Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “Yet, did you not begin your career studying Imperial Magic, Master Dryspeaker?” Alya asked, helpfully.

  “Well, yes,” he admitted. “In Enultramar. Though the magic the Brethren practice is much different, they have found it best to recruit from amongst those who already have an understanding of the basics.”

  “That’s fascinating! Actually,” she continued, “Minalan’s newest apprentice is from Enultramar. Ruderal!” she called, eschewing the bell that was nearby. “I know he’s around here, he just returned from running an errand for me. Ruderal!”

  My face likely went pale at her call. Alya was not aware of Ruderal’s suspicions of his paternity, and apparently hadn’t understood that the lad was avoiding the wiry seamage. I had not discussed the matter with her, as it hadn’t come up, but I watched in breathless anticipation as my thirteen-year-old apprentice reluctantly appeared at the doorway.

  “Yes, my lady?” he asked, his face composed and expressionless. He did not look at me or Moudrost, only Alya.

  “Ruderal, Master Moudrost, here, is a countryman of yours,” she explained, pleasantly. “He hails from Enultramar, as you do. I figured it would be a novelty to meet someone from there so far away from the sea. Master Moudrost, this is my husband’s apprentice, Ruderal of Culch.”

  “Hail, Ruderal,” Moudrost said, dutifully, as he gave a slight bow. “You are from the Great Bay?”

  “Aye, Seamage,” Ruderal said, calmly. “I was born in the northeastern side.”

  “Was your sire a mariner?” Moudrost asked, pleasantly.

  “That was what my mother told me, Master Moudrost,” he agreed. “He went to sea and never returned.”

  “Alas, that is how all too many families’ stories run, in the Great Bay,” the seamage sighed. “The sea is a dangerous place, for humans. I, myself, was left fatherless when I was just a bit older than you,” he recalled. “I was raised by my uncle, until my Talent emerged. My sire was a mariner, drowned on the passage to the Shattered Sea.”

  “Mine was selected to join the Sea Brethren, and left my mother bereft,” Ruderal continued, with icy calm.

  “Was he?” Moudrost asked in surprise. “What was his name? There are hundreds of us affiliated with each pod, but it is possible I know him.”

  “I know not his name – my mother kept that secret close,” Ruderal confessed. “I know only that he was Talented, and became a Brother. Her name,” he continued, with sudden emphasis, “is Chaterny.”

  I watched as the big seamage recognized the name. It took only a moment, but Moudrost soon realized what the lad was implying.

  “Chaterny?” he whispered, his eyes wide. “Chaterny of Solasport?”

  “Well, we lived near the sewers of the Culch, if you must know, but that’s where Solasport’s refuse spilled into the sea, so near enough.”

  “Chaterny? She . . . she’s alive?”

  “Alive, hale and living a good life inland,” Ruderal agreed, defiantly.

  “You are . . . my son!” the wizard finally pronounced, as he suddenly realized what Ruderal was implying.

  “Possibly,” Rudy shrugged, coming closer to the fire. “The bullies in town swore that anyone in the fleet could be my father, and that my mother was a liar, but . . .”

  “Is this possible?” Moudrost asked, his brow suddenly furrowed and a tear in his eye. “When I . . . I left . . . when I was selected . . .”

  “I can cast the spell right now,” I suggested, gesturing toward the Magolith. “Let us settle the matter at once. With your permission?”

  Moudrost managed a nod, as more tears erupted across his craggy cheek. Ruderal, too, nodded, without sparing me a glance. Quietly, I summoned energy from the Magolith and built the spell. The results were not decisive, merely suggestive, but I’d never seen a clearer result in my experience.

  “It appears that you are, indeed, Ruderal’s sire,” I pronounced, when the answer came to me.

  “I . . . I have a son!” Moudrost said to himself in a harsh whisper. The admission seemed to wrought a change in the man’s demeanor.

  “And you, Ruderal, have a father,” I agreed.

  “Master, he abandoned my mother to go to sea,” Ruderal reminded me, emotion in his voice.

