Secret of the Sixth Magic

by Lyndon Hardy

  Jemidon gasped as the words hit him. The implication was staggering, if it were true. Manipulator of the laws or a practitioner, but not both. Talent in one excluded performance in the other. It was the answer to all his failures, bundled neatly in a single mass, coupled to a cause totally outside himself. He felt his lifelong burden suddenly release from his shoulders and sail away. Despite Melizar’s twisting of the laws, despite the growing menace of the noxious air, his spirits soared. More swiftly than the fastest lithon, the feeling careened through his thoughts. There was nothing wrong with him. He was as worthy to hold his shoulders straight as the next. He was truly a man, able to return even a master’s stare without looking away.

  He reached out and grabbed Ponzar’s arm. “I want to believe, Ponzar, most certainly I do. It would explain so much. The bumblings, the miscarriages—they would be tolerable to bear. I could not have become the thaumaturge’s apprentice despite my sister’s sacrifice, nor the magician’s initiate, nor Farnel’s tyro, nor any of the rest. It is a law, a metalaw, that prevented me all the while.”

  Jemidon managed to laugh. He almost jumped to click his heels, but remembered in time and grabbed onto the safety rope. He ran the facts through his mind; as they fell into place, one by one, his smile broadened. On Morgana, he could not work the simplest charms until after sorcery was no longer a law. He had fumbled through the ritual in Rosimar’s guild, even though it was the simplest step. In the grotto, he could not grasp the rock-cutting sword. And even alchemy—when the domain was tightly coupled and the formula had no part of law, he remembered perfectly. But just now, when there was indeed a chance to effect its potency, he could not recall a thing. He was suited for no craft. No master’s robe would he ever wear. It would be that of a metamagician instead, one whose skills transcended all laws. He could—

  Jemidon stopped and frowned at Ponzar. “You say that there are only three metalaws, and now I know them all. The constraint of seven I understand and the manipulation of least contradictions as well. But the uncoupling.” Jemidon shrugged. “I know nothing of the working of Melizar’s cube or even Utothaz’s pyramid.”

  “Those are only the crutches,” Ponzar said. “The aids that help bring forth the powers the pilots possess inside. They are bound to the gradual awakenings, the growing understanding of the working of the laws. For each pilot, it is different, something unique to his own being, something that resonates with what molded him into the power that he is to be.”

  “But I have no such device,” Jemidon said. “The only thing remotely resembling it would be this old coinchanger I carry and the puzzle that—”

  Jemidon halted a second time. The thoughts were coming clear and fast. “Benedict’s puzzle. Twenty-five coins,” he mumbled. “The trick is to insert them in such a way that each column ends up with only one type. I have done the best I can, but have yet to come up with the solution. There is no way with twenty-five already in the chambers to set the initial state properly before I make any discharge. I would need something else, another from the outside. A twenty-sixth to have it right.”

  Jemidon’s eyes blinked as it all rushed together in a flash. With trembling fingers, he removed the leather thong from around his neck and untied the knot. Slowly he slid the worn brandel from the loop. Holding his breath, he inserted it into the changer.

  Jemidon heard it tinkle into the innards and paused a moment more. “Dranbots,” he said, fingering the leftmost column. He pressed the lever and saw the glitter of five identical coins in his palm. “Galleons,” he said more excitedly as he pushed the next. “Regals, coppers, and finally gold brandels, the last of all.”

  Jemidon pushed the final lever slowly, holding his lips in a tight line. He felt the strain of the stretched rope and then a sudden snap as the universe started to drift. Ponzar and the others resumed their reverent bows. It was true. Jemidon had decoupled the laws.

  For a moment, no one spoke. Jemidon felt dazed from the staggering immensity of what he had learned. He was a metamagician, master of the three metalaws. At first he had thought he was pursuing a sixth magic, but now he understood that that concept was wrong. Although only seven could have power at one time, there were a countless number of magics, each governed by its own laws. Metamagic was something entirely different, with three metalaws of its own. And the metamagician was able to deactivate the underlying principles of a whole universe and replace them with others at his command.

