“A real duke would fight them,” Tyndal said, accusingly, as he watched the old men in charge of the duchy mill around the dragon’s head like they were discussing a pregnant sow at market. “A real duke knows how to take action!”
All right, I think we’re done, Gatina spoke to him, mind-to-mind, a moment later. I don’t dare let Tyndal over-sell it, lest he raise suspicion.
I concur, Rondal replied, as he spied the dreaded checkered cloaks begin to examine the room with wands and spells, likely to detect the presence of the magi who sent the message. It’s time to go.
“My lord, will you escort me to the privy?” Gatina asked, suddenly. “I fear we will be waiting here overlong.”
“I wish to see that dragon’s head closer,” Tyndal bragged, tugging at Noutha’s arm. “It cannot possibly be real! Come with, honey-bush,” he said with obsequious charm to Noutha. Rondal was gratified to see his friend survive the obvious mistake. Noutha, instead, followed dutifully behind Tyndal like a submissive wife or paramour being dragged through some obscure political interest of her lover.
We need to leave, now, Gatina sang into his mind as they headed for the staircase – the same staircase up which the Censors were starting to climb. As soon as they were out of easy sight of the nobles among whom they were lingering, Rondal felt someone cast the spell that took them out of the universe and through the Ways. Before he was certain of what was happening, he realized that they were now in a safe house Gatina had prepared, far from the checkered cloaks in Falas.
“That was close,” his girlfriend admitted. “A few more moments and they might have found us out.”
“Do you think we effectively delivered Anguin’s message? Rondal asked her, doubtfully.
“I don’t think it could have been any clearer,” Gatina agreed, pulling off her brunette wig and fluffing her white hair. “Anguin still has an interest in the south, an interest he is preparing to act upon. With force, if necessary.”
“Well, that part I hope was clear,” Tyndal agreed, tossing his broad-brimmed Sea Lord’s hat onto the rack by the door of the small cottage. Gatina’s family had several such places, tucked away here and there, for escape and repose after a caper. “I’d hate to go through all of the trouble of slaying a dragon just to have the rotting head of its corpse dismissed as a message.”
“Oh, the rumor of what happened in Velsignal Hall will spread in direct proportion to how strenuously Count Vichetral and his fellows tries to put a lid on the pot,” Gatina assured. “It is one of the worst possible places to try to keep a secret. The story of the dragon’s head will be known across Enultramar by tomorrow at dusk,” she prophesied. “Nor will they be able to keep Anguin’s name from being associated with it,” she said, smugly.
“Which should go a long way toward interfering with Vichetral’s plans – it’s hard to complain about a sovereign who ignores the realm when he drops a dragon’s head in your lap.” Rondal was struck by a thought. “Why are you so in favor of Anguin’s claim? Beside your father’s friendship with his?”
The question surprised her. “Is it not enough that I am a patriotic Alshari?”
“The Count of Rhemes is every bit an Alshari as Anguin,” countered Rondal. “Some would argue that he even has a superior claim to the coronet, if you want to go back enough generations.”
“For one, I dislike the policies that the Five Counts have implemented, particularly the open sale of slaves. Their alliance with the Three Censors, and their persistence in keeping the Bans makes them doubly odious. Five Counts and Three Censors give me eight reasons.
“If that arithmetic is not sufficient, I have no love for the ham-handed manner in which they have implemented those policies. They have positively dashed the efficient flow of trade, in favor of sudden surpluses and shortages that make fortunes and pa34upers, but rob Alshar of its prosperity.
“But my most compelling reason remains the loyalty Anguin’s men display for him in the pursuit of his policies. And after meeting His Grace, I find him personally charming, intelligent, and wise, as well as handsome and virile. He will make a far better duke than Vichetral or any of those other old men.” She kissed him on the lips. “Does that satisfy your curiosity, my lord?”
“Completely, my lady,” Rondal said, giving her a kiss in return.
“Aww!” Tyndal mocked, “they’re so cute!”
“Nauseating,” Noutha snorted, and looked away.
