by Lyndon Hardy
Jemidon glanced back at the men-at-arms. They all wore mail and carried shields of gleaming steel. Besides the standards of Arcadia, he saw the pennants of Procolon across the sea and even those of the southern kingdoms mingled with the rest. Barely two rows thick, the royal forces formed up, their thin line stretching to match the length of the one that approached.
On his right, Jemidon saw richly surcoated nobles emerge from their tents, testing the weight of their armor and slashing broadswords through the air. Squires tightened the girths on nervous horses and added the final polish to shiny helms. Behind the line of canvas, Jemidon could hear the pounding of the surf. He smelled the salt in the air. The royal forces were making a last stand; they had their backs to the sea.
In the center of the row, at the entrance to a modest tent beside the pavilion flying the royal colors of Arcadia, the sergeant pushed Jemidon’s shoulder to duck and enter. Inside, along the opposite wall, had been erected a crude table of crates and planks. Along one side of the makeshift structure was a queue of pages that snaked through another opening at the rear. Seated behind the boards was a slight man in a robe of deep purple. His face was narrow and topped by fine yellow-brown hair. Wrinkles crept from the sides of eyes that had not known sleep for many hours. The furrows of concentration above the nose were no longer shallow with the smoothness of youth. Jemidon grunted as he looked at the robe. Along one sleeve were the logos of all five of the crafts.
“To Standall.” The seated master set down his pen and ripped the parchment from the roll. “He is to use the ticklesprites only if lord Feston’s elite guards falter. We call too much upon the demon world, as it is.”
The page at the head of the line took the message and disappeared through the opening. As the rest moved up, the master thought a moment and then hastily began scribbling another note.
“Melthon should continue trying the formula,” he said, “for the chance that alchemy might return. He is of no help otherwise, and the attempt cannot possibly hurt.”
“Archmage Alodar,” the sergeant said in reverent tones. “I realize that all of us must make the final preparations for battle, but something has transpired that I thought you should know.” Alodar looked up from his writing as Jemidon was jostled forward. “He stepped from a flame just as a demon would, although, as you can see, he is quite normal in form.”
“Not wizardry as well!” Alodar muttered. “If this is a portent that it, too, withers away, then indeed we truly are lost. It is the only craft left that we can use.”
“It remains unaltered as long as Melizar desires to conquer two universes,” Jemidon said quickly. “He needs the means to travel between. And the laws do not just wither away. They are replaced abruptly by others. The Maxim of Perturbations instead of the Maxim of Persistence. The Rule of the Threshold rather than the Rule of Three.”
Alodar looked at Jemidon and his eyes narrowed. “What babble is this? Neither magician nor sorcerer any more can ply his craft.”
“In place of those arts, there are two others. By the perturbations, Melizar has brought down the walls of Searoyal. With animations, he has enslaved the rebels to his commands.”
“Indeed, the minds of the people are clouded. That we have learned from the few who have been captured,” Alodar said. “All our men are on guard to avoid any inducements that pull at their sight. And we abandoned the fortress and chose to fight on the plain, rather than be crushed by tumbling rock.”
“With thaumaturgy and alchemy gone, Melizar probably will unleash even more strange forces against you,” Jemidon said. “You should prepare for them as well. His powers come from understanding metamagic, the Postulate of Invariance, the Axiom of Least Contradiction, and the Verity of Exclusion.”
Alodar’s frown deepened. He rubbed his hand across his chin and, for a long moment, pondered what Jemidon had said. Then his eyes brightened; with a casual wave, he sent the pages away. “As good a course as any for the final preparations. Why not a gamble rather than filling chinks in a weak and tottering wall? Sergeant, release those fetters and be on your way. This man indeed might have things of value to tell us.”
“Everything I will share,” Jemidon said as the bracelets fell away. “Everything that I have learned. But first I need a djinn. We must send one to Melizar’s domain and save Delia from the fumes.”
