High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “I understand all that,” I said, as respectfully as possible. “What I need to know is how.”

  “That is the trick, isn’t it?” she said with a slightly guilty look. Can a goddess appear uncertain of herself? Briga seemed to be. It wasn’t exactly inspiring my confidence in the divine. “Tactically speaking, your two options are intervention and pursuit. But just pouring troops into the battle isn’t going to overwhelm that army. You’re going to have to use cunning and guile.”

  “You think?” I asked, sarcastically. “I figured out as much on my own. And misdirection, obfuscation, and subterfuge. Not to mention some classy spellcasting. But how? I thought of just transporting more troops there from Sevendor, as I did for the battle at Cambrian, but—”

  “It would be difficult and, ultimately, unhelpful,” she said, shaking her head. “The issue isn’t just numbers. It’s power.”

  “It’s always about power,” I sighed, my shoulders sagging.

  “You’re catching on,” she smiled, knowingly. “It is, indeed, always about power. Let me impart some wisdom of a cosmic nature upon you, Minalan: as much as the perquisites and trappings of power allure, the fact is that the weight of responsibility that comes with it usually makes those supposed privileges a very poor consolation.”

  “That’s something else I figured out on my own,” I said, sourly.

  “I know,” she said, sympathetically. “Everyone who finds themselves with power does. The achievement of the goal is almost never worth the effort. However,” she continued, “that does not mean that you can just walk away, either. You are where you are because of who you are and what you will do.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s sufficient,” I grumbled.

  “You’re telling me? Your people call me a goddess and expect wonders and miracles, and ascribe to me all sorts of incredible gifts. The human mind for religious imagination is truly profound. However, the responsibilities that come with those ‘gifts’ are oppressive. But I cannot walk away, either.”

  “So what can I do?” I pleaded. “It’s about power, but the fact is that I don’t have enough!”

  “You do,” she soothed. “You just need to find a way to express it. Consider a magical metaphor: once you have mastered the ability to manifest arcane power, in order to make it useful you have to channel and shape that power through the use of runes, sigils, and other symbolic expressions of will and desire. You do have tremendous power, Minalan,” she said, nodding toward the sphere that bobbed obediently behind me. “Enough so that I was able to incarnate on your will and desire alone. Your problem is that you need to find a way to express that power in a useful way.”

  “All right,” I conceded, “even if I do have the capacity to fight this army, the question remains how I express that power. Hence my troubled excursion into religion.”

  “Prayer is, indeed, the last refuge of the desperate,” she giggled. “The key to discovering your solution lies in understanding the nature of victory. In this case, there is little hope that the army’s advance up the Poros can be stopped. They will reach Anthatiel. Not unmolested, but there is little doubt that they will be able to scale the escarpment and drive their way into the vale.”

  “Couldn’t you arrange for an earthquake, or something?”

  “That region is geologically stable,” she said, shaking her head, “and that’s not exactly the style of a fire goddess.”

  “Then what about a forest fire?” I asked, lamely.

  “In early spring? During the rainy season? When they’re standing on ice that can’t be burnt?” she asked.

  “Fair point. Wait, can’t you melt the ice under their feet?” I asked, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it before.

  “It won’t work,” she said, shaking her head. “Shereul himself is fueling that spell. It takes a massive, almost unthinkable amount of power, but then he has an unthinkable amount of power. It’s taking me a lot of power just to remain incarnate, even here. Only the power of your need is sufficient to keep me here.. Trying to work directly against his magic would be futile, even for me.” She looked sad and frustrated over that, and just a little pouty.

  “Come, now, you’re a powerful goddess,” I encouraged her. “You’re the Bright One! You created the snowstone! That’s pretty impressive.” I was trying to cheer up a goddess. This was what my life had become.

  “That was a unique circumstance,” she countered, shaking her head. “I had an opportunity to do something, and I took it. Blind luck how it turned out, I think,” she shrugged.

