Two students conversed in hushed tones, the white from before (I remembered his name now—Alex) looked depressed. Uncle was the only one who showed up at the meeting in slippers. Mr. Smith looked like he just crawled out of some hole and smelled musty and dank. Only Mrs. Clements was cheerful and unfazed. I thought the audience was in for a lecture on the rules of safe conduct, but instead she delivered a speech about the necessity of hard work: “The expedition has to work on a tight schedule; attaining our goals will require a thoughtful and responsible approach to the job from everyone. Simple execution of assigned tasks will not be enough. Upon successful completion of the project there may be bonuses.”
“What are we looking for?” I could not resist asking.
She glanced at me in irritation: “If you permit me, Mr. Tangor, I will get to it in a minute.”
The students readily giggled. I shrugged; two years in Redstone had taught me to ignore simple jabs.
“This island safeguards the sanctity of the mysteries of the most ancient civilization in the world,” Mrs. Clements informed us loftily and launched into a lengthy description of someone’s work, citing authors and the results of their excavations. Students were hastily scribing it down.
My attention to the lecture quickly wavered. History was never in the sphere of my interests; I failed to see the point in gathering thousands of useless things. The idea that from these fragments one could draw pictures of the lives of past generations seemed funny to me (will you agree? If not, try to assemble even an ordinary alarm clock from scattered debris), and the aesthetic value of shards and fragments was even more arguable. Archeology, in my eyes, was a costly foolishness based on insatiable human curiosity.
“…and to assess the level of the technomagic development of that era,” Mrs. Clements finished her next premise.
That brought me out of my stupor: “Alchemy?”
Mrs. Clements gave me a scornful look.
“Tech-no-ma-gic,” she repeated almost syllable by syllable, “differs from alchemy in its ability to manipulate very delicate structures of matter, and it allows the execution of these fine operations thousands and hundreds of thousands of times, without any deviation from the original.”
I pulled from the pile of things a box of fuses that survived contact with Alex.
“Like this?” I asked. Let the one who thought that it deviated from the original cast a stone at me.
She scrunched her face: “No! On a much more subtle level, commensurable with the effect of magic!”
“The lost alchemical techniques,” Uncle Gordon concluded competently.
I shrugged and decided not to push the argument; there are people who have an irrational aversion to alchemy. Usually, they belong to the whites, but you can also meet them among ordinary people. And their ostentatious dislike for the “artificial” nonetheless sits perfectly well with love for products of white magic, like all those trans-horses, trans-rabbits, and trans-cows. Mrs. Clements belonged exactly to that category. My Redstone experience suggested that an altercation with such personalities was pointless and unproductive.
After a lengthy lecture about the grandeur and uniqueness of the technomagic, we finally learned what we were here to look for: the audience was shown drawings, diagrams, and reconstructions of ancient objects. They looked like small, angular beetles with varying numbers of legs and no distinction between their front and rear ends. The latter fact amused me a lot, but I managed to keep myself from laughing until we were back in our room.
“Don’t cackle,” Uncle remarked, watching my convulsions. “If they find at least a dozen of these, it will more than compensate for the cost of the expedition. These things used to be called ‘sand gnats’, and their artificial origin was discovered not too long ago. Ever since then, they have been in sharp demand by everybody: the military, academia, private developers. No one knows what they are, but they are wanted by all. I heard that one of their intact nests was sold for one and a half million crowns.”
“One and a half million…” my mirth left me in a flash.
“Don’t even think about it!” Uncle warned me. “Why do you think this island hasn’t been ransacked yet, despite all the bans? Remember the castle. Inside it is dark all around; there has been no light for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Understand my point?”
I caught his meaning, and it made me sick. I recalled a theory to that effect: the longer an otherworldly phenomenon existed, the stronger and more evolved and unpredictable it became. It explained why there was such a strong magic ambiance here! For thousands of years even a primitive ignis fatuus could turn into a fiery phantom, not to mention the more complex entities. What a fabulous island this was…
“We are waist deep in…” I began.
“Ah, you got it at last!” Uncle rejoiced. “Don’t fear! Just mind your surroundings; there is little hope for help from our companions. Those two blockheads are just mirror images of the king’s godfather, and the woman is probably the same.”
In Krauhard’s mythology, the “godfathers of the King” were the doomed ones, people carrying the mark of impending death. In this case, the nickname was a good match, too good, even. Unthinkable! Why did NZAMIPS let us come here, a pack of civilians accompanied by only one official dark magician? From childhood I had been taught that, when confronted with otherworldly forces, your main weapon is stealth, but a big expedition invading the island could only remain unnoticed through pure chance. I came to the conclusion that somebody was set to kill us.
I am still young; I don’t want to meet the King just yet!
“Uncle, perhaps we should get out…”
“Practice your power, kiddo!” he proclaimed sternly. “You might need it very soon.”
I was “overjoyed”, as they say.
We agreed to get up early, before breakfast, to start the training that I needed so badly and that had gotten me in this deep shit.