“A djinn? For your own personal use?” Alodar shook his head. “To save the life of one, when here thousands are in peril? You saw the forces arrayed against us outside. Wizards and demons will be our only hope to even the odds. And we have conjured all that we dare. Any more and the careful balance forged almost two decades ago might no longer be secure. It will do us no good to avoid one jeopardy, only to fall prey to another.”
“Everyone knows full well how you became master of the five magics,” Jemidon said. “That is not the issue here.”
“You should understand that the battle today is no less important than the one on the Bardinian plain,” Alodar replied. “This Melizar has swept all before him. The kingdom of Arcadia has crumbled. And with the moving pictures that twist the mind, devil-borne agents have stirred up the peoples of Procolon and the southern realms. The baronies are just barely able to keep order with all the troops they have. The one I hold dearest, Aeriel, strives to coordinate a defense across the sea. The balance is a precarious one. If Melizar wins here, the world will erupt in revolution. Everything will be his.”
Alodar came around the table. “If you have something to offer, then help us defeat this strange one. Save the many. After victory, we will offer aid to the few.”
Jemidon heard the sound of horns outside, the beat of drums, and the staccato march of men. How long had it already been? How much longer could Delia survive the fumes? He touched the changer at his waist and looked back into Alodar’s unflinching eyes. It was clear the archmage’s mind was set; he had a goal and would not be deterred.
“Very well,” Jemidon sighed. “First the battle and then the djinn. As long as the one immediately follows the other. I will aid all I can.” He squatted to the ground and began to speak quickly. “I was on Morgana when sorcery failed. It happened the night of the grand celebration.”
“No, from the very beginning.” Alodar glanced at the sand running from a glass as he reached for a pen. “Leave out no detail. The most insignificant might be important.”
Jemidon sighed again. “My father wanted me to be a thaumaturge,” he said. “He gave me his last gold brandel for the testing fee.”
“And so mobilizing all the alchemists to manufacture sweetbalm in preparation for the battle was to our deterrent.” Alodar paced around the confines of the tent, his hands behind his back. “They had to stop their normal productions to convert their facilities, and in the lull, when no formulas were being written, this Skyskirr changed the law. What you say is hard to accept, Jemidon, even if it explains what has come to pass better than the tale of any other.”
“Exactly so,” Jemidon said. He had wanted to rattle off everything at once. Each heartbeat seemed an eternity, but the archmage would not be rushed. He had asked questions about all aspects of Jemidon’s quest, details from the very first, the apprenticeship to the alchemist, the initiates’ examination at the inland guild, the graphical representation for the charmlets shown to Farnel. And with each answer, Alodar had grown more introspective, seemingly concerned with something else besides the working of the metalaws.
“And these uncouplings. You say that I cannot perform them.” Alodar rubbed his sleeve with the logos. “The power has been awakened in you and no other of our kind.”
“As it would appear,” Jemidon said. “The Verity of Exclusion prevents a practitioner of the arts. And, by the random factors, I have tested its truth hard enough for myself.”
Alodar nodded. “And now what do you propose?”
“Well, I would—” Jemidon paused. In the rush to save Delia, he had thought of nothing else. “I would challenge Melizar with manipulants of my
own,” he said after a moment. “I am a metamagician as much as he, I would bring about a decoupling. Direct the enactment of rituals, incantations, and formulas that are our own. Have the laws move in a direction that favors our cause rather than his.”
“And which direction is that?” Alodar asked. “Have you studied the lattice? Are you sure it would not mean the end of wizardry instead?”
“If we could get a look, we would know,” Jemidon answered quickly. “Perhaps by using a sprite to fly where Melizar has set up his camp and snatch the lattice away.”
Alodar frowned. “From what you have said, Melizar proceeds methodically from a plan he has worked out in great detail. And for each perturbation, he pauses and carefully calculates the response that returns the rush of events to the course that he desires.
“This is no mere examination for a robe, Jemidon. Far more than that is at stake. How could what you propose have even the smallest of chances? Why would you succeed now when you have failed so often before?”