“Whatever courting you’re going to do, get done with it,” Tyndal continued. “We have an engagement at Timberwatch we must attend to . . . with a few brief excursions to realms of darkness and oppression. Try not to expend too much vitality before training,” he advised.
“He has it to spare,” Gatina said, continuing to kiss him.
Rondal allowed himself the sweet indulgence for a few blissful moments, ignoring his comrades’ reaction. He saw her so rarely, now, and the prospect of enduring the coming trials to recruit for the Estasi Order without seeing her made the kisses that much sweeter. She smelled amazing . . .
You know, Tyndal said, interrupting his blissful thoughts, mind-to-mind, she’s still going to be beautiful and sickeningly in love with you when you get back. And she’s set her cap to marry you, someday. So, you might want to—
Rondal never did hear Tyndal’s suggestion. Instead he heard a whisper of steel being drawn, and noted that Gatina was managing to hold a dagger at Tyndal’s throat while continuing to kiss him thoroughly.
“It’s rude to interrupt Ishi’s Kiss upon a man’s departure, Sir Tyndal . . . even magically. I will excuse your discourtesy for provincialism, this once. Let it not happen again. When I kiss my lord Rondal, I want his attention focused on my lips and my eyes, not whatever insults you are pouring into his mind. Do we have an understanding?”
“I beg my lady’s pardon,” Tyndal said, carefully. Gatina made the blade disappear.
“I’m starting to like her,” Noutha chuckled.
“When I know what I want,” Gatina said, slyly, “I do not allow anything to come between me and my prize.”
Rondal swallowed. As the prize in question, he suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. “Ah, perhaps we’d best head to Timberwatch,” he suggested. “There is much to do before the trials, and . . . and . . .”
“Go,” Gatina agreed, reluctantly. “Go, else I’ll keep you here. I know you have important matters to attend to. I’m sure I’ll find some way to keep myself occupied, since my parents have forbidden me from such adventures, until I am done with my apprenticeship.”
“Just a formality,” Rondal said, encouragingly. “Has your father set your final task, yet?”
“Oh, I’m working on something,” she assured him. “Don’t worry.”
Alas, the tone in her voice did nothing but inspire worry in Rondal.
Chapter Twenty
The Magolith
The mood was tense in the Snowflake Chamber, that night. I’d explained my delicate position to Master Ulin, and he begged me for one more day to finalize his latest round of calculations. I granted it, having plenty of other things to occupy my time (two sulky apprentices, a couple of giddy enchanters-turned-merchants, baron stuff) but I impressed upon him just how important speed was, now.
It actually took two days, since Onranion needed the time to prepare the irionite the stone would need, and Master Azhguri had to ready whatever it was that stonesingers did to get ready. That gave me time to bring in Taren, from Greenflower, and Lilastien the Sorceress. She was curious about the entire process, and having a competent medic on hand if things went awry was just a good precaution.
But the mood was tense when Taren arrived, bearing news from the Otherworld.
“I’ve managed a new form of intelligence,” he told me, as we walked the distance through the excavations in the mountain to get to the Chamber. “I’ve been interviewing the recently-deceased. Those who died in the Umbra and Penumbra.”
“What?” I asked, shocked by the casua
l admission.
“It just seemed like a good idea,” he said, shrugging his thin shoulders. The man didn’t look like he’d been eating much. “Not an easy one, but a good one. If we can’t get spies into the heart of the Umbra, then try to find someone who died there, recently.” It sounded completely reasonable, the way he said it.
“That sounds morbid as eight hells,” I said, shaking my head.
“Morbid is relative. When you work with the dead, it’s just something you have to get used to. In any case, I found three souls who died in the region, lately, and managed to lure them to Greenflower. I found out some interesting details.”
“Like what?” I had to admit, once I got passed the squeamishness of its origin, I was intrigued.
