by Greg Curtis
“The Great Lord says that these may be of value to you. They are the accounts of the war of the Cabal wizards written by the scribes of the Dragon King and copied faithfully for you and the others by us. The Great Lord considers that you might find the accounts of the devices they constructed as they waged their wars of particular interest.”
“I would indeed!”
Edouard was suddenly filled with excitement. He was more than eager to peruse the works the moment the librarian told him what they were. In fact it was hard to restrain himself from simply reaching out and grabbing them. But that would not have been dignified and a man of the nobility always had to be that. Instead he had to offer his hospitality to his guest. Hospitality that began with refreshments and polite conversation and then continued with a tour of his home and of course the library while the books sat untouched on the table in the great room.
But every second that passed by he was really just thinking about diving into them.
And even if they held nothing of use at least he wouldn't be climbing endless stairs carrying stone buckets filled with molten metal.
Chapter Forty Two
“Hell's Teeth! They're frauds!”
Edouard awoke abruptly in the middle of the night with the words already on his lips. An eye blink later and he'd cast a spark into the lanterns on the wall of his bed chamber and was throwing the covers aside as he tumbled out of bed, filled with the need to search out what he now knew for fact. To prove it. After that it was a mad dash to put on his robe and slippers and then rush out of his room, down the stairs and through to the library. For once he didn't even care if he made too much noise running as he was and woke some of his guests. It simply didn't matter compared with the revelation that was unfolding in his mind. Nothing did.
The Cabal wizards weren't wizards at all! And the black priest was no priest either! They were just liars.
He was annoyed with himself that it had taken so long to realise something so obvious. Especially when he'd been given the information days before by Ascorlexia and then spent day and night studying it. But in his own defence, no one else had guessed it either.
The scribes of the time had recorded in excruciating detail the intricacies of the devices they'd been attacked by and destroyed. He could have designed many of them himself given enough time. He could even enchant some of them. The simple ones that used a spark of fire to power them. They'd also provided him with the schematics for the temples that had been destroyed one by one. Temples that were in fact machines. Just as Ascorlexia had said. Machines that could rip the magic from the magical for leagues all around and then imbue it into the devices that the rock gnomes built. It was a system as efficient as it was horrid.
But that last part had eluded him. It had eluded them all. The machines weren’t being used to speed up the Cabal wizards' enchanting and make their creations more powerful. Rather the machines were there because without them they couldn't enchant a thing. They had no magic of their own!
Once he'd reached the library Edouard started pulling down books from the shelves in a frantic hurry, knowing exactly what he needed. Because now that he knew what the enemy were he also knew how to defeat them. But no one was going to believe him. Not without proof. Luckily he had some.
The surprise was that it wasn't in the tomes that Ascorlexia had given him. They'd given him the clue but not the answer. It would actually be found in some of his own tomes. In the histories of ancient sparks and flames that he collected. It came from their private journals.
Most spellcasters kept journals. It was both normal and expected. Sparks and flames were after all normally well educated and keeping a journal of some sort was a mark of that. Also, one of their duties whether set out in a law or not, was to guide other younger sparks to find their feet in the world of magic and a journal filled with the recounts of how a spark or a flame had found a particular shape or used his cast to achieve something unexpected was part of that.
But there were so few with the spark. There were always stories, tall tales recounted by the bards for the most part, of wizards of various times and places setting up schools. Even colleges and universities. But the plain fact was that there would never be enough students for such institutions to run. They had never existed. So the more usual method by which a wizard was taught was through some form of apprenticeship. Sometimes it was formal, sometimes it was ad hoc as it had been in his case. But whatever the arrangement, a more advanced spellcaster would give guidance to a younger one with the same affinity where possible.
Journals were a part of how that was done. But they were more than just teaching tools. They were records of achievement. Most spellcasters also had pride. In some cases too much pride. They wanted to be remembered. A journal was a common way in which they boasted of their accomplishments to the future generations.
What happened to a spellcaster's journal when he died often wasn't up to him however. If a wizard had an apprentice then the chances were that the apprentice would keep his journals. If he didn't but had family then the likelihood was that the family would keep it. Sometimes they would leave them to friends or libraries. And if none of those things happened then the chances were that the journals would end up in stores. And every store that sold such things within the nearest dozen cities knew to send him a message when one of those rare tomes crossed their desks.
Edouard collected them.
It was a strange thing to collect. Even among those who collected books. The journals were usually old and worn by the time he got them. Hand written too – often in a barely legible scrawl with the ink faded. They weren't edited or bound into a proper binding. And some of the time they didn't even make sense. Spellcasters were just as prone as anyone else to filling their journals with irrelevancies and flights of fancy. But just then the only thing that mattered was that he had several hundred of them, many in multiple volumes, and he knew that some of them would contain the evidence he needed. It was just a matter of digging it out.