“But I am a metamagician.” Jemidon scowled. Despite everything else, the anger and frustration began to bubble as before. The words of the archmage were familiar ones that he had tried for so long to dispel. “I am a metamagician. That is why I was unable, why I could not succeed, why I could not get the honor and respect. But now I understand what has to be done. Better than any other. Give me the means. I will show you. It may be your only chance.”
“You state that you were prevented,” Alodar said. “Because of something external, you were unequal to the task. And how convenient for you that is. Most of us do not have such luxury. We must look inside instead and understand what are our strengths and weaknesses.”
“One cannot overwhelm a metalaw,” Jemidon said. “It would be futile to try.”
“And was it a metalaw that sent you after graphic abstractions instead of memory drill in Farnel’s hut? Did a principle of the universe compel you not to list the simple incantations on paper before the thaumaturge’s test? After the third failure with the alchemist’s formula, what fundamental rule prevented you from assaying for purity? How carefully did you plan your actions before the stumble in Rosimar’s guild?
“And most important, consider this. You have shown a remarkable ability to deduce the underlying principle from the observed effects. With your skills, you have found three metalaws. But if that is indeed your talent, why did it take so long? Why so many years until a stranger hands you the clues? Why not suspect after your first failures that something else was wrong? Why were not they the key that opened this inner box of which you speak and tumbled out the answers?”
The archmage raised his index finger and held it poised in front of Jemidon’s face. “Perhaps because the answers were not so clearly cut. Perhaps because, deep inside, you knew that you had not fully prepared, that you had become bored, and that you did not exercise discipline, focus, concentration, or the planning that every master must have. Perhaps because, metalaws aside, you knew in your innermost being that you had not put forth the effort necessary to wear the robe. You preferred instead to dabble at the next in the hopes it would be easier.”
“The metalaw is true!” Jemidon shouted and backed off a step. “I have felt the uncoupling. It explains the dizziness, the lapses of memory, and all the rest.”
“Not all the rest,” Alodar said.
“Why are you telling me this?” Jemidon cried. “You are the archmage, ultimately responsible for all the crafts in the world. There is a battle about to begin outside this very tent, and you spend your time speculating about the weaknesses of someone you have barely met.”
Jemidon’s chest pounded. The words were too sharp. He did not want to face them after all that had happened. He was a metamagician, and the honor and respect would be his.
“I asked you what you would do,” the archmage said. “But more important perhaps is why. Is it for the robe of the master?”
“Yes, yes, I have told you that.”
“And anything else?”
Jemidon caught his breath. The archmage had been striking at the old wounds that would not heal, and he had almost lost control. He squeezed his fists tight and looked Alodar steadily in the eye.
“And for Delia,” he said. “Delia more than all.” He paused a second and licked his lips. “We waste too much time. If you do not believe, I will continue on my own as best I can.”
Alodar placed his hands behind his back and stared at Jemidon a long while in silence. Then he turned away and paced back and forth across the width of the tent with quick, precise steps while Jemidon seethed. The archmage stopped at the desk and fingered a magic ring that was now stone-cold. Finally he turned back and looked intently at Jemidon a second time. “I do believe you, Jemidon,” he said. “I must. We have too few choices left. As staggering as the concepts are that you relate, they do explain all the puzzles with which we are beset.
“And so I have decided to give you command of the alchemists, magicians, sorcerers, and thaumaturges. Only the wizards must be withheld for their more critical tasks. What you submit has a kernel of merit. It will not hurt to add it to the feeble arsenal that we have.
“But there is more, more for you to be truly ready. If you are indeed to face Melizar, if, in the end, our fate does rest on your shoulders alone, then you must be a master of at least one thing—a master of yourself.”
Alodar did not wait for Jemidon to say more. He went to the flap in the rear of the tent and ducked outside. Jemidon hesitated a moment and then hastened after. As he scrambled outside, he saw a shallow depression packed with men, probably more than a hundred robes crammed together with the implements of their nonfunctioning crafts. Near the far lip, a single squad of men-at-arms snapped to attention as they saw the archmage approach.
