Gemworld

by Jeremy Bullard

  Holding out his hand, Keth made one more sphere before laying back on his pallet and drifting to sleep. As consciousness slowly slipped from him, he wondered idly if that sphere was a diamond. He had never seen a real diamond before, nothing but Sal’s magical eye, so he had no basis for comparison. It might well have been, for all that he could tell transparency from opacity. He just knew that the sphere wasn’t steel, like the knife had been, like the bread had become.

  Sleepily, he hoped that the sphere was a diamond. A fitting tribute to the man who had helped him come up with the idea in the first place.

  ***

  Jaren stood on his wagon stoop, long after watching Sal vanish into the vitality of the village and the forest surrounding it. Tonight had been a smashing success. The emerald knew he should be turning cartwheels at the accomplishments of the evening. So why was he uneasy?

  “Oh, snap out of it,” Menkal said testily, turning his project this way and that as the wood shavings flew.

  “My apologies, Blue,” he said fondly. “It’s just that I was doing some research the other night, and I—”

  “‘Prism of Light, One from Five’,” the sapphire interrupted, summing up Jaren’s entire thought. “I was thinking about that myself. I just have a better khal’cek face than you do,” Menkal said with a wink.

  “What do you think it means? Is Sal the Prism? I’m sure he is, but I can’t see how. Something’s not right. The prophecy says something about Shadow, and Five, and... ahhh, I don’t know where to start,” Jaren groaned, holding his head.

  Menkal closed his eyes in thought, then recited:

  “Up from death, hope comes alive

  Prism of Light, One from Five

  Four embrace, One defies

  One remains unrealized

  Shadow’s hunger and Prism’s gleam

  Power before untold

  Destruction and Redemption are of the past

  The future’s course they hold”

  “Tile five, sonnet eight,” said Jaren, quoting the passage’s placement in the Prismatic Prophecies. After spending the better part of a night looking for that one verse, he thought it prudent to know where to find it again. “Blessed Crafter, I feel like a first year academic, seeing prophecy fulfilling itself in every falling Ivytree leaf.”

  “Your question?” the sapphire prompted, flicking another wood curl to the ground.

  “More than one, I’m afraid,” Jaren replied ruefully. “If he’s the ‘one from five,’ what is his fifth part? He can touch Sapphire and Emerald, and assumedly Ruby and Amethyst, since he’s sensitive to those Tiles on the Hand, so we have the four that embrace. We can further assume that Obsidian, the soulgem of Darkness, is the one that defies, as Sal’s power has something to do with light. So is Granite the one that remains unrealized? And if so, how can it be one of the five if Sal can’t sense it? I mean, what does ‘unrealized’ mean, anyway? Does it have anything to do with the flashes of yellow in his aura?”

  “I know, I know,” Menkal interjected, having waited long enough for Jaren to slow down. “And why is Granite not transparent like the other four? And Granite is a rock, not even a true gem, so how does it have soulgem properties? Prophet’s sake, Green, these are all very good questions, but they were also very good questions three thousand years ago when the Archivists first received the Prophecies,” the elder mage rebuked gently. “You’re not going to solve that puzzle so quickly.”

  “You’re right,” Jaren said with a sigh. “But things are finally coming together, it seems. With agonizing slowness, to be sure, but they are coming together. Given the nature of the Prophecies, we need as much of as head start as the Crafter will allow.”

  Menkal just nodded, and intently flicked away another wood curl. “Patience, milord emerald. I didn’t get this old by trying to out-think the Crafter. Continue to ask the question, of course, but don’t be discouraged when the answer doesn’t present itself immediately. The Crafter will execute His will in His good time, and giving yourself an ulcer won’t hurry Him along one bit.”

  ***

  “Patience, centurion,” the obsidian mage cooed, his baritone rumbling softly throughout the audience chamber. “I will execute my will in good time.”

