In practical terms that meant that the shades of the dead had a lot easier time manifesting there. And spells involving the Otherworld worked particularly well there.
While Taren had learned an incredible amount during his tenure as Warden of Greenflower, it had taken a ghastly toll on the man. He looked tired and worn, his once-youthful face lined with worry and anxiety. Speaking to the dead bears a cost, and it wasn’t one Taren was particularly well-suited to bear.
But the insights he had gained at Castle Salaisus were invaluable. Every month he had faithfully submitted a report about his findings as he made his way through Dunselen’s notes and records of his experiments. They were somber and sometimes horrific accounts, not just of his research, but of facing the results of Dunselen’s research. As that included two of my children, and a number of other children that had been bred directly as a result of his and Isily’s madness, I read every report with especial care.
Taren welcomed every time I summoned him to Sevendor for consultation as a result. He pounced upon any opportunity to retreat from that haunted castle.
“I’ve got something,” Master Ulin said, without formality, the moment I entered. I’d long-ago established a more collegial environment in this deep underground laboratory. “It’s only theoretical,” he cautioned, “but it sounds pretty intriguing.”
“He told me about it, and as crazy as it sounds it might have merit,” Master Azhguri admitted, grudgingly. “Only one of your folk could come up with something this convoluted . . .”
“Really? I thought it was quite elegant,” Onranion sniffed. “Tell him, Ulin!”
“If we place the Snowflake in a hoxter pocket,” he said, after taking a deep breath, “the shift in the temporal component might be enough to weaken the bonds that hold the centerpoint in place,” he proposed, boldly.
I thought about that. “That’s . . . an intriguing approach. But I can see a lot of problems. First and foremost, can you even get the Snowflake in a hoxter pocket? And then there is the issue of striking it while it’s inside the pocket, at the precise moment, with the precise amount of force . . . which is going to be difficult, since hoxter pockets kill anyone who goes inside of them.”
“That is a challenge,” Ulin admitted.
“Do you have an answer for it, yet?”
“That’s the challenging part,” he said with a shrug.
“Some divine assistance might be helpful,” suggested Taren. “You know a few gods, don’t you, Min?”
I snorted. “Not one that might be useful. Right now my divine favor extends to baking, rutting, and marching, and not much else.”
“Avital could work,” Taren suggested, thoughtfully. “He’s Imperial, but . . .”
“I’ve mentioned the idea to the Avitalines,” I informed him. The ancient order of monks had a passion for preserving the mysterious ways of our ancestors. “There are ways to invoke him, it is written, but depending upon which aspect you summon, it could be disastrous. Remember, he’s the one who helped Kephan the Damned sink Perwyn, according to legend.”
“That was a mere miscalculation,” Onranion murmured. “I heard he was given the wrong figures. Could have happened to anyone!”
“Regardless, unless you can find a good way to invoke him, we’re on our own. But this is encouraging,” I nodded, looking at the equations on the wall. “Let’s see if we can figure a way around the problem.”
We spent three hours chewing on the issue from as many perspectives as possible. Three schools of magic, five wizards, you’d think we would have come up with something.
It was three separate problems: how to generate that kind of force (which was considerable), how to project it with precision, and how to do so in the hoxter . . . if the Snowflake could be stuffed inside one.
We discussed potential solutions for all three issues, and came up with some rather innovative ideas . . . but no real answers. Taren’s insights from his work at Greenflower were particularly intriguing. He’d been asking important questions from an impressive list of dead people.
“I do have some things I’ve been working on,” he admitted, when Onranion insisted that he needed a better class of wine for further thought. “The bluestone has some very interesting thaumaturgical effects. I’ve done some experiments, and it . . . well, it expands the dimensional potential of spells,” he said, struggling for the right words. “I don’t know, I don’t really have the right vocabulary to describe it, yet. I have to invent it as I go.”
“Expands the . . . what do you mean?”
