Magic's Genesis- Sword of Wilmamen

by Rosaire Bushey

  “It is a ruin, your grace,” Relin offered.

  “It is empty, yes,” Ilsit replied in a more even tone, warning with his eyes that Relin should approach the matter of the city carefully. “But it has been hard used by the Qorghal and is hardly a place fit for your people. It will require many years, I think, before it can be inhabited again in a way that provides a measure of security.”

  Ilsit’s tone, and the fact Graenel knew him to be a chief of his own people, dimmed the glow in the king’s eyes somewhat, and he turned his attention instead to the women at the table.

  “How did you fare in that place, wielder? Haustis?” The stories that Lydria and her sister had told so far spent much time talking about the dragons. She wanted the Chag Ca’Grae to look upon the creatures with wonder and respect, not fear, but their presence with Wynter would make that difficult.

  Lydria felt tired and slow. The strain of not being able to use magic ate away at her energy and she tried to smile at the king’s question, but her lips barely moved. “The Qorghal have left little to rebuild, I’m afraid,” she finally answered, understanding that Ilsit was working to ensure the Chags did not move too quickly to reclaim what was once theirs. “What they didn’t destroy, they let nature reclaim. While some walls still stand, you will need to fend off the forest itself to reclaim your home, and when you do, you will not find the glorious homes from your stories and songs. You will find a place devoid of song and bright spirits.”

  Graenel looked as if he had been told his children had died, and Lydria quickly spoke again and softened her words. “If I may be so bold, good king, I would advise slow caution regarding Nethyngal. Send a small party to make a careful inventory of the place so that you may know the work that lies ahead for your people before you move south.”

  Pausing and remembering how the Chags had lost Nethyngal when some moved to Safarngal, Lydria added, “Graenel,” the king looked up and Lydria held his hand. It was her intent to comfort him with her magic, but it didn’t come, and so she smiled instead, which seemed to have much the same effect, smoothing the lines of his face, and causing him to break into a grin that showed his large square teeth. “Sire,” she started again, still holding his large hand in both her own, “Remember how some of your people moved north and what it meant for Nethyngal. Look around you – would you risk all that you have built here for a ruin?”

  Graenel pulled his hand slowly from hers and his face hardened, but his smile did not disappear entirely. “I remember, wielder, and I hear the wisdom both you and Ilsit preach. I will consider your advice and we will proceed slowly. But,” he looked around at his guests before he continued, “the City of Nethyngal belongs to us, and we shall have it back.”

  Ilsit and Lydria nodded their agreement, and Lydria excused herself while Graenel sat engrossed in the stories of the Eifen. In her rooms, Lydria lay under a woolen blanket, and was surprised to find Kimi there. The lamp she had brought with her showed plates and bowls with the remains of his dinner, and she stroked his ears and spoke to him. If he responded, she didn’t hear it and she fell asleep with tears in her eyes.

  The next morning, Kimi followed her to the river where they both washed. The cat would not leave her side. They spent the day getting to know Safarngal, watching men and women use their fingers to create a new carving on a blank rock wall to the north of where their city ended. She couldn’t determine what the relief was going to be, but she thought perhaps Kimi was in it. The Chags worked in fine detail using the tips of their fingers to pinch and remove small slivers of stone or curl up their fingers to remove strips of rock like a hunter with a knife would skin a deer. It was Hokra who found them while the sun shone down on the artist’s work.

  “You have chosen a lovely spot to watch. I too, used to watch the artists when I was a boy. I was always fascinated at how they could do such fine work. My fingers are useful for only breaking off great clumps of rock; although when I was a child, my father did try to have a tutor show me how to finesse the stone. ‘Finesse is as important to a king as brute force,’ he would tell me. ‘You have plenty of the latter and almost none of the former. Maybe you will not find it in the arts, but before you can lead the Chags, you must find your finesse’.” Hokra sat next to Lydria and sighed quickly, a satisfied noise that told her he had been thinking about his father when he came upon her.

  “And have you?”

  “Found my finesse?”

  “Yes. It seems your father has an important point. You need to find something to center yourself so that when you rule, you are doing it from a place of calm and discretion.”