  “But, Highest,” the granite mage pled. “The emerald Laryn is getting farther away with every passing moment. If we don—”

  The granite’s words cut off in his throat as his lungs froze in this chest. His mouth worked, trying desperately to draw breath. He dropped to one knee, silently screaming his terror, then capsized. The Highest watched in mild amusement as the gloss of the granite’s polished rock orbs began to dull. Only a few more seconds would have been necessary to snuff the mage’s life.

  The Highest waited a moment longer, then released his hold on the shadows within the granite’s lungs, allowing life-giving air to flood into the centurion. The obsidian mage strolled leisurely over to where the granite guard lay gasping.

  “I thank you for your concern for palace security, but you can rest assured that the emerald’s escape was incidental. In fact, one might consider it necessary.”

  He turned on his heels and walked back over to the heavily draped windows, which would soon be closed against the harsh light of day, and he pondered the situation at hand. The emerald mage had been imprisoned in the palace for a long time before he’d managed to escape. Indeed, the obsidian had begun to despair that the mage Laryn had given up trying after he’d been broken. He’d even gone so far as to order the emerald’s restraints to be limited to hands and feet, removing the head restraint and the hood. Finally—thankfully—desperation and guilt drove the emerald to whither his own hands, snapping them off at the wrists, and thereby freeing himself in the hopes of reaching the rebels before the Earthen Ranks. But even now, the army of mages and soldiers, all loyal to the point of fanaticism, were moving into position. The wounded emerald would reach the rebels in time to die with them.

  Surprisingly, it saddened the Highest that he would again stand unopposed. For almost five thousand years he’d ruled the civilized world, defeated as many rebellions. But this one band of rebels, led by the crown prince of Aitaxen, had been a most worthy foe, the last remaining general of the strongest uprising in a millennium. This el’Yatza—”Hand of the Crafter, indeed,” he scoffed—had caused him to think and plan ahead, even to the point of sparing the prince’s life rather than make him yet another martyr to their precious Cause. But now, all the pieces were in place. Following this attack, the Resistance would likely feel the need to fortify their position somewhere, which would mean conquering one of his cities. All to his good, of course, as it would make their inevitable defeat that much more public, striking fearful reverence in the hearts of the populace, and once more cementing him as the undisputed ruler of the mainland.

  A pity, really. This was the most fun he’d had in ages.

  A soft scraping from behind him brought the insubordinate granite back to mind. “You may leave, centurion,” he said without turning around. “And consider yourself lucky to remain in my service.”

  Staggering footsteps beating a rapid retreat told the Highest that the granite considered himself precisely that.

  Just a few more hours, a few more days, and it will be all over, the immortal mage thought to himself. Perhaps his Ranks would even recapture the visitor “from another world”, as the centurion had called him.

  Such a strange one, that man. And where he was found, half blind and near death, was nothing short of incredible. How could a mere mundane—and grievously wounded at that—have gained entry to the Granite Spire, a place guarded by enchantments more deadly than even those guarding the Archive in Bastion? The mage’s eyes glittered darkly. If he ever discovered the incompetent fool that placed the stranger in the Schel Veylin prison, rather than a palace cell...

  Well, no matter, he thought. I’ll have him soon enough.

  But just to be sure, he made a mental note to “inspire” his Earthen Ranks t
o be mindful of any blonde-haired men in the rebel camp. The public execution of that insubordinate centurion would probably be inspiration enough.

  “Two for the price of one,” he said with a chuckle.

  Chapter 13

  Jaren stood on the front stoop of his wagon, drinking a hot cup of blackbrew and soaking in the mid-morning sun. New life flooded his body as the sunlight pierced his emerald eyes. It invigorated him, and he felt ready to take on the day. He had bacon and a couple of eggs, freshly scrambled with butter and spices, in the hanging oven with its tripod where it was swung to the side of the campfire and waiting on him, but he chose first to feed magically. The “refreshing” that sunlight afforded Emerald would fade from his body in a few hours, so it was a poor substitute for actual food—except in regards to that sludge they served in Schel Veylin prison—but it was an absolutely marvelous way to wake up!