“Not too early?” I clarified.
“No, otherwise it will be too late.”
Now I recalled how annoyed I was as a child at the way Uncle Gordon “comforted” me: he used to say, “Torn pants aren’t a big deal,” adding, “you’ll get flogged once or twice for the sake of propriety, so what?” I wondered if he realized that his nephew had grown a bit.
Breakfast was set at eight, and we went down to the shore at seven in the morning; we grabbed our towels and pretended to be going for a swim. Why not? The bay’s water was warm in summer, and its cleanliness around the island was almost assured. Yesterday’s fog had left no traces, the day promised to be sunny and warm, and shoals of fry flashed in the waves, immune to the dark curses.
“Climb!” Uncle requested, pointing to a lonely rock protruding from the water.
“Maybe I’d better practice on the beach?”
“Well, only if you wish to summon all the neighboring undead…”
I sighed, undressed, and jumped into the water. By the way, the water was really warm. Climbing on a slippery boulder wasn’t an easy task; teetering on the top, I called out, “Now what?” Immediately after, I felt a pebble hit my back. “Hey! What are you doing?”
“Invoke your Power!” Uncle ordered.
“How?”
“As you did the first time.”
The next pebble struck me on the buttocks.
“Invoke your Power.”
“Give me at least a minute!”
I tried to recall the circumstances that surrounded my Empowerment. Should I get angry or scared? Another pebble!
“Stop it! Are you crazy?”
“Do what I said.”
“I’m doing it!”
“You are not. Emotions facilitate the call, but they are not part of it. You need neither anger, nor wrath, but Power! Let me see it!”
“Wait a minute!” I frantically tried to figure out what to do. Go down there and try to kick his ass? He was older and still stronger than me.
“Better. Go on!”
What exact
ly had I done? Again a pebble!
“Don’t relax.”
I strained myself so heavily that almost fainted and then began projecting something outward, so hard that my brains felt like they were leaking out.
“Go on, more confidence!”
Preserving some degree of pressure, I ventured to open my eyes: a black mirage floated in front of me—the same black flame that blinded me during the Empowerment. And then I lost my breath, saw circles swirling in front my eyes, and fell off the rock. Uncle pulled me out of the water.
“Enough for the first time,” he concluded, “rest now. And remember, if you try to suppress the dark Source, you’ll cease feeling a difference between the presence and absence of Power, and thus you’ll lose control over it. An attempt to forget your essence always ends in madness for a dark magician. Empowerment is a one-way road only. You don’t have a choice; you ought to call your Power again and again until it is no longer associated with any particular emotion, and until it reveals itself fully. You must learn to treat it like your arm or leg. This can only be accomplished through continuous training and repetition. Got it?”
“Yes, Master!” I tried to catch my breath, lying on the rocky shore. Colored circles floated before my eyes.
“You spend too much energy on the call, but that’s for lack of habit; you’ll get used to it.”
I very much hoped so! My nausea had subsided, being replaced with weakness and trembling of the muscles. And it was only seven o’clock in the morning; we still had to work all day!
“Get up!” Uncle kicked me in the ribs. “Break stereotypes. You’re not tired physically; it’s a mental illusion.”
Screw that, an illusion!
We left the shore to get breakfast. I was wet and angry; Uncle was also wet, but filled with a sense of accomplishment. Damned tutor! If I had a choice, would I have allowed him to treat me so?
At breakfast our life became more interesting: Alex sat down next to us. The dark power still paced in me, and I barely restrained myself from insulting him.
“What’s the matter?”
Alex hesitated for a while, eventually uttering, “May I move in with you?”
His question surprised me so much that I even forgot to get angry: “What the hell?”
“I… okay, forget it!” He attempted to leave.
Without any explanation? No way! I immediately changed my tune, letting in a note of confidence and irony: the whites are almost all empaths, which means they subconsciously perceive the moods of people close to them. They also tend to mirror other people’s emotions and the younger the magician, the worse he controls it.
“Don’t be rash now. We do not mind.” I glanced at Uncle who merely shrugged, “It’s just a little unexpected.”
Alex, not sensing that he was caught in a trap of the master manipulator, relaxed a little, but didn’t open up immediately. He looked a bit crumpled, and for empaths, their health depends heavily on the overall emotional ambiance…
“Are your friends scaring you?” I guessed.
He nodded quietly.
What did I say before? Ordinary people could be worse than any of the dark magicians. They could have picked a better place to screw with their friend’s nerves! Odds were, if I left him alone, he would eventually go nuts, lose his temper, and pay for their jokes with his blood. Indignation dilated my nostrils and awakened my urge to beat someone up.
“Uncle?”
He shrugged again: “Let him move in! Just one thing: give him the ‘safety instructions’ to avoid surprises.”
For the remainder of the leisure time after breakfast, we moved Alex’s belongings over under the pensive gaze of Mr. Smith. I instructed my new friend: “Don’t fear! You can feel that something strange is going on around. But I know some simple rules, and if you follow them, you will minimize your risk. Believe me! I grew up in Krauhard.”