“You have all trusted my judgment in the past,” Alodar said. “And there is little time to explain my decision now.” He waved back at Jemidon. “Accept this one as your leader. Follow his commands as you would mine. He may send you into danger, but surely that is to be preferred to waiting passively for rebel blades to come slashing into your midst.”
Jemidon squared his shoulders and stepped forward, but suddenly a great shout echoed from the plain. Trumpets blared an opening charge. “The archmage! Where is the archmage?” voices shouted. “Up on the hill behind their lines among the metal boxes! He must come and see. A circle of flame!”
Alodar did not wait for any reaction from the masters. He bolted around the side of his tent and headed for the battle line.
“I will show you my mettle,” Jemidon shouted as the archmage disappeared from view. “I will prove the metamagician I can be.”
Jemidon waited a moment for a reply, but heard none. It was up to him to prove himself one final time. Grimly he turned back to the masters.
“You with the flasks and powders. And over there, the sad-faced ones mumbling in the mirrors.” He pushed his way to the center of the masters and whirled with arms outspread. “There is not time to worry about resonances. The archmage commands. All of you follow me. We will get as close to the fighting line as we can.”
Jemidon ran out of the depression, not looking back to see if any would comply. But soon he heard the swish of robes and the clank of paraphernalia as he sprinted across the marshy ground around Alodar’s tent. Apparently the word of the archmage carried enough authority that they followed without hesitation.
As he cleared the pavilions, Alodar was not to be seen. Instead, up the gentle slope, he saw the two angry lines close on each other and the battle begin. The grate of steel shrieked from a thousand collisions. Like a pair of mating snakes, the two armies writhed across the tilted plain. The men-at-arms with thick shields and shining mail slashed their swords right and left, cutting through leather and hacking off the blades of scythes. But onward the rebels came; mindless of the hurt, unflinching under the rain of blows, they whirled their flails and stabbed with their poles, borne forward by their comrades who pressed from behind. In
two or three places, the royal line thinned; and in one, a salient of brown broke through to circle from the rear.
Above the combatants’ heads, the sky crackled and sparked. Pungent smells filled the air. Glowing sprites and tiny imps streaked down on bare heads, ripping away tufts of hair in their talons or dropping trails of itching powders in their turbulent wakes. Fox-sized devils sprayed their repulsive odors and radiated the feeling of unquenchable thirst and will-sapping pain.
Towering over them all, the larger demons roared in aerial combat against their brothers, who were commanded by Melizar’s manipulant-wizard. Veinous wings of turgid green beat frantically for altitude, trying to elude glowing spheres of sputtering sparks which blackened on touch and sizzled away the pulpy flesh. From gnarled fingers shot bolts of piercing reds and violet that ripped the air into a hot incandescence.
Jemidon looked to the hill and saw on the rubble the circle of flame that had brought the page running to Alodar. Next to the tent, a huge djinn, far larger than the one that had carried Jemidon and Delia away, was twisted into an arch easily twice the height of a man. His cloven hooves and fingertips barely touched the ground. All along his scaly legs, his humped back with the furled wings, and his forehead and upper arms danced a deep crimson flame that shot high into the morning sky. Framed in the arch was the cloaked form of Melizar, the metamagician.
As he bounded over the terrain, Jemidon saw the royal flank farthest from the sea crumple and dissolve. A group of bondsmen swung with blades rather than with scythe and flail, trading the thrusts of the men-at-arms blow for blow. Because of their superior number, they had forced the corner back.
Jemidon frowned at what he saw. Most of the rebels’ swords appeared to be made of wood. Only about one in ten was true steel. But all the weapons, metal or not, were clanging off the soldiers’ shields as if they were of the finest temper. As Jemidon watched, one slipped underneath a slowly dropping guard and crashed against links of mail, popping ringlets and spewing blood.