  Hokra gently laid his hand on Lydria’s shoulder. She could tell he was holding the weight off, but still his palm and fingers covered her entire shoulder. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I have. And you will too.” He stood up and held his hand for her to take and stand. “Pars wants to speak with us.”

  They found Pars deep under the town, far beneath and to the side of the river where the air was cool and dry. Hokra had left Pars with several spheres of floating light that followed him as he moved through the caverns that held dozens of shelves of wood and stone, and rock walls that were carved to hold boxes, scrolls, urns, pots and other containers that made the man squeak with delight when opened.

  Hearing Hokra and Lydria, Haustis and Relin, Pars didn’t even look up. He was sitting at a large table in the middle of the room, the surface piled high with books and scrolls that had been opened carefully and piled neatly to either side. In front of him now, commanding his attention, was a box about the length of his arm and perhaps half as wide and deep. He held the corners of the box in his hands and stared. “I have been looking at this box for several minutes, not wanting to open it until you arrived. I am glad you are all here.” Pars looked up to Hokra and his entire face was smiling. “This is the single most magnificent collection of works I have ever seen. It would take an archivist a lifetime to write the history that is contained here – and oh, what a history it would be. There are works from Eigraenal, Nethyngal, some of the cities of Eastern Wesolk, and from places across the Eastern Sea. At one time, some of Hokra’s people traveled extensively to collect these works or found them in some other way.”

  Lydria and Hokra found benches and sat down, knowing Pars would talk for a long time and, truth be told, Lydria was enjoying the excitement evident in the man’s face and voice. He has found his finesse, obviously, she thought to herself, absently stroking Kimi’s ears, that cat having followed them down to the caverns.

  “It eases my heart to hear that our archives impress you,” Hokra told him, casting a knowing glance to Lydria. “Many generations ago, Nethyngal was an important trading center, and people from around Eigrae would come to us for what we took from the ground. They would pay us sometimes with items from their own lands, and often with what you see here. Long before we left Nethyngal, we moved much of our archive here. These caverns are a better place to preserve, and protect, them, than the archive in Nethyngal. It was, looking back, a wise move as this would all be most assuredly destroyed had we left it in our ancestral home.”

  Pars’ face dimmed a bit as the sadness of Hokra’s voice echoed off the walls and faded to silence. “I think it was very wise indeed,” Pars acknowledged. “When I came here, I did not expect to find more than a few dusty scroll cases but when I saw this,” he held his arms up to the room as if in supplication to a god, “well, I spent quite a long time just deciphering how it was organized. Then, I saw a familiar name – Wilmamen. It appears that the Graetongue of Eigraenal spoke with Wilmamen and she had the uncommon good sense to have it written down. Wilmamen’s mission was to bring her sword to the east, to find the keeper of the new spirit, and bestow the sword upon him. Or her, as it might be,” Pars added, looking significantly at Lydria. “The Graetongue had a vision…” Pars moved his hands quickly, carefully moving several pieces of vellum and parchment, standing as he searched his table.

  Haustis moved to the other
side of the table from Pars and bent her knees, keeping her face level with the table top, sniffing twice and reaching out to her right, moving several items and handing Pars a small sheet of darkness. “There is Farn’Nethyn in this hall,” she said. “More than this, I think,” she nodded to the tablet Pars held. The others all stood now, crowding around Pars and looking at the tablet where silver lines of Eifen script seemed to float in pure nothingness.

  “This tablet recalls the Graetongue’s vision,” Pars explained. “Perhaps Relin would like to read it?”

  The Eifen accepted the stone carefully, holding it close to him and looking at the words written in pure silver inlaid into the Farn’Nethyn tablet. Lydria could see he was shaking as he held a piece of his heritage.

  “Ignae, Graetongue of Eigraenal: The spirits showed me a vision. A vision in which the door to the spirit realm was closed fast so that only the dead might enter. Without the spirits, the living will have bestowed upon them a new power, a power I cannot name, shown only to me as a sphere of blue. I have seen also a Farn’Nethyn blade. When the blade and the blue sphere are joined, that will mark the closing of the spirit world to spirits of the living; but at the same time provide the key to the spirit world for living souls.”