  “It changed the course of the war,” I pointed out. “Not to mention my economic status.”

  “The powers of the gods usually work best when used passively, like that,” she explained. “A few might manifest to take direct action – Herus and Duin, most often. But our ephemeral nature makes it challenging.”

  “Could you persuade the other gods to join the fight?” I proposed. “That might be helpful.” Seeing Duin’s great battle axe in action against the gurvani would be a religious experience by definition.

  “It was circumstance that allowed me to incarnate, and a lot of emotional energy. Trying to arrange that for the entire pantheon would be almost impossible. It takes human belief and devotion to even bring us into existence. To sustain that takes a lot of focus, and – to be candid – not all of the gods are necessarily the brightest candle in the shrine, if you get my meaning. Some are powerful but limited in their sphere. And some pursue agendas they alone understand.”

  “You’re really not inspiring a lot of faith,” I pointed out.

  “It gets the bread baked,” she shrugged. “Look, humanity’s very existence on Callidore is a fluke, and if it hadn’t been for our manifestation and intercession in events, you would be extinct and I would be a cultural footnote in some forgettable Alka Alon epic about the tragic death of the lost humani. Faith may not be the answer for everything, but it’s been known to move mountains. And sink islands. And destroy civilizations,” she added.

  “Another fair point,” I sighed. “All right, if the gods can’t come leaping to our defense, just what can you do for us in our hour of need?”

  “Provide inspiration,” she decided, after a moment’s thought. “While we are powerful, within our spheres, we’re merely reflections of the collective human imagination. Our role is not to guide or direct, but to provide you the tools and the inspiration to figure a way out of your problems. The snowstone, for instance, gives you leverage and resources where you had none. You’re welcome.”

  “I appreciate it,” I nodded, sincerely. “And I see your point. So you can inspire me and give me magical gifts. In exchange for my belief and devotion.”

  “Which hasn’t been, shall we say, regular,” she smirked. “And you make it sound so . . . cheap, when you say it like that.”

  “I’ve been busy,” I replied, flatly. “I’m sure my father has taken up the slack. He’s gotten a lot more religious as he’s gotten older.”

  “I know. Well, if you are in need of inspiration, I’m the right goddess,” she agreed. Suddenly a cascade of bright yellow flame enveloped her from foot to crown. I shrank back from the sudden heat and light reflexively, but it was gone before I could glance back at her. She was holding a small red glass vial with an elegantly simple ruby stopper. “This is just a symbol,” she explained. “My blessing and inspiration, all in one neat little metaphorical potion.” She started to hand it to me, then stopped and drew back.

  “Speaking of the transactional nature of human-divine relations,” she said, a little guiltily, “it’s traditional that you pledge some worthy act of devotion or service to indicate your dedication and commitment.”

  It was my turn to chuckle. “So now you want to haggle?”

  “It’s tradition,” she repeated. “Don’t discount the importance of such things, Minalan. They might seem trite, but they help cement the working relationship between the gods and humanity.”

  “I suppose altruism
is too human a weakness to be appreciated by the divine.”

  “We do plenty of charity miracles!” she argued. “But you’re hardly a charity case, now, are you?”

  “Yet another fair point. The problem is, I’m already building you a temple in town. I don’t suppose that would count?”

  “It’s a start, but this is bigger than just a temple,” she sighed.

  “Then what?” I thought for a few moments. What to do for her? A bonfire? An archery contest? Start a convent for midwives? Nothing seemed particularly worthy of the gift of divine inspiration. “You know, you goddesses are really hard to shop for.”

  “It doesn’t have to be anything gaudy,” she insisted. “Something tasteful and profound. I suppose . . .”

  “Wait,” I said, suddenly remembering something. Maybe I did have something to offer a goddess. “I’ve heard it said that the nature of the gods involve temporary but self-constructing ennegrams, similar to a simple elemental . . . am I correct?”