“Two of the deceased were slaves in the Penumbra who were frequently sent from their estates as porters into the outskirts of the Umbra, where the Goblin King reigns. A place called Ganz. They were killed when they were trampled by a siege worm on the road. But before they died, they witnessed a caravan from the south pass them on the road. A caravan from Olum Seheri, as the carts were pulled by common undead, and driven by draugen.”
“That’s even more morbid,” I grumbled, as we continued on the way.
“That’s what they thought, too,” chuckled Taren. “Indeed, even the gurvani were unnerved by the sight. It seems that they do not feel the same way about their undead allies as they do their undead master.
“In any case, one particular cart was guarded with special attention. The way they described it, it sounded like some sort of magical conveyance, or at least a heavily-enchanted cask. They caught a glimpse of it, when it passed by. They said it was merely a slab of stone.”
“A slab of stone?” I asked, with interest. “Snowstone?”
“Not by their description. Nor was it bluestone, which was my next thought. They described it as light gray in color, irregular, as if it had been hewed out of a darker rock. They said there were traces of other minerals around it. And that the stone had a strange call to them, when it passed. As if it were filled with voices.”
“Ghost Rock?” I asked, startled. “A shard of it?”
“That’s what I decided,” Taren nodded, solemnly. “That was six days before the Umbra had its growth spurt.”
“You think the two are related?”
“I wouldn’t be a decent thaumaturge if I didn’t,” he pointed out. “What else could they be transporting from Olum Seheri with such care? Why have the gurvani not done this before, if they could have? What has changed? The two answer themselves, in my imagination.”
“That’s disturbing,” I muttered. “If they can use Ghost Rock to expand the Umbra . . . dear gods, that could be really bad!”
“I don’t know if they’re doing it all at once, or if this was the result of just a portion of it. We know the Umbra is an effect of the molopor. But it makes sense that they’ve refined the initial necromantic process somehow, and that Ghost Rock is integral to the process. Somehow, they’ve managed to access the necromantic potential of the stone.”
“But how did they do it?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question. If anyone had a theory, Taren would. He didn’t disappoint.
“Well, we know that they used dark power to establish the Umbra, harnessing the death energy in their sacrificial victims and focusing it, somehow, into the Umbric field, using the nature of the molopor. We’ve assumed that they just used the energies . . . but what if they’re using the actual enneagrams, somehow?”
“It would explain their preference for Alkan victims,” I pointed out. “They have more complex enneagrams.”
“It would have to be part of the structural elements underpinning the field,” he said, thoughtfully. “Not merely the energy. They have a huge ball of irionite. They have plenty of energy. They need necromantic power of their victims, but they also need the structural essence – for lack of a better word – of their enneagrams. And they’d need progressively more of it. They aren’t just extending a circle, they’re projecting a sphere, after all.”
“Well, we know that there are Alka Alon enneagrams captured in the Ghost Rock. If they just implanted those into human bodies, that would give them a nearly unending supply.”
“If they transferred some of the older shades,” Taren pointed out, “like the Handmaiden, then they’d have tremendous power available.”
“You could put the Handmaiden into a human body?” I asked, confused.
“Theoretically? Sure. It would be like putting six pigs into a two-pig sack, but it would work – for a very short period of time. The body couldn’t handle it for very long, if it survived the process. Probably not even long enough to sacrifice it, properly.”
“What if you used an Alka Alon body?” I asked.
“Hmm? Interesting,” he said, fingering his sparse beard. “Then it would be like putting six pigs into a three-pig sack. It might be a better fit, but the outcome is just as inevitable.”
“But would it be long enough to sacrifice?”
“Probably,” he agreed, after a moment’s thought. “On the other hand, it might shatter whatever thaumaturgical apparatus underlying the process. I doubt it’s built for an influx of that size. It might not be able to handle it.”
“Or it might,” I pointed out. “In which case the Umbra could, theoretically, grow to encompass all of Callidore. And I’m guessing that the Sea Folk would not like that. Indeed, I imagine that they would object rather strenuously.”
“By that time, it might be too late,” Taren suggested. “There’s no telling what kind of power he’d be able to project if that happened. I’m assuming that this was an experiment of theirs. It worked. And that was but a shard. From what I understand, they have a vast quantity in the veins under the city.”