  From his vantage point, he caught sight of his two pupils trudging through the streets of Caravan, leaving their morning shol’tuk exercises on the village green, headed toward their other apprenticeships. Both held themselves a little higher than they had when they first arrived, a little straighter, and rightly so. They were both entering a new realm of being, as two very unique and powerful mages.

  Sal had taken to magic much more quickly than Jaren could have ever dreamed. The emerald had numerous doubts at first, many of which stemmed from their earlier “discussion” that outlined the differences between magic and mysticism. The young man had so many misgivings and misconceptions about magic that Jaren despaired of ever teaching him anything. But since his ascension, Sal had actually proven himself to be an apt pupil, finding new and intriguing ways to utilize mana. Granted, he could still only touch the emerald and sapphire soulgems, but the others would come in time. Senosh and Delana had been unfortunately occupied for the past few days, scouting out new territories for Caravan to move to, or they would have undoubtedly led the young mage to Ruby and Amethyst, but that was of little consequence. Two soulgems were enough for now. The emerald chuckled at the irony. Sal had done more in a week than any Head of Order could achieve in a lifetime, and Jaren was still pushing the young man forward. Actually, the emerald couldn’t have been more pleased. He had a most unique student in Sal, with fresh—and sometimes odd—perceptions of the world and of magic. Sal, with his shol’tuk slant on magic, turned out to be teaching Jaren as often as he was learning!

  This morning, Sal would go back to working with Marissa, though Jaren would have liked to have had more time. But it was just as well. Sal needed something to keep him occupied, something to give him the occasional break from magic, though apprenticing to an Artisan was hardly a break from magic. And Sal’s employer, with her auburn curls and penchant for green velvet, seemed to be quite an enchantress in her own right.

  Be that as it may, the emerald thought with a chuckle and a sip of his blackbrew. He preferred women of a more trim, healthy nature. They tended to be more… vibrant. Sadly, such women often expected the same exuberance out of him, where his experience with romance had always been more academic. He definitely needed to work on that.

  Keth had taken to magic as well, though not as readily. The young granite had as many misgivings about magic as Sal had, and more. The weight of his supposed crime seemed to hang on him like a millstone, dragging every victory through the quagmire of his guilt. Unfortunate as the event was, it infuriated Jaren to no end that it should maintain a strangle hold on Keth. The boy had such potential! What a pity that he allowed himself to be fettered by things that were entirely out of his control. Sure, the granite was learning to deal with his “crime”, to even accept the death of the recruiter as an accident, but it still slowed him down tremendously, almost as if the recruiter hadn’t been the only one he’d killed. Jaren really felt for the boy.

  The morning after he’d taken his first controlled steps down the road to mastering his magic, Keth had sought out Retzu’s services, thanks to Sal’s glowing endorsement. Jaren wasn’t sure he approved of the idea. True, a formal training in the art of shol’tuk might benefit Keth’s insight and control over magic as it seemed to have Sal’s, but Jaren had his qualms. As much death as the boy had seen already, the last thing the emerald wanted to do was place him in the position to learn new and more inventive ways to kill. He was afraid that it would put the boy in such a funk that he’d never come out of. Or worse, it might harden Keth into a more closed person than he already was. If the mages of Caravan were to ever learn anything of how granite magic works—how the granite mind works—Jaren needed Keth as open as possible.

  On the other hand, Keth could certainly use the friends. He was closed enough as it was. The shared lessons with Retzu and Sal could prove to weaken some of the walls that the boy had laid up around himself. From what Retzu had told him, Jaren gathered that the granite was a prodigy. In the two days since he first approached the assassin for training, he’d received his leather hilt, and was well on his way to gaining the doeskin. Retzu jokingly suggested that the boy would be a silk by Summerheight. Keth just seemed to have a knack for visualizing the goal, rather than the steps in achieving that goal, which was a critical teaching of shol’tuk. And a teaching that ran absolutely contrary to Mana Theory as it was understood the world over. But Jaren couldn’t argue with results. His recent lessons with Keth had been nothing short of extraordinary. Perhaps his tutelage under Retzu wasn’t such a bad thing after all. But Jaren didn’t have to like it.