“It’s complex,” he said, with a sigh. “But it’s become apparent that the attachment to the Otherworld the stones supply can augment many spells. Sometimes in unusual and unpredictable ways.
“For example, when you try to enter into the Otherworld in their proximity, it’s as easy as falling into a well. That’s almost expected, I suppose.
“But then I noticed some of the effects I was seeing in simple thaumaturgical essays. Complexities in the responses that you can’t imagine,” he said, reverently. “Enneagramatic spells in particular are affected. Common enchantments gained additional results. Others are almost impossible to control. I’m still trying to define the rules of how it works, but it’s . . . it’s complex.”
“You aren’t defeated, are you?” I teased.
“Me? Never!” Taren said with a tired grin, a bit of his old spark coming back to his worn face. “I’m not unenthusiastic about the work, Min, you have to believe me. But you also have to understand just how draining working in Salaisus is. Every moment in its proximity is like walking through a crypt on an icy day. But the work . . . the work is worth the sacrifice,” he assured me. “Especially now that I’ve built this.”
He pulled a baculus out of the magical pocket he’d stashed it in. It was a simple and elegant thaumaturgical rod of deep red weirwood. It was enwrapped with spells, and studded with stones to produce various magical effects.
But the staffhead was unique. The head of the baculus was a smooth sphere of bluestone, polished to a shine.
“Meet Threshold,” he said, presenting the five-foot tall, intricately carved staff of weirwood. “It’s a special thaumaturgic baculus I use around Salaisus. Dunselen had the wood in storage, when he did the spell. They were in the area of effect. There was actually a decent supply of them, but this was the best of the lot. The calcium inside the cells is transformed,” he said, answering my question before I asked it. “Even without this big marble at the top, it’s different than any other weirwood in the world.”
“Paracletic?” I asked, professionally curious.
“Not yet. I haven’t found an enneagram in the Grain that I trust with it. The wrong one could be disastrous, with this stuff. I’m still working on it, but so far it has some fairly unique abilities. Like raising the dead,” he suggested.
“Really?” I asked, surprised. “It’s necromantic?” I asked, recalling my recent conversations with Kedaran about the subject.
“Only for a few hours, and only the recently dead, but it’s promising. You can also use it to see into the Otherworld without actually going into the Otherworld, which can be useful. And you can use it to detect non-vibrant enneagrams—”
“Wait, what?” I asked, sharply. “Non-vibrant?”
“Oh,” he said, shrugging, as if it was an afterthought. “Studying at Salaisus has given me a deeper insight into how enneagrams and life magic work,” he explained. “Dunselen’s notes were surprisingly helpful – the man was a wart on the arse of humanity, but his library is exquisite. There’s ample scholarship on the subject from the Late Magocracy – you should really read a few of the Merwyni Codicils,” he suggested.
“In all my free time,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Give me the high points.”
“Most of the enneagrams we’re used to working with are either pure thaumaturgical constructs or they’re control mechanisms and architecture grafted onto basic elemental patterns, right?”
�
�Basic thaumaturgy,” I nodded.
“Sure. But we also know that living beings not only contain enneagrams, but are the source of some of the most complex. A cockroach has a far more sophisticated sense of self-awareness than, say, a water elemental, for instance.
“But more importantly, the cockroach’s enneagram isn’t just the chance repetition of a primal elemental pattern. It’s the product of biological functions and responses; it grows, it changes, it thinks, after a fashion. It utilizes the inherent magical energy implicit in metabolism and higher functions to form its enneagram.
“Life energy,” he emphasized. “When the gurvani or a necromancer sacrifices a living thing, what they’re doing is harnessing the energy of that life energy as it’s converted. It leaves the enneagram behind as a residue, of sorts. Like draining a wineskin. Or taking your clothes off,” he said, searching for an adequate metaphor.
“Your tunic and hose still look like you, kind of, but they aren’t you. We can re-animate it, after a fashion, using a necromantic architecture and a lot of energy, but it we can’t give it vibrancy. That only comes as a by-product of living metabolisms.