  Pars sat down when Relin had finished reading and turned his attention back to the box in front of him. “Amidst all the documents I’ve had time to read, several have led me here, to this box,” Pars explained. “I do not know what it contains, in truth, I was afraid to open it by myself. It may provide answers, or it may be empty.” Pars exhaled slowly and pressed his fingers on the lid. An audible click unlatched the top of the box and it rose smoothly until the lid reached back and touched the table, exposing its contents. Hokra made the lights brighter so they could just make out another Farn’Nethyn tablet below a small sword.

  Haustis reached past Pars and took the sword. It was slightly longer than a dagger and made of Farn’Nethyn with the silver strands that weaved a net pattern over the hilt the only part of the weapon to reflect the light. Two blades, much like the single blade Relin carried with him, stood spine to spine, their shallow curves producing an oddly shaped gap between the spines. One blade was slightly shorter than the other, and the points did not touch, nor did any part of the two blades. Relin reached out to take the blade from Haustis and cut his finger on the edge. “It’s sharp,” he exclaimed, both surprised and delighted at the workmanship.

  “It is rare that such a model would be made for a weapon,” Relin said, understanding the weapon to be a trial for the larger, full-sized weapon they sought.

  “This is not any weapon,” Haustis replied, now holding the tablet and scanning it quickly before reading it out loud. “I have spent years reading, learning, and then forging the double-bladed sword of Farn’Nethyn with a single purpose - to enter the spirit world, free the dark spirits imprisoned there, and keep the power of the blue sphere from closing off the spirit world forever. I have seen in my dreams the power of the blue sphere of which Ignae speaks. It must not be allowed to spread, for surely only death follows in its wake. In my vision, only the power of the dark spirits can stand against the blue sphere, and only this weapon will open their prison in the spirit world.’

  The diary of Wae Wilmamen, on the eve of her journey to the east.”

  Lydria couldn’t suppress a small shudder. “We need to speak with Burvig.”

  Codex of the Prime Wielder

  On Children and Magic

  There is no way to know for certain what the future will hold, but there is a question Lydria and I have been discussing since Perryn touched a Stone of Power and was granted a collar. What happens to the children borne of wielders?

  We surmise that as there is no stone for the child, she will be born without magical abilities. There is no reason to think otherwise.

  Yet, Perryn and I may not be the key to discovering an answer as we have had no fortune in conceiving a child.

  We do not yet know if the dragons are able to reproduce either. If so, will they maintain the intelligence of their parents, or will they become animals in the way of cows and horses?

  On the chance the dragons can reproduce, we need to contact them and perhaps create an understanding between wielders and dragons. Approaching them peacefully, as partners may win us an opportunity that aggression will certainly not. Lydria believes, and I agree, that we must make the first move and do it quickly.

  It may be that there will be no more than thirty wielders in all Eigrae, but Haustis believes that not to be true. The spirits, she tells us, warn of a far more widespread danger with magic.

  We must learn if magic can be passed to children – even those who will not wear a collar.

  Grettune

  24 - The Golden Palace

  A palanquin arrived just before dusk. Krieger and Perryn waited by the front door with their possessions in a small box. Their wanderings of the last weeks had left them with several souvenirs and gifts they intended to bring home to Wesolk. Grettune arrived at last from the kitchens, wiping her mouth and rinsing from a bowl Ishka handed her as she followed the wielder to the door.

  “Are you well, my dear,” Perryn asked, his voice high pitched with concern. For the last few days Grettune had been getting sick with some regularity, an oddity considering she had been pregnant for some time and was now visibly so.