We continued discussing the various catastrophic possibilities until we arrived at the Snowflake Chamber, where the rest of the bouleuterion was already assembled.
“Min!” called Onranion, as soon as we entered. “I finished it last night! What do you think?”
He presented a massive sphere of irionite, slightly larger than my fist, as smooth as glass in his hands. It was larger than the old Witchsphere, from which it was – partially – created. I stared at it, stunned for words.
“That’s a big ball,” Taren supplied, for me, in a reverent tone.
“It’s hollow, that’s why it’s so large,” Onranion explained, as he held it up to the light. “The chamber within will hold the centerpoint, should we be successful. Some of my very best work,” he reflected, proudly, at he stared at it. “This time I had a chance to implant the songspells in a more orderly fashion. Far more efficient.”
“What about the rest of you?” I called out to my colleagues. “Is all in readiness?”
“Yes, yes, we’re all ready, waiting for you two,” Master Ulin said, sourly. “Azhguri is in meditation, I’ve got the pocketstone set, and the thaumaturgical medium is . . . doing whatever it does. We’re ready,” he assured.
“And I’m just here to watch,” Lilastien said with a smirk. “Someone has to witness this madness. This is the most idiotic, foolhardy—”
“If you object, why did you attend?” Taren asked, curious.
“Oh, I don’t object,” she explained. “Nothing like this has ever been tried before. The novelty alone is enough to warrant being here. Whatever disaster happens, I’d like to observe.”
“I like her, Min,” Master Ulin said, with a rare chuckle. “Let’s do this before we lose our nerve.”
The set-up was much as the previous attempt, only Ulin had restricted the field of effect just to the centerpoint. And just before Azhguri began his chant, Master Ulin poured the viscous medium directly on to the centerpoint of the constantly-churning Snowflake, using a thaumaturgical wand to restrict its position against gravity.
The crystalline structure accepted the molasses-like substance and the minor spell without objection; it continued its eternal transformation without regard to
the blob that now clung to its center.
“Well, so far, so good,” Master Ulin muttered, as he nodded to Azhguri. The old stonesinger started his stonesong, and the rate of the Snowflake’s change slowed.
Onranion began his own songspell, then, holding the sphere of irionite directly behind the center of the structure as he sang to it, he invoked the magic to coax the piece forth. Master Ulin waited until the gyrations of the thing matched his calculations, then directed Taren to begin altering the vibrations of the thaumaturgic medium.
My job was to observe the minute transformations along the edge between the centerpoint and the rest of the Snowflake with specially enhanced magesight. According to Ulin’s calculations, there should be a “separation event cycle” every thirty-six seconds. By invoking the perception slowing properties in the Focus Stone, I could see precisely when the instant occurred where there was a minute gap between them.
When the time was near, I indicated to Taren that he should start to alter the frequencies of the interior of the medium. Everyone in the chamber could feel a difference, at once. I allowed the Snowflake to cycle twice, after he started, and each time I could feel the differential between the frequencies start to have an effect.
It’s difficult to explain . . . but suddenly there was a sudden thaumaturgical pressure that was building up between the two portions. A disharmony that produced a kind of arcane sheer, a force that everyone could feel in their bones. In their very cells.
It was awful, in its way. But I wasn’t going to abort. We were committed.
The third time around, the pressure had built to the point where it was producing long, jagged sparks of lightning as the Snowflake desperately tried to regain its equilibrium. The entire chamber began to tremble. I nodded to Taren to increase the difference in the arcane harmonics.
When the perfect moment occurred, slowed in my mind like liquid glass, I gave Ulin the signal to activate the pocketstone, while I cast the spell to push the issue.
It was a perfect moment. Time nearly froze as the sheer became too much for the system to bear. When the hoxter was applied to the centerpoint, already weakened from the force of the sheer at the moment of separation, the Snowflake gave a shudder . . . and the centerpoint was propelled from the center of the structure.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 30