Soon the shelves were looking almost bare in places while he had hundreds of books scattered over the library's main table and could collapse in a chair in front of them. And then with fingers almost trembling with excitement, he reached for the first one, knowing that it could contain the proof he needed.
◄►
“Lord Edouard?”
It was late, or rather early when Edouard was disturbed in his work. In fact through the gaps in the thick velvet curtains of the library he could just see the beginnings of blue sky breaking through and the promise of dawn and he realised that he had worked through the night. But he wasn't tired. He was far too excited to be tired.
Already he'd skimmed through thirty or so journals and left book marks scattered throughout them. But because he only had a few bookmarks he'd soon resorted to using torn off strips of writing paper. The end result was a couple of two foot high stacks of journals with hundreds of white tufts sticking out of them. And he still had at least another two hundred and fifty journals to go.
Still, as he looked up to see Kyriel at the door, and then straightened up in his chair trying to force the aching stiffness out of his spine, he knew he should take a break. Maybe a cup of hot tea would be well deserved and a piece of toast. And then maybe he also needed to tell someone what he'd discovered. Not that they would believe him. But how to tell them?
“I know why they fear magic!” Edouard blurted it out abruptly, so overwhelmed by the astonishing truth that he couldn't hold it in.
“Edouard?”
“The rock gnomes. They're the fourth kind of magic user.” And it was so obvious in hindsight. Having read all the books Ascorlexia had given him about their origins and the war they'd fought, and having examined the portal personally, it had become clear.
“Fourth kind?”
Kyriel of course had no idea what he was speaking about. She probably didn't even realise that there were specific kinds of magic users. At least not in those terms. He'd only arrived at t
he classification himself during the long night.
“Three kinds you know. First there are the powers and magical creatures who don't use magic; they are magic. It's woven into the very fabric of their existence. The second are those like me. Sparks and flames. We aren't magic but we can use it directly. Shape and cast it with our thoughts.”
“The third kind are those like you and your sisters, and the others of the priesthood. You neither are magic nor do you shape and cast it directly yourselves. You are granted it by and through your faith.”
“But there's still a fourth kind. Everybody else. People like most of the others staying here. Most of those you pass in the street. Those who aren't sparks or flames or powers or priests. Those who are not magical and who can't cast spells and aren't given it. Those with no magic.”
“But if they have no magic how can they have magic?” Of course she was confused. Edouard knew he wasn't explaining it very well.
“They don't!” It burst out of him like water from an exploding dam.
“They have no magic yet they are magic users. Fergis for example, spends his days working at a forge. He crafts magical weapons for the guards. Swords that can do fire damage with a word. And the swords can be used by those without magic. The lamps in the city streets, half of them at least are powered by glowstones. Stones that a citizen can activate with a word or a gesture. And that's what these rock gnomes are. It's what they do.”
“They call themselves wizards. It's a lie. They dress as priests and claim to be building a temple. Again more lies. They have no magic at all. No gods either. What they have are machines. Enchanted machines.”
“Machines?” The handmaiden seemed dubious, and he could well understand that. It was a strange thing to suggest. After all, if a man dressed as a priest or a wizard and cast magic as if he was one, why would you not assume that he was one? But he wasn't.
“In the throne room. When I met Vesar. I felt his magic. I knew it to be both strong and dark. But I also knew it to be strange. Too orderly. Neat and tidy. Mechanical. And at the time I didn't understand. But now I do. The magic was mechanical. Not his. He was carrying something on him. Something enchanted. Something that allowed him to cast as if he were a wizard.”
“And then there's the death stone. It never occurred to me at the time. But no wizard would allow such a thing to be near him. After all, it would have stolen Vesar's magic just as it would ours. And our magic is a part of us.”
“As for the typhoon gate, how could any spark or flame ever want to create such a device? It would kill them just as surely as it would kill every other spellcaster. But if someone weren't a spellcaster, if he didn't truly have magic, then the device would be no more dangerous to him than to any other.”
It was so obvious in hindsight, which kept making him wonder how he'd not seen it for so long. But then as they said hindsight should be perfect. It was foresight that lacked clarity.
“That's true boy. I wondered about it myself.” Janus had arrived at the door to stand beside Kyriel. “But even if they are liars without so much as a spark of magic to their name, why would they fear it so?”
“Because of the way we use magic. For us it's natural. The magic flows easily and is shaped almost by instinct to our will. A word, a gesture – no more is needed. We scarcely have to think about it. But machines are awkward. They are slow and unwieldy to control. And they can't do everything we can.”
