes tiredly, knowing what his actions had cost him in physical energies, he stated, “I repaired the damaged heart tissue, then jolted his heart back to its proper rhythm... I barely touched on the cause of the seizures, but they will be lessened for a time. Later we can better address that.”
“You truly use no spells?”
Balfour chuckled, even as he sensed a growing anger from the watching healer “You didn’t believe me –– or the rumors then?”
The lad frowned, “No, Master. How could I? You’re an elf, a healer in this Hall.”
“You used magic!” the healer exclaimed. “I felt what you did, as I knew I would! Your claims are a lie!”
With a sigh, Balfour turned to the glaring elfblood, “Not by spell or charm did I accomplish this healing. Yet, here lies a living man. How do you explain it?”
“You are a necromancer!” the healer shouted. “A master of Blackest Arts, you shall be banned! I shall…”
“Bah!” laughed a portly elvin figure from the doorway. “I watched as carefully as you. Or so you judge MY GIFTS as inept as your own to credit such words!”
The healer stared, then bowed, “Mageling, what do you here?”
“Me? Oh, I hurt my ankle... Bal, would you please take a look at it?”
“Master Posh, I would be most happy to— just give me a moment.” The Faeryn mage nodded, but made no move to leave, and watched as the healer stalked off as Balfour asked the medics on his left to return their patient to his room.
They stared a moment and hesitated until the young medic beside him shouted, “You heard the Master! Come here, this instant!”
They quickly did as they were bid. Balfour smiled at his companion. The young medic grinned, “My name is Tam. I would be pleased to aid you in your work in the future.”
“Check my schedule and tell the wardens I have designated you my senior.”
Wide-eyed, the young man stared, “But, Master!”
Balfour grinned as Master Posh laughed heartily, “Take the honor, lad. You can learn much from so gifted a healer.”
Nodding, the medic said, “Thank you, sir,” pushing the patient cart slowly away.
“Now about that ankle of yours, Posh,” Balfour said.
The mage began to noticeably limp as he entered the room.
“Been paining me for days. I might have to come back often, don’t you think?”
“Posh, I’ve missed you,” Balfour said, grinning.
“Well, I was your only friend,” Posh chuckled, noticing the sudden slight frown cross Balfour’s lips.
Well, there are friends, and there are friends, Balfour thought. The moment passed and Balfour’s smile widened again, “I think I have got a simple remedy for that ankle, Posh... But the cure may mean ridding yourself of that paunch.”
Posh raised his hands, “Please, not that! Anything but that! A mage needs something to keep his spirits soaring!”
“In that case, come over here so I can take a look at that leg of yours.”
Grinning, Posh eased himself to the bed as Balfour noted a dwarf pause outside and wink. Faeryn and dwarves, just great— this was sure to enhance his reputation.
Balances
2
It was a ramshackle taproom in one of the worst districts of the Seventh Tier; it was also the serving girl’s home.
Her father, Rolf, was the dubious proprietor. His watered down drinks catering to the sort who could afford none better. “Lucian, another keg.” Rolf yelled to the cripple handed elf, who lent the place its little bit of respectability.
Irin served the crowd in her bare
feet, shoes precious enough an expense that they had to be saved for proper walking outside, and not for the likes of this place. She carefully avoided her father’s gaze these days, which only served to irritate him more. He was a man with big plans, plans in which his daughter played a key role. Rolf had no intention of being stuck in this place for a lifetime. No, he could see himself a prosperous man upTier, living a better life in the Sixth— a man with proper connections and the ambition to reach higher, still.
A man with a crooked smile took his mug from the pretty girl. The proprietor stood by the entry, watching the interchange thoughtfully, then noticed the arrival of a cowled stranger.
The newcomer paused, glancing in search of something or perhaps someone. Heads turned appraisingly, noticing the stance and posture of the guest, which spoke of wealth where none of the sort should be. The serving girl delivered more drinks, but warily watched the newcomer choose a rear table against the wall. When he sat, he had a good view of everyone in the room.
Rolf began to casually approach him, when the man rose and blocked his way. “Ahem, good day, Messer. How may I help you?”
“Good sir,” the man replied with a grin. “I believe you can... how much for an hour with the young lass?”
Gaze going cold, Rolf replied, “This is not that kind of establishment, sir, but I can recommend one to suit you.” The man pushed a few coins quietly into Rolf’s hand, “She’s quite lovely.”
“I know... She’s my daughter.”
The man’s eyes widened as he glanced down at the dagger poking his sternum. “Uh.”
Rolf grimly smiled and murmured, “We can do this pleasant or not. Tis your choice. Leave now and forget the girl— or expect to be found in an alleyway nearby never of any use to a woman ever after.” Sweat beaded down the man’s cheeks. “Course,” Rolf added grinning, “there are those that might be willing to take you in— after. I understand THAT business pays just as well.”
“Um... I’ll just be leaving,” he replied, noticing the barkeep tense behind them and an elf with a disfigured hand, a keg across his shoulder, hovering warily nearby.