  “Had I known she was pregnant I would have refused the summons!” Moudrost countered. “I had a great love for Chaterny,” he insisted. “Indeed, it was a burden on my heart that I left her for the Brethren. But I urged her to find a better life without me, and a better husband. Life as a mariner’s wife is dismal, and the Brethren do not marry, as a rule, as it is even more unfair to both parties.”

  “Well, you certainly followed that rule,” Ruderal said, dryly. “I have no doubt she did not tell you she was with child to spare you the decision.”

  “She was like that,” Moudrost admitted, a fond grin breaking through the stream of tears running into his beard. “Always thinking of others over herself.”

  “She still is,” Rudy hissed. “We lived in a sewer for a decade, after you left. She was harassed by the townsfolk. I was beaten by bullies. We nearly starved. When my rajira emerged and my sport Talent flared, I was kidnapped by the Brotherhood of the Rat, sold to the gurvani, and forced to do . . . things I didn’t want to do. Then they kidnapped her, too, to ensure my compliance. It was an . . . adventurous life,” he said, condemningly.

  “But you said she was well, and living inland . . .?” Moudrost said, confused.

  “She is now,” Ruderal agreed, crossing his arms. “But only after some friends of mine rescued us both and gave her a place to hide.”

  “I . . . lad, I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Moudrost began. For the first time since I’d met the man, his thick veneer of otherworldliness was gone. He was not Moudrost Dryspeaker, servant to the powerful Vundel, he was a man who suddenly bore a great burden he hadn’t expected was even there.

  “Don’t concern yourself with it,” Ruderal said, proudly. “We managed just fine without you!”

  “I . . . think this is an opportunity for the both of you,” I said, gently. “Ruderal, it’s clear that your father had no idea that you even existed – does not your Talent recognize his sincerity?”

  “Aye,” Ruderal agreed, reluctantly. “He speaks the truth about that.”

  “Master Moudrost, I am guessing that, had you known, you would have made different decisions, thirteen years ago,” I continued, smoothly. “And by whatever fortune or divine whimsy brought you together, this far from the sea, I suggest you spend a few hours discussing the matter. Having recently spent a few weeks with my own father, on the road, I am nearly certain both of you will benefit from the experience.”

  “I . . . have a son!” Moudrost repeated.

  “But do I have a father?” Ruderal challenged. “Aye, you may have sired me, Sir, but what use is this revelation if it is of only passing interest to you? We have made our way in the world thus far without you.”

  “This is a complicated matter,” Moudrost murmured. “And it should and will be discussed. But first . . . let me at least look at you,” he said, suddenly, and cast an additional magelight above us. “Let me look upon my son and commit your face to memory. You may hate me whilst I do so, if you wish,” he conceded, with a certain humor, “but please grant me that boon.”

  “You may stare until your eyes fall out of your head, Sir,” Ruderal agreed, as the seamage came closer.

  “Rudy!” Alya reproved. “Please maintain your manners in my house!”

  “Sorry, my lady,” Ruderal grumbled, and presented himself.

  “Aye . . . I see my own sire in your eyes and nose,” Moudrost decided. “And a bit of my uncle in your ears and hair. But those lips and chin are Chaterny’s,” he decided. “A face full of the people I loved. And you’re a mage!” he added, smiling. “Not merely a mage, but apprenticed to the most powerful wizard in the Five Duchies!”

  “Ruderal’s Talents are exceptional,” I agreed. “Perhaps unique. When he came to me, I felt compell
ed to hone them. He has proven instrumental in my studies – even in constructing the Magolith,” I added, proudly. “His rajira lends itself to enchantment, especially enneagrammatic enchantment. But he is a brave a noble boy. Not only did he betray the gurvani and the Brotherhood to save the lives of two of my former apprentices, just a few days ago he slipped away from me in battle and slew the commander of the enemy army that attacked us.”

  “He . . . my son went to war?” Moudrost asked, scandalized.

  “He went with his master,” Alya corrected. “His master happened to be at war. But he is no warmage, nor has he aspirations in that regard, I think. From what my lord husband and his colleagues say, he has a unique ability with the arcane that is far superior to mere warmagic.”