“As it is, the necromancy converts the arcane power into necromantic energy – death energy – as it transforms direction into action. Threshold,” he said, hefting the staff for emphasis, “can detect those necromantic energies . . . even the very faint ones emitted by mere elementals.”
“That could come in handy,” I nodded, impressed. “That also might explain why hoxter pockets kill living things, but allow enneagrams like paracletes to pass through unharmed. They aren’t vibrant.”
“Exactly!” he nodded, excited. “The hoxter pockets don’t have the capacity to contain vibrant energy. They just don’t have the . . . the dimension available. The moment a living thing enters the pocket, it’s vibrancy is destroyed.”
“But where does it go?” I asked. “The Magosphere?”
Taren shrugged. “That’s a damn good question, Min. I hadn’t gotten that far. It could be,” he agreed. “All I’ve done at this point is to throw chickens into the pocket and examine them when they come back out. Their enneagrams aren’t stripped, as I originally thought, they’re intact,” he informed me. “They’re just dormant. It’s their vibrancy that’s been destroyed. I can usually re-animate a chicken that’s been through a hoxter – especially in Salaisus,” he reported.
“You have undead chickens in Salaisus?” I chuckled.
“Too many,” he chuckled. “The animation spells last an obscenely long time, too. They guard their old roosts, day and night, never sleeping, slowly rotting away. We haven’t had much trouble with foxes and racquiels, lately – or chicken-stealing peasants. But I’m convinced. It’s the vibrancy of the animals it destroys, not its thaumaturgical pattern of self-identity.”
“What would it do to an undead?” I asked, curious.
“I tried that,” Taren nodded. “Put an undead chicken inside a hoxter, the necromantic energy is drained, too. But it can be immediately reanimated, as the architecture of the enneagram is intact. You’d need an independent power source, like irionite, to sustain a necromantic field, but it should come right back.”
“Oh,” I sighed. “So it wouldn’t kill Sheruel.”
“No, he could sustain himself indefinitely in a hoxter, with the proper power,” Taren said, shaking his head. “although it would get pretty lonely in there. If you could get him in one to begin with. The kind of reality-warping field that much irionite creates would likely keep him from sliding into a hoxter.”
“Theoretically,” I prompted.
“Theoretically? Min, all of this is theoretical, bordering on whimsical bullshit,” he said, frankly. “We barely understand irionite, have a vague idea about snowstone, and bluestone is just weird. Hoxters? Theory is all we have. And that stuff?” he asked, pointing at the big lump of what looked like molten glass swimming around in a big transparent urn. “What in five hells have you been up to, Min?”
“Oh,” I said, my lips going tight. “That. Uh, something Briga and I cooked up one night.”
“What is it?”
“As far as I can tell, it’s a pure physical arcane medium,” I said, uncertainly. “But ask me again next week and I might have an entirely different answer.”
He looked confused. “Doesn’t Briga know?”
“She’s in inspiration, not analysis. That’s my department. Our department,” I corrected. “It’s a liquid medium, extremely viscous, even at room temperature. And it’s thaumaturgically responsive,” I added. “Beyond that . . .”
“Any way that it could be used on our current problem?” he proposed.
“Not that I can think of,” I said, a moment later. And yes, I really did try to think of something.
“Then let’s adjourn to the Chamber of the Snowflake,” suggested Onranion, returning from the storeroom with two fresh bottles. “We can at least test this mad theory by seeing if the damn thing will even go into a hoxter. Of course, with the energies involved, we could destroy ourselves. Or it. Or the world,” he shrugged. “Shall we pour, before we go?”
Master Ulin cast the spell for the hoxter. He was by far the most adept with the largest of the two remaining pocketstones at this point (the third having been stolen by the Enshadowed), having learned all he could from the Karshak’s imperfect understanding of the artifact. While he was preparing, Taren used Threshold to examine the Snowflake . . . and returned from his surveys with a puzzled expression.