“Consider a ball being thrown. I could build a machine to throw a ball. And I could build it to throw a ball harder and further than any man's arm could. But I could never build a machine to catch a ball. That requires the reflexes and instincts of a man.”
“There is an asymmetry between what a spellcaster can do and what a man with an enchanted object can do. That makes us very dangerous to them.”
“Think of a fight between a man with a cannon and a boxer. The cannoneer can fire a blast of incalculable power that would shred a man in a heartbeat. But unless he were very lucky and had Virius and the rest of the Seven behind him, for all his power he would lose the fight.”
“Simon saw Vesar cast a spell in front of him to raise that wind demon.”
“No. Simon saw Vesar reciting a verse while he had a hand clutched to his chest. Or more likely an amulet of some sort underneath his vest.”
There was a lengthy silence after that as they considered his words. At least Edouard hoped they were considering them and not the state of his mental faculties. He already knew that the handmaiden worried about him. Ever since she had witnessed him burn Simon. She thought he was becoming wild and dangerous, and maybe he was. Certainly that hadn't been his proudest day. But even if his emotions were running a little hot of late, his logic wasn't. And he knew he was right.
“Then boy what's with all this?” Janus indicated the piles of books spread all over the walnut and oak desks with a sweep of his hand.
“Encounters. Every mention I can find of an encounter between a wizard and someone with an artefact. I'm looking for everything that's recorded about the encounters, how the wielders were defeated when they had to be, and everything about the artefacts themselves. Where they were found, what they did, how they worked.”
“Artefacts? Ancient relics?”
“These are Cabal wizards remember. Ancient magic users and likely with ancient artefacts. My thought is that some of the artefacts that have been uncovered over the years are from their time. Left overs from the wars they created. And from them we can learn more about the machines they're creating and the devices they use to perform their tricks.”
“Does this help us?”
“Oh yes!” Edouard was unbelievably happy to be able to say that. “Already I know how to undo some of their machines. Most of their metal warriors. There is only one type that I could actually destroy myself. The fire dogs. I have only a spark of fire. But when they build their fire demon powered warriors I can simply disenchant them. I know the words, the shape of the magic and the bindings. Fergis can do it too.”
“And a spark of weather given this knowledge could undo the armoured wind demons just as easily.”
“Every device they can build can be undone in a heartbeat by a spark with the right gift. All we need to know is the shape of every device they can build and the way the magic is enchanted.” And then of course they needed to find enough sparks with the right affinities. But that wasn't his problem.
Silence returned to the library for a bit after that, until Janus broke it in the most unexpected way. He walked over to Edouard's desk, grabbed an armful of journals and then took a seat at another of the tables. That Edouard guessed, meant he agreed with him. Maybe. Kyriel on the other hand didn't look so convinced as she remained standing in the doorway. But Janus had an answer for that.
“Girl, go and wake Gwen and Fergis and bring them here. We will have breakfast in the library as we work.”
Girl? Edouard almost choked as he heard the apothecary address her as that. And he couldn't imagine that Kyriel was impressed at being so addressed either. Or at being ordered around like a child. But she said nothing as she left them. Perhaps she knew it was pointless. Janus spoke to everyone the same way. And there wasn't much he could do about it anyway. Besides, she was happy enough when Janus ordered Edouard around in his own home.
So he carefully said nothing and vowed silently to himself to never mention it to her. The handmaiden might accept that sort of treatment from Janus, but never from him. Age and crankiness apparently had their advantages.
In any case he decided as he let his eyes return to the journal in front of him, he had work to do.
Chapter Forty Three
The room was poorly lit, the walls brown from years of grime that had covered the aged paper, and the bare floor boards were covered in dirt and scuff marks from the thousands of boots that had trod them over the years. It could have used a clean, but Marcus wasn't sure that there were enough servants in the land to make it look as it should again. And of cour
se like everything else in the city it stank. The room was filled with the smell of unwashed bodies, stale ale and cider, and of course vomit. That was the natural odour of the alehouse.
At the very least someone could have washed the windows to let in some more light. But even that hadn't been done. Maybe it would have just shown up all the filth in the room. And the shocking state of disrepair of the furniture which consisted of worn out chairs and stools, many of which creaked alarmingly as people sat on them. As they said though – beggars couldn't be choosers – and at least they had a room to meet in.
A gold coin had emptied the back room of the Basilisk's Stool and even provided a little ale so that the lords of Therion could meet and discuss the war, such as it was. But Marcus was annoyed by that. Normally a few coppers should have been enough for a modest room with a worn out filth covered floor and ale stained walls, but the innkeeper was profiting at their expense. More than profiting. It was extortion. With what Marcus and his family had paid him over the previous months for accommodation he could surely have bought a whole new inn. And now he demanded a full gold coin just to let out a room for a few hours.