  Without thinking, Jemidon reached back to the tablestone and fiddled with the small rocks so that the laws would reengage. One of the manipulants scrambled forward and, with a slight bow, pushed aside his hand.

  Jemidon frowned in puzzlement for a moment and then laughed. “Of course, I cannot perform the craft. It will take some getting used to. Um, black sphalerite, moving in a single line. Bring them to touching with increasing speed.”

  The manipulant looked back at Ponzar and heard the translation. Soon the laws were reestablished and Jemidon sagged to the table, the intense wash of emotion robbing the strength in his legs.

  “The manipulants?” he asked Ponzar. “You said before that they must be attuned to the metamagician’s power as well.”

  “As it is to be,” Ponzar said. “The one who rushed forward has felt the urge more so than the rest. Perhaps because of our differences, he may be unique.” Ponzar looked at Utothaz, still wheezing on the table, and up to the speck now more apparent in the sky. “But how many you have does not really matter. The transition has been accomplished. Utothaz may give his last in peace. I have done my duty as a captain. The great right hand will be pleased.”

  Ponzar turned to go, but Jemidon grabbed him by the shoulder and held him back. “Wait, I feel that there is still more. How does one select the manipulants? How do I know when we are well met?”

  “Their dexterity is enhanced by a pilot’s nearness. Like you, they have inherent skill. But close to your side, they are able to act far better than they could alone. You saw how well the one manipulated the flask and then the stones. The stronger the pilot, the more powerful are those who serve with him as well.”

  Jemidon’s face brightened. “Not only the pushing of the stones, but any craft.”

  “Any of the laws,” Ponzar said. “Why do you ask?”

  Jemidon did not reply. Quickly he turned and scampered as fast as he could along the safety rope toward the entrance to the caverns.

  “Delia,” he called. “Delia! I know why you were able to receive so much aid from the rockbubbler and to say the glamours for Farnel with such little drill. At the very least, you are a sorcerer and a wizard. It is you who will find the pathway home.”

  Jemidon held his hands to his sides. He willed himself to take short swallows of air through his nose, but it did not help. The metallic smell was pervasive. The sulfur made him want to gag. Any deep draw only burned his lungs. His eyes watered, and he felt a tingling in his hands and feet. He looked at Delia, faithfully nurturing the flame to life for the dozenth time, and knew that she would not last much longer. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut. Her hands trembled as she manipulated the spark. Jemidon wanted to grab the flint from her grasp, but restrained himself, because he knew it would do no good. Delia had to summon whatever devil she could. At best, he could only be near and watch.

  He looked up the stairway leading outside to the reddish sky, now visibly dirty and gray. A fine ash swirled in the air, leaving a dark powder everywhere. Jemidon could hear the deep-throated hacks of a dozen of the Skyskirr, even though they were less affected than Delia and he. Two more had already submitted themselves for the feasting of the others. Jemidon had noticed a ruddy glow in the cheeks of those that remained, despite the foul air; their stomachs were distended from the offerings of their comrades. Occasionally they would look into Delia’s chamber and smile encouragement, evidently assuming that, even near the end, their new pilot was trying to save them.

  Delia coughed again, and her outrushing breath blew out the beginnings o
f a flame. She looked up at Jemidon with helpless eyes, but he managed a smile to encourage her to try again.

  “Even if I start a blaze, it will be the smallest of imps,” she rasped. “Without any powders, there is no way to summon a djinn.”

  “Relax and let whatever augmentation I bring mix efficiently with your own power,” Jemidon said. “And if you are truly enhanced, a small devil might be enough to carry at least you back. And in benign air, you can conjure what is necessary to come after me. Besides, you are doing the best you can. The way you laid out the sticks in a row and had the flints ground to uniform size are things I would not have thought of. You are indeed a worthy manipulant.”

  A small smile tugged at the edges of Delia’s mouth. She pulled her stringy hair out of the way and bent low to try again with the flame. Jemidon moved to cut out what flow of wind he could, but then tensed as he felt something begin to stir inside.

