Gemworld (43 page)

“But magic is based on the linking together of concepts,” an amethyst argued in one such meeting. “If we just open ourselves to mana and let it have its way, how can we expect to shape it into a viable spell?” The other students, two sapphires and a ruby, nodded their assent.

Sal tried to stifle a yawn, but was unsuccessful. Rubbing the cobwebs from his eyes, he touched the emerald soulgem, letting its essence fill him, driving sleep away for a little while longer. He felt an artificial wakefulness, almost like the buzz he used to get by drinking large amounts of coffee. It wasn’t ideal, but it was enough for now.

“You’re not letting mana just have its way completely,” he countered. “All you’re really doing is shifting your focus from the individual tasks to your final goal.”

The others offered up no sign of understanding. They just stood there, staring at him like deer caught in the headlights of a Mack truck. Sal sighed. He wasn’t surprised, really. All they knew about magic was what they had learned in class, or from other mages who’d learned the same stuff. What Sal was claiming ran counter to everything they’d ever been taught about magic, so it was no wonder that his explanation was completely lost on them. He needed a common ground, so he tried a different approach.

“Patrys,” he indicated the younger of the sapphires, a Northern Plains girl of about sixteen. “Do you know what a canal is?”

“Aye,” she replied, somewhat surprised by the question. “‘Tis a man-made river designed to carry water and vessels to places before inaccessible.” She turned her eyes down, self-conscious of the way being called upon had flustered her, heightening her Scottish-sounding accent. Sal could relate, stress doing the same thing for his South Alabama twang.

“Exactly,” he said enthusiastically. “A man-made river. Every aspect of it is predetermined—course, width, depth, source and destination. It’s a draining, time-consuming process simply to plan it out, let alone to construct.

“That is how Mana Theory teaches you to wield.
Shol
’
tuk
teaches you to see the destination. When you focus on where you want the river to go, and not so much on how it will get there, all you have to do is build a dam here, or a dike there, and let the river cut its
own
path.”

The ruby and amethyst students remained perplexed, but Patrys’ eyes went wide with revelation, as did those of the other sapphire, Ged. Just as quickly as it came, though, elation gave way to frustration. “How?” asked Ged, not falling back into doubt but still confused.

Looking around, Sal spied a rain barrel a few paces away. “Follow me,” he said, thinking as he walked. The barrel had been drawn from throughout the day, and was about half full. Still, it would do nicely for his purposes.

“Ged, fill it,” Sal commanded. The young man’s eyes flashed in reply, and the barrel filled to brimming. “Good. Now form a pocket of air in the center.”

Ged balked. “I haven’t been taught how to—”

“I’m not interested in what you’ve been taught,” Sal rebuked, the edge in his voice firm, but not harsh. “You’ve got the source—mana. You’ve got the destination—an air pocket. You’ve got the dam. Now, build me a river,” he said, jabbing a finger at the rain barrel.

The other looked at him uncertainly, but obeyed. Ged turned his gaze on the rain barrel, and his face knotted in concentration. His eyes flashed brightly, blazing an almost neon blue as he wielded. The water within the barrel sloshed and churned, shaking loose the air bubbles that had formed along the walls of the barrel, but no air pocket formed. Ged released Sapphire with an explosive breath, and doubled over panting from exertion.

“Forget building the concepts,” Sal reminded gently. “Focus on the end result.” The other made no reply, only shook his head as he panted.

Before Sal could say another word, Patrys stepped forward, her eyes already blazing with sapphire magic. She clenched her fists at her sides, and her brows furrowed with concentration. She wielded, and again the water churned within the barrel.

All present—Sal included—were amazed to see an air pocket form just beneath the surface of the churning water. The bubble expanded, pushing water over the rim of the barrel as it grew. Finally, it broke the surface. Water slid down the side of a faint blue but otherwise invisible dome, leaving a smooth indentation about a foot wide and deep, clearly visible and still in the otherwise churning rainwater.

Sal stepped forward and reached into the air pocket, touching the tip of his finger to the bottom of the “bubble”. It gave, wetting his finger, but the pocket remained intact. He pulled his arm out to show the students that it was still dry, save for the finger. All ran forward to test the pocket for themselves. All except for Patrys, who was laughing giddily and clapping, her eyes still blazing its evidence of the magic she was wielding.

“And that’s how we do it,” Sal breathed approvingly to a deaf audience.

He gave similar lessons almost daily, each with a new group of students, each student a new victory. His teaching spread throughout the troop like wildfire, bringing with it some unexpected results.

“Explain yourself, Subsergeant,” Master Aten’rih bellowed, spittle and the smell of stale garlic flying from the Ysrean’s mouth.

“Clean living, sir!” Sal shot back, standing stiffly at attention.