  “In essence,” she agreed. “We arise from the collective human subconscious. Callidore’s magosphere gives us context, and humanity’s needs and desires give us form and personality. We usually adopt a shape and manner constructed of an amalgam of human perceptions about what we should be. And we often adopt the likeness of a particularly favored devotee.”

  “So there’s a woman out there in the world who looks like this?” I asked, appreciatively. I’m married, not dead. And she was a goddess.

  “Charmer!” she accused. “Yes, once. A high priestess in Vore named Sarsilla. About three hundred years ago. She was the one who promoted my cult amongst the early invaders of the Empire. I liked her. Enough to take her form as my default. Those formative years are important for a developing divinity.”

  “And you manifest when human need calls you into existence?”

  “Essentially. The truth is, we don’t exactly understand why it happens, usually. One moment you’re in a comfortable state of metaphysical torpor, and the next . . . you’re standing in front of some sweaty baker who needs to beg a boon. When the need for us is sated, we fade back into metaphysical torpor. Why does it happen some times and not others? We don’t know. We rarely stay around long enough to be able to study the matter . . . nor do we always retain knowledge gained while corporeal. It’s complicated.”

  “What if I could uncomplicate it for you?” I asked.

  “What? How?”

  “What if I could affix your temporal existence permanently? Give you control over how and where and when you were able to be incarnate?”

  “What . . . what are you talking about?” So much for divine omniscience.

  “Well, Goddess,” I said, smugly, “when I wasn’t droning mindful prayers and burning candles at your shrine, I was investigating this wondrous mountain you gifted me with. I’ve managed to get some experts from the Alka Alon and the Karshak Alon, and among the pretties they excavated so far is a stone that has the ability to permanently fix an ennegramatic pattern.”

  “What do you mean, permanently?” she demanded.

  “As in ‘forever and ever.’ I enchanted a water elemental in the mill pond. Take a look. It’s self-sustaining,” I said, proudly. “It hasn’t degraded a bit. It’s been humming along without additional help for months, now.”

  “And you believe that you could use this device to . . . to give me control over my body?”

  “That’s at least a strong possibility,” I agreed. “We’re still doing research, but it looks likely. I have the stone right here,” I said, patting the pouch at my belt. I had taken to carrying around several of the unique stones to examine in idle moments. To be honest, my belt and the hidden cave were the only places I felt they were truly secure. “I could make an attempt right now.”

  She looked at me, her expression unreadable. That had been one beautiful priestess. “You’re serious?”

  “I’m willing to make the attempt,” I agreed. “There are no guarantees, of course – it could lock you into a permanently corporeal state, for all I know. But it’s never been tried before, to my knowledge, and I can’t think of any thaumaturgical reason it wouldn’t work. But . . . well, I’m not a theurge. I don’t know enough about the nature of the gods to be certain. I was hoping you would be able to give me some insight into the matter.”

  She looked thoughtful and furiously torn for a few silent moments. Then she looked up at me sharply.

  :Minalan, do you have any idea what that would mean?”

  “I wouldn’t have to double the size of your temple?”

  She ignored me. “For the gods to have control over the one thing that has always eluded us . . . Minalan, that could change everything!”

  “It would certainly make going to services more interesting,” I agreed. “You’d never know who you’d run into . . .”

  “Stop joking!” she commanded. “This is a serious matter! I had no idea that the effect of that spell would create . . . but I suppose it makes sense . . . with the Great Eye un-occluded . . . and the generative forces involved . . . you might be telling the truth!”

  “Of course I’m telling the truth! But I told you it might not work. I’ve only used it a couple of times, and never on anything as ennegramatically complex as a divinity. There is risk in failure.”

  “There is risk in success, too,” she admitted. “Do you know what would happen if the gods were thus changed? What renewed role we could play in the lives of the humani? And what forces would be automatically arrayed against us, should we take that course?”

  “I’m guessing that Shereul would not be too happy,” I grinned.