  “Another unlocking,” he muttered. “And somehow I feel that I must withstand this one.” He grasped the changer with both hands and jammed his fingers under the levers to prevent their accidental release. But the strain built faster than he could resist. The laws uncoupled, and almost immediately he saw a distant flash of light.

  Jemidon stood and peered outside. To the left, perpendicular to their direction of travel, he saw another flash that darkened the red to crimson and then a third. A sudden increase in pressure stabbed at his ears. The lithosoar shook and bobbed like a pebble churned by a wave.

  A second pulse followed and then the last, each one more violent than the one before. And with the final wave of pressure, although it made no sense, the wind seemed to shift direction. Jemidon scrambled outside, looking around to reestablish his bearings. He saw the lithon to which they were rushing still directly ahead. They were close enough now that it was more than a mere dot in the sky. On a visible disk of blacks and browns, he could see dense clouds of smoke spewing forth to form a dirty halo around the sphere.

  For a moment, he watched until he was sure. They were still flying to their fatal encounter. Nothing had changed their momentum, and yet the wind came from another direction. A swirl of debris caught his eye where he was sure there had been none before. It slammed into the lithosoar a little above his head, ricocheting off and then continuing on in the breeze. A circular eddy whipped past, and then another that tossed their boulder back and forth in a gut-wrenching jolt.

  Ponzar appeared over the horizon, pulling quickly on the safety rope and motioning Jemidon to come to the table stone.

  “The laws have been changed again. I have felt it,” Jemidon said as they met. He had to shout as the wind tore at his clothing and whistled around the rock.

  “It is Melizar returning,” Ponzar said. “The signal mirrors tell of it. Control of one ’hedron is not enough. His manipulants work some new art that whips the air into swirls. He plans to let none of the lithons soar as they choose until they have submitted to his will—until every pilot has broken his key and can manipulate the laws no more.”

  Ponzar started to say more, but gagged on the flux of foul air. He sank to one knee and let his shovel clatter on the hard ground. The stifling breeze pushed against the blade; in an instant, it was sailing away.

  Another flash and shock wave shook the boulder. Jemidon felt his feet leave the ground. He reached out and snagged the safety rope in the crook of his elbow, just as he flew past. He twisted around to grip the line with his other hand and gradually hauled himself back onto the surface. Ponzar wrapped his legs around one of the stanchions and closed his eyes. He made the sign of the right hand and slumped to the surface of the rock.

  “Follow the other metamagicians,” he croaked. “As you gather strength, you will feel their presence more. Acting together, you might have a chance to stop Melizar as he tries to twist things farther away from the proper laws.”

  Jemidon looked up into the air and saw the turbulent winds rip at the bubbling brown gases from the other lithon. In great gouts of dirty cotton, the fumes exploded across the intervening distance, filling the sky.

  “But the chance may be better back in my own universe,” he shouted over the roaring wind. “There, wizardry and alchemy might provide some weapon better than attracting stones. I must help Delia conjure her passage back, to get to the archmage as we originally intended.” He gagged and spat bitterness from his mouth, trying to shake the taste from his tongue.

  “No, no, your duty is here.” Ponzar shook his head. “You are the pilot and must act for the Skyskirr.”

  Jemidon tore himself free and pushed against the wind, back in the direction of Delia’s cavern. His vision began to swim and his knees felt rubbery. He wanted to breathe deeply, but held his chest tight, hoping to reach the pocket before his senses slid away.

  The roar of the air increased to a blistering intensity. The cold stung his lips. His knuckles turned white from their grip upon the rope. Hand over hand, in one strength-draining tug after another, Jemidon pulled toward the opening that loomed just ahead. Deep browns enveloped him completely and made it hard to see more than a few feet in front of his face.

  He shut his eyes to keep out the sting. From memory, he crawled the last few paces. With a gasp, he tumbled into the entrance and squinted open his eyes to see how Delia fared. She was curled in a tight ball in the far corner of the cavern. Her skin was pale and her breath came in short pants. He touched the coldness of her flesh and recoiled from the clammy feel. She smiled weakly and, with jerky movements, pointed across the chamber.