“Don’t give me that
minta
’
hk
dung, Sal! I’ve seen you weaving your way around the camp, first with this group, then with that group, never more than a handful at a time.”

“Just getting a feel for the men, sir. A good leader has to know his troops.”

“Well, they’re getting to know you, alright. Not a day goes by that I don’t get requests for night duty with you.
No one
likes pulling night duty, much less requests it. What? You got some sort of prostitution ring going behind my back?”

“I
do
have a way with the ladies, sir,” he said with mock sincerity. Sal knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help pushing Master Aten’rih’s buttons. The guy was being a jerk and he had it coming to him. Besides, he was starting to hit pretty close to the mark—prostitution ring notwithstanding—and Sal needed to find a way to distract him.

The barrel-chested mage snorted at the comment and turned on his heel, stalked around the far side of his desk and sat down. Like the rest of the commander’s tent, Aten’rih’s desk was simple, functional but unadorned. No decorations. No missives from his family, if he had any. Just sturdy-built and battle-scarred, like its owner, who fumed at Sal from behind it.

“I don’t know what your game is, but I do know this. All four companies are increasing in magical skill, both offensively and defensively. Even given the high level of training of some of the cadets, the things that they are doing are impressive. Just this morning, young Densin, that idiot from Tribean’s squad, sprouted wings on his back.
Wings
, for Prophets’ sake! Do you know how long it took to wield those things off of him?”

Wings? I hadn’t thought of that
, Sal admitted to himself.
Can’t wait to try
...

“Everything you’ve shown me since Summerheight has led me to view you as independent, if not downright insubordinate.” He glowered at Sal once more, then softened ever so slightly. “And quite possibly the most natural leader that I’ve ever trained. Which is why, though it galls me to no end, I’m placing you in charge of Harvest security next week. As you know, the local constabulary takes holiday for the Festival. As does the main body of the Granite Spire, who travel to Schel Veylin to celebrate with the Highest. That leaves it up to us to keep the peace. You will command the four Ranks—under my supervision—and you will be responsible for maintaining law and order in Bastion for the four days of the Festival. Let’s see what you can do with a real command.”

Sal swelled with pride he hadn’t experienced since Annapolis, and he snapped off a smart salute, sweeping his fist as he would his sword, from left breast to right hip.

“Remember this,” the big emerald cautioned. “Bastion is an island nation. Small, yes, but powerful. And far away from the rest of the world. Your Ma and Pa ain’t here. Your commander ain’t here. The Highest ain’t here. On this island, we have to rely on each other, so I expect your absolute best. Anything less would be... unfortunate.”

Sal bowed his head respectfully at the admonition, and was dismissed.

As he walked back to the barracks in the afternoon sun, he replayed the emerald’s warning. There was something ominous about it. Something... significant. Or maybe it was just the way that Aten’rih had said it. It had seemed both hopeful and fearful at the same time, almost as if...

Bah, it’s probably nothing,
he told himself. Brushing the thought aside, he concentrated on the Harvest security detail, and how he could best take advantage of his good fortune.

The Festival of Harvest
, Reit sighed inwardly.
It’s finally upon us
.

Few holidays stirred the blood of the people like the Five Festivals. They were quite the occasions, each one falling on the central three days of their respective month.

Whitesong, the month of the winter snows, boasted the Festival of New Year. It was a time when everyone took stock of their lives and their relationships, celebrating the lives of those lost to them in the previous year, and looking forward to new life in the coming year. It was a time to give honor to the Crafter for all things, to bless His creation, and to give thanks to Him for His emissary, the Highest, and for the promise of
messac’el
. Sal had once nicknamed the Festival
Krismus
, in reflection of a similar holiday in his world.

With the first thaws came Newbreath, and the Festival of Courting. This was when children became adults, friends became lovers, and parents became in-laws. It was quite stylish for a couple to be wed during that romantic time when the earth was just waking from its long sleep. Arranged marriages were the rule in the major cities, where the status of one’s House was all important. They were very rare in the smaller towns and villages, however. It seemed pointless to bend one’s heart to such a tradition in a place where happiness was not based on political standing.

Next came Greenfield, and the Festival of Sowing. This festival celebrated that season when the newly green earth gave way to the brown of the tilled field. Though technically a holiday, labor was encouraged rather than shirked. Villages often banded together to build houses for newlyweds, plow fields for aging farmers, and round up debris left by the storm-racked weeks following winter. This debris was normally gathered together in the village green, where it fed a huge bonfire on the last night of Sowing. Young miscreants were known to chop down good timber to keep the bonfire going long into the night. It was a practice frowned upon by older, more practical folk, but was not punished… especially considering that they had once been the miscreants themselves!