“Do you think there are the otherworldly here?” the white mage asked with an unhealthy interest, packing into his bag the sundries that he had unloaded before.
“I guarantee! It’s the King’s Island, after all. Remember, you cannot go to a place that lacks light, even if you carry a lantern. The places where sunlight does not reach are especially dangerous—caves, cellars, and such. Don’t let your curiosity trap you, especially if you are alone. If you notice any strange sounds, rustles, movement—skidoo and run to Mr. Smith. And do not hesitate; he is a dark mage, he will understand. If it gets worse, remember the sea is your salvation; no otherworldly creature can sneak up on you over the salty water. Another rule: if you see any humans, ask them to name themselves, and if you do not get a response, run. The mute do not live in Krauhard. Here they are killed in infancy as unholy spawns. And surely, do not open cursed doors, do not break protective signs; if you mess anything up, just call Mr. Smith immediately. He is paid to provide our protection, so let him do his job. Got it?”
“Yeah.” He put his bag in the corner of our room and looked around with interest.
“The main thing is to follow the rules all the time, regardless of circumstances. Imagine that they are the laws of nature, and you cannot break them physically, no matter who asked you to.”
“And run away to Mr. Smith at once,” he smiled.
“Well done, chap!”
On that day we worked long hours. The job, from my point of view, was moronic: we hand-sorted rocks at the dump. When clearing the site and erecting the prison’s wall, ancient builders had produced a mountain of debris, which they piled up right there, on the beach, without thinking twice. Before making a raid to the core of the island, Mrs. Clements wanted to know whether there was anything interesting that had been dug up earlier and discarded as useless. To assess the treasures in the dump, we chose a few sites to go through stone by stone to the solid rock beneath, carefully recording our findings. Alex was paired with me. Two other students dug together, and Uncle and the guards continued to unload the ship. Guess which of us worked longer?
Alex was again in good spirits and full of enthusiasm. Luckily, yesterday’s worries had no serious impact on his health. He lectured me about the subtleties of archaeological research, without asking whether I needed that or not: “Rocks in these parts of the dump can be distinguished by color and size; clearly, they have been brought from different places. If we find something, we might be able to track its source and understand where to focus our attention. We are short on time!”
I nodded and diligently, one by one, shifted the rocks to the cart. So far, in front of me, there were rocks, rocks, and more rocks.
“Here you are!” Alex showed me a fragment with jagged scars on the edge. “The material was clearly treated with a chisel. I think our section contains masonry waste; it’s unlikely there is anything else of interest.”
Who would have doubted that! I was sure that Mrs. Clements would not entrust me with such an important task, since I was so skeptical about the technomagic. The hill of displaced rocks grew; Alex found time to tell me what university he was a student of, about his interests, why he joined the expedition, and how cool it was to be an archeologist. My habit of ignoring idle chatter, practiced to perfection on my younger siblings, was the only thing that saved me now. He gibbered and muttered like rustle of wind and rain, occasionally dropping meaningful phrases. According to him, Mrs. Clements was a rising star of archaeology that got the wealthy and the military interested in her studies, though I had already figured that out myself. The subject of her research interest was the most ancient of the known civilizations, presumably found in Capetower (Capetower was the steel fortress we had seen) but little studied. Among the apparent reasons for that was the antiquity of the culture in question, as well as its clear connection to the supernatural manifestations; the majority of the excavations were visited by archeologists once or twice at most, and every time with serious risk to their lives. It was incomprehensible that a white magician would choose this line of business.
At the depth of two feet
the soil suddenly changed its properties. The rough stone fragments were replaced with tightly packed sand with splashes of colorful scales and large debris; among the inorganic dust I noticed a white spot—it was a fish skeleton. Oh my, a fish that had been eaten three hundred years ago! I sure had found a treasure. Alex hopped enthusiastically around the pit: “This is it! The stuff that was taken out of the ancient ruins before the construction! Now we’ll know how it all looked before!”
What an optimist! Mrs. Clements approached us, praised Alex (hey, what about me?), and began explaining to him how to keep proper records. The boundaries of the excavation had been changed; now envious students had to dig close to us. In all this activity, time was flying.
The King’s Island waited in ambush. Nothing strange happened, the fog did not return, and the days were sunny and warm. Uncle and I went to “swim” every day and, I had to admit, my skills were improving noticeably. The food was good (Mr. Mermer turned out to be an excellent cook), our work wasn’t difficult, and entertainment was present as well: Uncle Gordon began arguing with Mr. Smith. I expected that to happen as soon as I saw them together, but I hadn’t imagined them to quarrel with such enthusiasm.
It all started on the third day when I, once again having fallen down from the rock, was recovering on the shore. I was basically sunbathing.
“What a brazen face he has…” Uncle muttered suddenly.
My Path to Magic mptm-1 Page 5