  Watching the two young mages walk their separate paths—one to the forge, one to the workbench—Jaren marveled again at how far they had come in such a short time. Sighing, he breathed in the vapors of his blackbrew, reveling in the bite of the aroma. They had come so far, and he couldn’t help but wonder how far they would yet go before they were done. With their unique talents, their unique points of view, the sky was truly the limit.

  He chuckled at his use of one of Sal’s odd—but catchy—phrases as he took another sip of the warm, slightly bitter liquid. Unique point of view, indeed.

  ***

  “I just don’t get it,” Sal said, tossing the diamond ring to the workbench in disgust. “I don’t know what the deal is. I’ve done everything I know to do, and it still won’t work.”

  Marissa sighed as Sal slumped back onto his stool, pitying him. That made him angrier still. He didn’t want her pity. He didn’t want her sympathy. He just wanted that dang spell to work.

  For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong. The diamond was perfectly fitted into its setting. The runes for healing were flawlessly inscribed into the silver band. The stone itself pulsed with untapped magic. And yet the ring would not activate.

  “You’ve only recently ascended,” Marissa reminded patiently, picking up the ring. “If you, the world’s only diamond mage, don’t even know what a diamond is capable of, how do you expect to properly craft a diamond artifact?”

  The voice of reason, Sal admitted reluctantly. Still, he’d been working up a good pissed-off all morning, and he wasn’t about to let go of it that easily. “No, I don’t know much about diamond magic, but I do know that a diamond can wield emerald magic. You’d figure the emerald runeset would work.”

  “Absolutely not,” she retorted. “It’s a different gemstone with different properties. Just because two soulgems can achieve similar results does not mean that the magics are interchangeable.” Again, the voice of reason, but Sal was still not convinced. Marissa persisted. “All mages can hurl bolts of magic specific to their soulgem. But in crafting a fire wand, or a lightning wand, the runesets are completely different. Even the runes defining the projection matrix and the recoil of the spell are different.

  “And what about granites? One of the few granite properties that we know how to access is the ability to disintegrate a target on contact, which is extremely similar to the emerald’s ability to wither. And yet the runesets are don’t even vaguely resemble one another.”

  Marissa was ri
ght. Diamond and Emerald were two separate soulgems, and one could almost say that they tapped into mana from different directions, like wheel spokes on a hub. Regardless of whether or not he was able to wield emerald magic, or other gem magics for that matter, the rule of thumb still applied—different gem, different runeset.

  Echoing Sal’s thoughts, Marissa expounded on them. “We’ll have to just research the runes by trial and error. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “That could take a lifetime,” Sal grumbled.

  “Perhaps,” Marissa said with a glum nod, her dreams of crafting such a versatile gem fizzling before her eyes, making Sal feel all the worse for his own frustration. Such an artifact, no matter how menial the spell, would be revolutionary. They could conceivably tap more than one soulgem at a time through a single stone. The possibilities were endless! If only...

  Marissa’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes going wide. “Or perhaps not.”

  Sal looked sharply at Marissa, and the two locked eyes, three natural and one diamond, as if searching for answers in their own reflections. “What do you mean, ‘perhaps not’?” Sal demanded.

  The artisan’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. “When I was a child, long before I ever decided to become an artisan myself, I would visit my grandfather’s shop in Bayton, where I grew up. We would talk about his gems for hours. I just thought they were pretty. What little girl wouldn’t?

  “Anyway, one day, when I was about seven or so, I noticed him carving runes for one of his projects. I’d seen him do it a hundred times, but I never knew why. This time, I asked him. He told me that the runes told the gem what to do. I said, ‘They just look like a bunch of squiggles to me.’