The heat of summer brought the month of Sunglory, and its Festival, Summerheight. To the young, this festival was the dearest three days of the year, as all work was expressly forbidden where not absolutely necessary. River parties, dances, and fireworks displays were the order of these festivals. Yearly contests of strength and skill were held, with trophies and bragging rights going to the victors. Unfortunately, celebrants often got carried away with their excessive merriment, so it was not uncommon for a constable to quietly volunteer his time in order to keep criminal activity to a minimum.

But the Festival of Harvest...

Dividing the month of Goldenleaf, the Festival of Harvest was perhaps the most anticipated of holidays. These three days—or four days, every fourth year—were tirelessly planned the whole year through. In some towns, committees were formed for that sole purpose.

And a job it was, too! Feasts had to be planned, which meant caterers had to be hired. Hayrides had to be scheduled with local farmers, who often were only too happy to donate their time for a glimpse at some of the pretties that they might find in the wagon behind them. Bonfires, livestock judging, magic shows, fireworks, religious ceremonies, and myriad other activities were arranged, all done in thanksgiving to the Crafter and His vicar, the Highest, for another bountiful year.

Easily the most chaotic—and potentially dangerous—time of the year, guards were kept on high alert throughout the Festival, that the merriment not be spoiled by any foul doings. But all to often, the guards got so caught up in their own frivolities that they themselves needed guarding.

As the frigate
Seacutter
bobbed at anchor in Bastion’s night-blackened harbor, her captain prayed fervently for precisely that kind of Festival.

“There she is,” Reit sighed. “Our salvation—or our doom—may well be spelled out within the next twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah,” his twin nodded, infuriatingly nonchalant. “Doom, destruction, risk to life and limb, blah blah blah... makes life exciting. I mean, really. Would you have missed any of this?”

“Not for all the world,” Reit admitted with a smirk every bit as roguish as his brother’s. “Besides, someone had to pull you out of the mess you were in.”

“The mess
I
was in?!? Seems to me that
you
were the one with a war brewing. It was all I could do to pull your bacon out of the fire before you started crisping around the edges.”

“A likely career for an outlawed assassin,” Reit chortled.

Mirth spread across Retzu’s features, and pretty soon both brothers were lost to it. The sounds of their laughter echoed out far across the waters and into the night, mixing with the sounds of the docks, its workers laboring late into the night, readying for tomorrow’s festivities. And for just a moment, there was no Highest. They weren’t the leaders of some great rebellion. Millions of lives didn’t hang in the balance. They were just... normal.

The brothers leaned on the bow of the ship, letting the last few chuckles shake themselves loose as they watched the street lamps in the distance, bobbing in their vision with the movement of the ship. Neither brother spoke, each lost to his own private thoughts, but it wouldn’t surprise them in the least to know that they were both thinking on the same things.

Many will die tomorrow. Maybe me.

Thoughts of his own mortality stood out like a beacon in Reit’s mind, stealing his focus from all else. Who would watch over his “little” brother, should “big” brother be taken from him? Who would lead the Rebellion should
el
’
Yatza
fall? Question upon question presented itself to him for consideration, each with consequences more terrible than the last. What would become of Aitaxen, the Norwood Isles, the world? What would become of Delana?

A sigh escaped his lips as he thought of his wife. So beautiful, she was. So strong. Of all the souls that had joined the fight against the Highest, she was the one least worthy of concern. He could swear she had a core of pure iron, powerful even without her fearsome amethyst magics. And yet, now that she’d come to mind, he could think of little else. Would she be alright? Would she be able to go on?

“Don’t worry about her, brother. She’ll be fine,” Retzu said softly, reading his twin’s thoughts better than any mage could. “Should anything happen to you, I’d protect her with my life. You have my word.”

“I know you would, Sticks,” he replied, his childhood nickname for his brother springing from his lips as easily as it had when they were young. “And while we’re on the subject—”

“Not a chance. You can play Great King Almighty all you want to, but don’t try and pull me into it. You were always the one with delusions of grandeur, not me. Aitaxen is
your
cross to bear.” The twinkle in his eye belied his harsh words. Both men chuckled lightly, then fell silent again, thoughtful. Their attentions returned to the city lying sprawled out before them, seeing in its place a very similar city, half a world away.

“Mother and Father would be proud of us, I think,” Reit said solemnly.

Retzu nodded. “Aye, and Anika, too. She always loved a good fight.”

Reit smiled at bittersweet memories that mention of their sister always evoked. “She did know her way around a horsewhip,” he agreed.

The brothers shared a hearty, cleansing laugh, as much a toast raised to their lost sister as anything else. Finally, casting a last, wistful look across the harbor at the sleeping city, Reit embraced his brother tightly, murmured words of affection, then went to find solace in his wife’s arms for what might well be the last time.