  “I’m the one who transferred the Handmaiden,” he bragged. “And that was—”

  “What handmaiden?” Moudrost asked, sharply.

  “That is merely what we call the paraclete that was installed in my Magolith,” I said, trying to control the course of the conversation. I had hoped that no mention of either the Handmaiden’s or the Celestial Mother’s enneagrams would arise with Moudrost. Lilastien had warned me against such things.

  “Would you like to see it?” Ruderal asked, suddenly. “Really see it? Master, could he?”

  “My son helped build . . . this?” he asked, indicating the green and gold sphere. “Wizards toys have little interest to me, ordinarily, but if my son helped build it . . .”

  “Of course,” I said, and with great misgiving floated the sphere over to hover in front of the seamage. I watched nervously as he summoned magesight, or whatever fishy equivalent the Brethren used, and began probing the Magolith. I sent a calming command to the paraclete within, cautioning against any defensive action.

  In just a few moments Moudrost’s face turned from his eagerness to a look of dread and horror. He uttered a litany in a language I’d never heard before, a strange, alien tongue filled with guttural sounds and clicking.

  “What have you done?” he finally finished, in Narasi. His face was pale and his eyes were stricken. “Do you realize—”

  “Yes, actually,” I interrupted. “Nor must we discuss the particulars at the moment. There is plenty of time for that, later. Right now,” I continued, recalling the Magolith, “is the time you should be getting acquainted with your son. Airing grievances. Discussing the future. Once you have gotten to know your son and made accord with him, I am more than happy to discuss the consequences of his work.”

  “Come, my husband, let us retire and allow the two of them to speak,” Alya agreed, setting her cup down and taking my arm. “If you need anything – well, Rudy knows what to do. Please consider the hospitality of Spellmonger’s Hall to be yours for the duration of your stay. Ruderal, see to quarters for our guest before you retire, please.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Rudy replied, with a mixture of sullen acceptance and eager anticipation. “It appears we have much to discuss.”

  “Did you know?” I asked, as I led her up the stairs to our chamber.

  “That the wizard was the boy’s sire? Not exactly. But I suspected that there was some issue between them. When he heard that Moudrost was here, Ruderal’s manner changed. After that, I just made some astute guesses.”

  “It was a secret he’d shared with me, alone,” I told her. “I don’t think harm was done – to Ruderal – but it might become problematic if Moudrost’s masters discover the experiments I’ve been doing. Under no circumstances should you mention the Snowflake, for instance. That might inspire an unpredictable result.”

  “He does have a . . . I don’t know how to describe it, Min,” she sighed, as we got to our bedchamber. “When he did that spell to look at the Magolith, there was something . . . familiar in it. Different than when you do magic. But familiar.”

  “The Brethren use magic derived from the Vundel, as he said,” I pointed out. “No doubt the treatments you’ve been getting from the Handmaiden have made you more sensitive to that sort of thing.”

  As reassuring as I tried to sound, in truth I was a little concerned with Alya’s recognition. She didn’t have rajira, after all. While even non-Talented folk can sometimes sense magical fields and spellwork, being able to distinguish between styles of magic is something even trained magi have difficulty with.

  Yet she had picked it up at a casual glance.

  “Ruderal has a lot of anger pent up over his missing sire,” I continued. “For years he believed his father perished at sea. He had an image of a great seamage dying in a struggle against the elements, or pirates, or something. Now he’s confronted with a living, breathing sire and that image is shattered. He must construct it anew.”

  “Does it really matter what a boy thinks of his father?” she asked, as she began to undress for bed after our exhausting day.

  “Extremely,” I nodded, solemnly, as I helped her with the fastenings on her gown. “Nature instructs women on how to contend with motherhood as a matter of course,” I explained, “but it takes a father – or a father-like figure – to establish for a boy what it is to be a man. Thus far, Rondal and Tyndal and I have done that for the lad. Now he has a real father to work into that equation. It’s going to be confusing.”

  “With such good examples at hand, one wonders why a relative stranger would become so important,” she mused.