  Jemidon saw a dance of light in the brown cloud that flowed in after him and sputtered in the last embers of a flame. A small, squeaky voice sounded somewhere above the roar.

  “Better make it snappy, bub. I can only manage one, and my master said that it was to be you.”

  “No, you are to transport Delia,” Jemidon choked.

  “In another minute, it will be nobody at all,” the imp squeaked. “I am not sure I can manage one of your size as it is, and that excuse for a flame doesn’t give me much room to maneuver.”

  “Pilot, your duty,” Jemidon heard Ponzar call from outside. “You will serve the Skyskirr, even if I must carry you to the table myself.”

  Jemidon looked at the darkening sky and back at Delia’s crumpled form. He saw Ponzar enter the cavern with a drawn sword. “Delia and quickly,” he commanded the imp.

  “No, I said it is to be Jemidon,” Delia managed to croak.

  “I shall follow my master’s orders, bub,” the sprite said. “There is no other way. A gift, she said. A gift unfettered, with no obligation to repay. One free passage to the archmage in the domain of men. Now give me a finger and cut the chatter. It’s going to be a tight squeeze.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Lord of Two Domains

  THE passage through the flames was a confusion that Jemidon could not understand. When they parted, he struggled to pull his senses back into focus on patterns that his mind comprehended. In the distance, he saw morning-blue sky with pink on the horizon. To his right stood rows of tents behind emblazoned standards; on the left, squads of armored men were converging into formations. Directly in front, about a dozen startled men-at-arms scrambled to their feet as he emerged from their breakfast fire. Evidently he had arrived in the camp of the archmage on a day of battle.

  “Take me to the archmage and quickly,” Jemidon said. “He must send a large djinn to the place whence I came.” His heart raced with urgency. There was so little time.

  “It looks human enough,” the sergeant said to his men, after a moment of shock. “And the little imp with him has already disappeared. Surround him carefully. If he resists, we will see if he is full of blood or green ichor.”

  “The archmage,” Jemidon growled. “There is no time for petty debate. What I have to tell him of Melizar will be well worth his time.”

  Jemidon felt a sudden prick of pain at the nape of his neck. He saw the drawn blades close in from all sides.

  �
��Yes, the archmage it will be,” the sergeant said. “He has a standing order to report anything out of the ordinary, even if it occurs just before the rebels attack.”

  One of the men brought forth hinged bracelets of iron with a short chain in between. For a moment, Jemidon tensed, but then he forcefully emptied his lungs. “Anything to speed the process,” he said, thrusting out his arms. “Travel behind the flame is but the least of what I have to tell.”

  In a moment, in the middle of a cluster of six, Jemidon was hurrying across the campground toward the group of silken tents with high pennons snapping in the morning breeze. He darted his eyes to either side as they trotted along. To his left, expanding almost as far as he could see, men-at-arms were dousing the last of their morning fires, slipping on their byrnies, and adjusting swords at their sides. Sergeants barked orders. Horse-borne pages waving standards called for where each group was to position itself in line. The faces of the men were grim. Tight-lipped, they did not engage in easy banter. When the eyes of their comrades were not watching, they cast furtive glances toward the hill to the north.

  Jemidon looked out over the gently rising landscape. The foreground was empty. Cracked branches and trampled greenery indicated where the army must have marched the day before. Farther up the slopes was a motley of colors and glints of flashing metal that ran to the summit and stretched far to either side. It was the rebel army, packed shoulder to shoulder and marching in lockstep down the hillside. Jemidon tried to estimate the number, but gave up after he counted more than a dozen rows. He squinted to see the ragged end of the line on the east and saw that oceanside cliffs defined the other edge.

  Behind the slowly moving wave, at the very top of the hill, were the smoldering ruins of Searoyal, a pile of jumbled rubble, where once had stood a walled city that could be seen leagues out to sea. Among the tumbled stones flapped the shabby canvas of the metamagician’s tent. The sun glinted painfully from huge cubes of metal scattered to its left. Their covers gaped open into featureless interiors, like empty crates tipped on their sides. The tops of unneeded siegecraft were just visible over the crestline.