  “I am well, and we should go. Let’s get this over with.” Krieger held the door for her and offered his hand as she alighted the steps into the palanquin. Eight sturdy bald men carried them from their lodgings to the Golden Palace at the heart of the city. Despite not having an official from the Dynast’s household with them, the three said nothing but watched as the dust-covered streets gave way to clean, paved roads, and the introduction of palm trees which lined the broad avenues of the city center. Workers hauled clay jugs filled with water and emptied them at the base of the trees. The temperature seemed cooler here than on the outskirts of town, and they could hear moving water. The palanquin did not stop for anything, sometimes bumping smaller carriages or people out of the way as they passed. Only when they reached a gate did the eight men stop, in unison, smoothly slowing down and resting the carriage on stone pillars designed for this use. The door was opened from the outside, and Krieger looked out and saw a man in red robes, heavily adorned with rings on each finger, necklaces, earrings, and makeup. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, his hands clasped in front of him over his stomach. Someone else had opened the door, most likely a slave whom Krieger didn’t bother to acknowledge. In their time in Dar’Ahlmon, they had learned that to recognize the lower classes made them look weak and unworthy of the Dynast’s time.

  “Good evening, Emissary Krieger, and your companions, the Wielders Perryn and Grettune.” The man smiled warmly at the three of them, and noticing Grettune’s condition, his eyes widened for only a moment, and he turned and said something quickly to a servant who was standing silently behind him. The servant ran off, and the man turned again, bowing slightly. “My apologies, I was not aware there was a member of your party who was with child. I have sent for a pillow cart.” He smiled again at Grettune and offered his congratulations on her good fortune. “Children are a gift from the gods, and their mothers unto the gods themselves during this time.” Grettune smiled and nodded her thanks, stifling a grimace as a cramp wracked her midsection again. After a moment of silence, Krieger cleared his throat, and the man, turned his attention back to him.

  “My pardon, Emissary Krieger. My name is Duz’enbah, and I am a personal minister to his Eminence the Dynast, and one of the five members of the Pednast. The Dynast wishes me to grant you the freedom of the Golden Palace, and a suite will be appointed for you and your special guests.” The word special fell from Duz’enbah’s mouth with an inflection that could have been his accent with an unfamiliar language, or because he was busy looking at the collars worn by both Grettune and Perryn. Realizing his mistake, the minister recovered quickly, adding, “To have bot
h an emissary of Wesolk and two wielders in the Golden Palace can only mean the gods smile upon the wisdom of his Eminence’s decision to open discussions with your king.”

  The cart Duz’enbah had promised clattered across the pavers moments after he had finished speaking, and Grettune could see at once that his description of the vehicle cart was not unjustified. The vehicle was a low wooden cart on large wheels covered in leather and pulled by a young camel. The cart itself was covered with pillows, cushions and thin fabrics, and Duz’enbah practically beamed at Grettune as he offered his hand to help her into the cart. “This cart is used only by the betrothed of his Eminence the Dynast,” he said in low voice. “It is an honor for this particular cart to have been sent for you.”

  The meaning in Duz’enbah’s tone was clear, to even politely refuse a ride in the cart would be taken as an insult to the Dynast, and thus to Dar’Ahlmon. Grettune, thanked Duz’enbah profusely, and Perryn too, praised the Dynast for his generosity toward his wife in showing her such special favor.

  The men walked to the side of the cart as it made its way through the gate into the center of the city and the Golden Palace. The secondary wall around the palace, Krieger noted, was no match for the great wall that surrounded the city, but it would halt even a determined enemy long enough for the defenders to inflict horrible casualties.

  Through the gate, the grounds of the palace resembled Wesolk more than the desert outside Dar’Ahlmon. Small irrigation canals carried water to all areas of the grounds feeding gardens, orchards, crops, and thick, deep thorn hedges that made yet another wall for attackers to navigate. Past the hedges, the walkways widened, lined with statues on marble plinths, covered benches, small pools where several people cooled their feet, and the doors to the Golden Palace itself. Grettune shared her thoughts with Krieger and Perryn that she was surprised there wasn’t a moat and a drawbridge into the palace. Krieger responded that the entire grounds were laid out so that enemies would be funneled into narrow alleys. A moat and a drawbridge would disturb the opulence of the palace for little in the way of defensive gain. Besides, Krieger added, not having the moat sent the message that the Dynast was confident in his defenses. Those who thought otherwise, were playing into the hand of the defenders in underestimating their capabilities.