  “Because we look to our sires as portals to our greater ancestry, perhaps,” I suggested. “More, we seek examples. In some cases, as mine, they are examples to emulate. For other sons, they are examples to avoid. Rudy must learn who his father is and make the decision which course to take.”

  Before I slept that night I reached out to Lilastien, mind-to-mind. After the battle, she’d retired back to Sartha Wood, to the Tower of Refuge, as the weather there was more pleasant than the field hospital she’d been running in Vanador. But she needed to know about the new development.

  Oh, Min, this is troubling! she agreed, when I’d informed her about Moudrost’s discovery. Not that the lad met his sire, but that his sire knows of the Handmaiden, now. Has he learned of the Snowflake and the Celestial Mother within?

  No, and Ruderal knows enough, I hope, to conceal that from him. I’ve said as much to him in the past. I’m hoping that Moudrost’s loyalty to his species is more powerful than his loyalty to the Vundel.

  That might not be the safest wager, Min, Lilastien reproved.

  No, but it’s the wager I have to make. As it is, he’s taking me for another mountain. One that is smack in the middle of the Westwood. But he did grant me a three-year extension to finish my work on the Snowstone spell. That’s something.

  Only three years? Lilastien asked, even more troubled. I appreciate your abilities, Minalan, and I fully support your effort, but when a spell involves divine magic, I fear that there is a chance that it might never be understood.

  You think you fear that? That thought wakes me up in terror on a regular basis. I’ve got the best minds in the Kingdom working on it, and we’re making progress. And in three years much could happen, I reminded her. I could figure out the spell. I could be slain in battle. I could be executed by the Prince for some reason. I could choke on a fish bone and die. Anything could happen, I suggested, lamely.

  Your optimism knows no bounds, Lilastien said, dryly. I suppose it’s something, she admitted. Not much. But something. Three years is like three deep breaths, to the Vundel.

  I did manage to secure more ainakurkas for the forges, out of the deal for the second mountain, I pointed out. That will be useful. With more of it, Master Suhi suggests he can build even more powerful magical weapons.

  That will come in handy as we’re all struggling in the turmoil of eviction, Lilastien dismissed. Min, you must get this seamage on our side. If he returns to his pod with a negative report, or informs them that you’ve been mucking around with the spirits of their revered ancestors, there will be problems. The kind of problems that destroy civilizations.

 
; I’m hoping his attachment to his newfound son will be sufficient leverage, if that goes well. I’m not certain an appeal to his humanity will do it. The Brethren seem completely detached from human affairs.

  That’s not far from wrong, she agreed. The Alka Alon kindred who devoted themselves to the Vundel are about as divorced from the rest of our society as one could ask. But both they and the Sea Brethren are necessary, if we want to speak to the Vundel beyond official channels.

  There are official channels? I asked, surprised.

  Of course there are, she explained. When both our races came to this world, the decision to allow us to settle had to be made and officially extended. As part of that agreement, both of our races maintain an official presence on what can be described as the Drylands Council. When great matters affecting the entire world arise, that is where directives and requests are managed from.

  How come this is the first time I’m hearing of this?

  I thought you knew, she countered. I forget, sometimes, that you’ve only been around for about as long as my most recent bunion. The Drylands Council meets on the other side of the world, on an island where the Vundel and the other great races can meet and discuss such matters. It doesn’t happen often. Indeed, the last time it happened it was to admit the humani to our world, I believe.

  So who sits on this council representing humanity? I demanded. Do the Vundel just send a delegation to the Dukes – I suppose it would be the King, now – and ask for an ambassador?

  Oh, goodness, no! Lilastien said. There is a colony of humani proximate to the island, and the great kingdoms of the Alka Alon in the region, who were designated by the original colonial government to represent your race and its interests. In the unlikely event that the Vundel wanted to direct your race, they would issue their dictates through the Drylands Council. For example, if they decided to wipe out humanity because they discovered you were screwing around with their sacred ancestors, that’s where they would inform you of that decision . . . before they summarily wiped out humanity.