“That is . . . odd . . .” he said, mostly to himself.
Master Azhguri grunted. “It’s an eternally evolving piece of magical crystal. What’s so odd about that?”
“You know, it doesn’t really . . . exist, in the Otherworld,” he announced.
“But I’ve seen it!” I protested.
“You’ve seen the ripple effect in the Otherworld caused by its presence, but the Snowflake itself isn’t there.”
“That’s pretty subtle,” I observed, doubtfully.
“It has an enneagram – dear gods, it has the most spectacular enneagram I’ve ever seen. It’s sucking in arcane power like a hole in your pocket. But it lacks vibrant energy. There’s a little necromantic power, there, enough to disturb the Otherworld. But the Snowflake, as a form, isn’t there,” he pronounced, confidently, as he peered past Threshold.
“Should it be?”
“Not that I know of. But I expected to see something there. All I see is the wave form around it. It’s just . . . odd.”
“I think that I’m ready to start, now,” Ulin called from his place in front of the Snowflake. He had the largest of the pocketstones in his hand, and a concerned expression on his face.
“You’re worried?” Master Azhguri asked, cocking a bushy eyebrow.
“About trying an untested thaumaturgical experiment with a barely understood dimensional magic on a unique quasi-divine immovable artifact?” Ulin asked. “Nah, I live for this shit,” the master enchanter declared.
Despite his mousy exterior and mild demeanor, I did not doubt his dedication one bit. Indeed, he was as fervent as any knight in the lists, tilting with a rival.
I took a moment to appreciate my chief Enchanter. He’d plowed through the intricacies of the general bouleuterion’s most advanced offerings like they were a reeve’s report on hay production. He didn’t ask for more than the stipend I paid him, he lived in flat rented from Banamor and spent every third night in the workshops. He’d made me a fortune, by any estimation, just by overseeing the production of agricultural wands and heats tones.
But here, he was in his element. This was the kind of work an enchanter dreams about. I was actually envious at his professional fulfillment. Specialists can enjoy that sort of thing. As a generalist, I mostly end up frustrated.
Ordinarily, casting a hoxter pocket, once you’ve prepared yourself, is a relatively simple matter. But this was an unusual occasion, so Taren was lending a hand as Monitor, watching with Threshold and ke
eping an eye on the etheric currents and such.
Ulin nodded to Master Azhguri, who began a deep throaty chant that I’d come to associate with the art of stonesinging. According to the plan, this was just enough contact to slow the Snowflake’s rate of change, but no more. Then Onranion joined in, his Alkan songspell preparing the region to be affected by the hoxter.
It was unusual and thrilling, this odd combination of three schools of magic on one project. To my knowledge nothing like this had been attempted before.
A few moments later, I discovered why.
It looked like it was working, at first. A field started to form around the Snowflake, and it looked like it was fading into the pocket, the way it was supposed to. But then it stopped. The field failed to coalesce, though it persisted in trying. The Snowflake slowed its transformations to a near-halt. The pale light it always emanated seemed to intensify . . . and the Snowflake seemed to push back against the attempt.
Then it erupted in a bright white flash of arcane power that engulphed us all, and knocked us off our feet. I didn’t quite lose consciousness, but I was stunned for a few moments. My head pounded with pain and stars flashed before my eyes for several seconds.
“Is everyone okay?” Taren asked, concerned. The magelights in the chamber had been extinguished, and the only light came from the pulsating Snowflake. There was smoke and the smell of ozone in the air.
“What in six fiery hells happened?” swore Ulin, recovering his hat and dusting it off.
Master Azhguri exclaimed something in Karshak, and Onranion shook his head a bit.
“Well, that was explosively disappointing,” Master Azhguri said, struggling to his feet.
“We should probably not do that, ever again,” Onranion observed, solemnly.
“Not for a long time,” moaned Azhguri. “My head is pounding!”
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 10