***

Another soul stood gazing at the solid walls of the city. In Keth’s eyes, the city would normally have looked no different at midnight than in the light of day—light that was nonexistent for him. Normally, the only way Keth would have known it was midnight would be the position of the powder blue moon fixed in the dead white sky, or the marked lack of activity in the city before him. With its people in bed and its guards at their posts, the city was a veritable ghost town, populated only by a few wayward spirits haunting the streets.

A wave rolled through Keth’s body and across his vision, stirring him from his musings.

He stood in the water—
on
the water—about a hundred yards out from the westernmost pier. The
Seacutter
floated at anchor behind him at almost twice again that distance, with her sister ships clustered around her. Her sails were furled, the folds gleaming white—not orange—against the moonlit sky, as it bobbed in the black water.

He was one with the water, his body having taken on the characteristics of the matter he had merged with. He hadn’t even known it was “impossible” until he’d already done it. He grinned broadly at the memory, the movement sent ripples across his translucent face and throughout his body, dying long before they reached the lake at his feet.

The trip down the River Rhu’sai had been swift, if boring. Once Keth had been briefed on his part of the operation—something that took all of an hour at most—there was nothing left for him to do but wait. But it wasn’t the constructive waiting that smithing involved, waiting with anticipation as the steel before you gathered a ruddy glow from the fire. This was just dead time, passing from one second to the next with nothing to show for the time spent.

Magic had become a way of life for Keth over the past few months, and he had grown proficient at wielding it, so Jaren had ordered a break from his self-training for the duration of the ride downriver. Keth knew that it was meant to be a reward for all the hard work he’d done, but it felt more like punishment. He might have used the extra time to perform his
shol
’
tuk
exercises, but the ship’s deck was too cramped to perform them properly. He tried to find people to pass the time with, but it seemed that everyone was always busy. Reit, Retzu, and Jaren passed the journey tucked away somewhere, pouring over various battle plans. Miss Marissa, who’d finally broken somewhat out of the funk she’d been in, stayed locked up in her quarters, toiling away at some project or another. Rumor had it that it was some new type of signaling device, but with Harvest so close at hand, Keth would almost bet his last copper that it was a new weapon.

That young Mandiblean—Gaelen was his name—spent most of his hours staring over the stern railing to some distant point upriver. Keth occasionally managed to trap him into a conversation, which always seemed to be going well until the conversation turned to magic. At the merest mention of Granite, Gaelen always seemed to remember something or another that he’d forgotten, and abruptly excused himself before Keth knew what hit him.

That left Menkal. The old sapphire passed his time staring at the bottom of a mug of ale. After days of endless rocking and pitching on the waves, even that idea appealed to Keth, but Menkal didn’t think it a fit diversion for someone of Keth’s age. “You can join me for a drink when you get some hair on your chest” were his exact words. Never mind that he
had
hairs on his chest. Menkal made it abundantly clear that he wanted no tavernmates.

One night, the boredom grew too much for Keth. He’d been restless, tossing and turning in his bunk, listening to the sounds of the waves lapping against the hull. He needed to do something.
Anything
, and he really didn’t care what. He needed a break from the idleness. Thinking a swim might help, he wielded, melting out of his clothes, except for his night shorts, and into the timbers of the deck below him. The distinct blue patterns of wood filled his vision as he melted down through the bulkheads, occasionally broken by the blue-black of iron reinforcements.

He passed through the keel of the ship and into the river. But instead of the expected red patterns of the river water, he saw nothing. His vision had gone completely black.

What?

Maybe he melted straight into the riverbed? No. He should have at least seen the red patterns in passing, no matter how shallow the river was. Maybe the red patterns
had
been there, and he just failed to notice them. Besides, he wasn’t seeing the black, blue, and brown speckled patterns of the riverbed. Just black.

At a loss to explain the darkness, he started to panic. Did melting with the water make him go blind? Would it stay that way? Bad enough that granite magic stole his primary sight from him. Had he lost his secondary sight now as well? He thrust himself further downward, frantic to get out of the water.

He felt himself enter the riverbed, felt the many distinct forms of matter passing through his body, felt himself becoming one with them. As he sank completely into the mud, his vision flashed red, then cleared. The patterns of river rock, soil, silt, and other materials replaced the dead black of the water.

Keth’s head cleared as well. And as fear left him, curiosity took over.

Jaren had told him that magic is just like life. Everything has an explanation, from the sun crossing the sky to the great sea fish that breath air. And for once, Keth could relate to what the emerald was saying. His own Da had been prone to telling him much the same thing. Every question had an answer if one took the time to seek it out.