  “He is not with whom I am concerned, believe it or not. Should the Alka Alon learn of your complicity in this . . . they would not be too happy, either.”

  “The Alka Alon? I thought they got along with the humani gods?”

  “In general. There have been some problems in the past. But one reason we ‘get along’ so well with them is that we go away after a while. To them, that’s our saving grace. Otherwise we would be permanent pests to them. Constantly looking after humanity’s interests, interfering in the affairs of the high and mighty Alkan lords . . . we’d be an utter pain in their collective ass,” she warned.

  “You say that like it’s a negative,” I shrugged. “I like the Alka Alon, but they aren’t perfect.”

  “It’s not a matter of perfection. It’s a matter of territory. Minalan, what you offer is far, far beyond what I was proposing to give you. This has the possibility of fundamentally changing the nature of power on Callidore.”

  “I like to make a statement when I do something,” I dismissed. “You wanted a gesture of devotion. I’m offering you one.”

  She bit her lip nervously. I had made a goddess nervous. This was getting better and better.

  “You realize that this would become a . . . a permanent alliance,” she said in a very low voice. “And, for a time, a secret alliance?”

  “I’m not sure I’d have much credibility if I went around bragging about it,” I pointed out. “In fact, I don’t think that more than a handful of people would even consider believing me if I told them you had manifested for me. As far as a permanent alliance . . . well, let’s just say you put the Spellmonger on a healthy retainer when you delivered my son safely to me. A permanent retainer.”

  That rationalization apparently appealed to her. “Very well, then. I accept your generous offer, Minalan. And the risks associated with it. Nor will I communicate this with the other gods until we are sure of the effect.”

  “No one has to know,” I agreed. “It can be our little secret.”

  She made a face. “You aren’t seducing me. You’re enchanting me.”

  I chuckled again. “No, my beautiful goddess, it is you who are enchanting me.” I couldn’t resist. She blushed. I made a goddess blush. I didn’t know what to do with that information.

  Before she could continue the banter, I dug into my pouch and withdrew the wrapped stone in q
uestion.

  “This might hurt. If a goddess can feel pain. Or it might not. Hells, I have no idea what it will feel like, the water elemental never commented. Ready?”

  “Ready,” she affirmed, after taking a deep breath.

  I began the spell.

  * * *

  The next morning, the entire episode seemed like a faint and distant dream. Partially because of the divine nature of the encounter, and partly because my actual dreams, once I had downed the sweet-tasting metaphorical potion, were filled with images and scenarios and ideas. With Briga’s help my mind tore through the problem from every angle, applying every resource I had or could imagine to the situation.

  In the morning, when I woke up next to the empty red bottle on my bedside table, I knew exactly what I had to do.

  There was no guarantee. There was no certainty. It was risk upon risk, a gamble with no sure winners and no sure losers. I would be, in essence, staking everything on the outcome. It was a heady feeling. As I washed, dressed, and stumbled downstairs to the Great Hall for breakfast, the requirements for my plan suggested themselves to me neatly, one after the other, in proper order.

  I don’t know what metaphorical liquor had been in that metaphorical bottle, but it had done the trick. I had a plan. An elaborate, risky, bold and ambitious plan with so much room for disastrous error that I shuddered to consider it, but it was a plan. A plan with the hope and possibility of success.

  I began contacting people mind-to-mind as soon as my porridge and ale were set in front of me. By tradition, breakfast was the one meal where we did not stand on ceremony, and theoretically anyone in the castle could approach me with a question, complaint or request. But when I sat by myself at the cracked stone high table, people generally left me alone.

  First I contacted Terleman and told him enough of my plan to get some things happening at Castle Gavard. He was skeptical at first – he wouldn’t have been a decent military commander if he wasn’t – but once he saw what I wanted to do, he accepted the plan in good faith. He agreed to start issuing orders and making preparations. I think he was just happy that someone had a plan.