Gemworld (47 page)

“So, why not just store the scrolls down here?” Keth asked, his practical nature getting the better of him.

“Because we could not afford to draw attention to this room. The constabulary regularly employs amethyst mages, for obvious reasons. Should one of them have spotted us disappearing into a hidden room with an armful of scrolls...”

Keth nodded, conceding to the wisdom of the Archivist. Still, he wasn’t satisfied. “So then, what do we do now?”

***

Nestor tromped through the underbrush, pushing steadily toward the opalescent aura along the overgrown game trail. The path he cut ran almost parallel to the river, and he’d thought more than once to veer off the trail and follow the shoreline directly, but if what lay ahead was indeed man-made, then it was only sensible to find out what exactly he was dealing with before he pressed into the open.

“Should I scout the area ahead?” Jaeda half-whispered behind him.

“No. There’s no telling if there are any defenses in place, or what type. They may be triggered by magical aura.”

“You don’t even know what’s there,” she protested, but obediently kept a rein on her magic.

“I should probably be thankful for the shackle,” he said after a time. “If not for this cursed thing, I would never be here.”

“No, you’d be safe in the arms of the Highest,” Jaeda said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. Still, there was a note of probing in her voice, as if she hadn’t completely given up hope that she could turn him from the Highest to follow this
el
’
Yatza
, this “hand of the Crafter”.

“You’re right, of course,” he replied with barely a pause. But there
had
been a pause. As much as he’d considered over the past few weeks since his capture, as often as he’d prayed, he was still no closer to finding peace within himself concerning the Highest.

Was
he indeed the Vicar of the Crafter? If so, why would the Crafter allow His Vicar—His very representative—to be flawed? More than once, Nestor had seen the Highest’s imperfection. Uncertainty. Errors in judgment Anger, as if he hadn’t expected a particular outcome. Surprise.

That one was the clincher, the one that “flooded the
deh’lt
,” as his dear Bralla would have said. There was another flaw in the Highest. When Bralla had passed into the next life, the Vicar of the Crafter had offered no words of hope, no encouragement, so sign that his servant’s pain had touched him in the slightest. Wouldn’t
messac’el
—the Heart of the Crafter, the Chosen One—have done at least that? And if the Heart, why not the Crafter’s Vicar as well?

That thought, among others, drove him into Aeden’s Lost Garden. Thoughts of finding transport back to Veylin were furthest from his mind, regardless of what he’d told Jaeda. “I would never have dreamed of finding my way into the heart of the Garden,” he continued. “The traditions concerning this forest are particularly thick in my family. Tales of dragons, of rogue mages, even of
vi’zrith
, the watermen, living in the lake here—the traditions mark this forest as cursed. Such a thing as we’re doing now would have been unthinkable for me even a few short weeks ago. And yet, here I am, bereft of my magic and completely defenseless, save of course for my beautiful companion,”—this with a friendly nod toward Jaeda—”and my own wits. Truly, this is a quest born of the Crafter Himself, to find the ancient camp of the Highest...”

Whatever else he might have said was lost to him as he entered the clearing at the end of the game trail. The clearing wasn’t very large, barely fifty paces in any direction, but it offered a brief respite from the endless forest. The grasses grew tall in the rough semicircle, and the game trail turned to the east, cutting a short, straight path down to the river.

The flowing red-patterned water had widened since they first started along the trail, more than doubling the distance between the shores. The far shore grew more distant still, the further north Nestor looked. Just beyond the edge of the clearing, the river exploded into a rather large lake. And at the center of the lake...

“Blessed Crafter,” both he and Jaeda breathed in unison, staring in awe at the squat pyramid of stone, the shattered peak of its black edifice poking up through the water like a ruined tombstone. And though they were still too far away to say for certain, Nestor could almost swear that the pyramid was made of sapphire.

***

Sal barked at his subordinates, ordering them to stay sharp. They instantly snapped to attention, though not without a twinkle of suppressed mirth in their eyes. A sharp look from Sal smothered even that. He had to admit that he felt a little like laughing himself, amused at the act they had to maintain. But there was too much at stake. Tonight of all nights, they had to be ready for anything.

He turned his back to the magically sealed main doors, and glowered over the courtyard, seeking out passersby who might have an unhealthy curiosity about the Archives. And his look assured them, one and all, that a one-eyed mage could indeed see everything.

***

Yakov motioned the two rebels to stay put, and walked over to a nearby furnace. The fire flickered low in the glass window, putting off just enough heat to take the edge off the not-too-warm autumn night.

But the old man was not interested in the fire. Picking up a small coal shovel, he tapped the heating duct above the furnace. The tap resounded loudly, the vibrations moving up the duct and out along its branches.

It traveled past the cellar door and into the kitchen, where one startled Archivist accidentally added too much cinnamon to the evening repast.

It traveled out into the main body of the library, where it passed one Learned brother who was reorganizing the Herbal Remedies section. The robed man pointedly ignored a certain bundle of scrolls that lay at his feet.

The rap traveled through the duct work, reaching two Archivists on the first floor landing where they were discussing the importance of the soybean in Post-Rending agriculture. As the tap reached them, their conversation fell flat, empirical evidence on both sides completely forgotten.

The sound continued on, echoing up to the second floor, past the bathing room, where one old scholar dropped his soap, squirting from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

Finally, the tap reached the room of Learned Stella. She leapt in her chair at the sound, dropping to the floor the book she’d been reading. Her pulse quickened, her breath came short.

She argued with herself anxiously for a moment.
Perhaps I was mistaken? Perhaps I heard only my own nervousness. Perhaps someone stumbled into
—

The tap came a second time, then a third, firmly debunking her dread-filled musings. There was no mistake, no accident.

It was time.

***

Sal strode around the courtyard, taking in the grounds, the metal picket fence, and the festival celebrants beyond. He tried to look menacing, but after almost eighteen hours of patrolling the city streets, he was afraid he looked more bored than anything else.

He turned his head to stifle a yawn, and noticed something odd. As usual, the windows of the Archives were dim or completely dark, the inhabitants all moving and working deep within the building’s vast libraries. All windows were dark, that is, except for one. On the second floor, someone had placed a lamp in the window. He could see a woman there, reading by its light. As he watched, the woman bent to place a second lamp in the window, then settled back to continue reading.

By itself, it didn’t seem all that odd. Barely noteworthy, and yet he stood there, staring at the Archivist. An unsettled, anxious feeling spread through him, from his churning gut to his suddenly sweaty palms, though he had no idea why he should feel that way. There was just something about the light that niggled the back of Sal’s mind. Something familiar...

***

Nestor rushed headlong down the hill to the shoreline, no longer caring whether or not he would be spotted by some ancient defender. A mountain of sapphire! A pyramid!

As he drew closer to the river, he realized that he’d been mistaken. The mountain wasn’t a true pyramid, as it had only three sides, not four. No matter. It was man-made. He was close, so close!

“Look at how the tip has been shattered,” Jaeda breathed. “It’s as if the structure exploded, leaving only the base. What could have done that?” Nestor had no answer, was barely conscious of her speaking to him at all. He was close! The Highest’s camp
must
be within his grasp!

He stumbled along the river’s edge, heedlessly splashing in and out of the water. None of it mattered. He was here! The answers to his questions, the answers that would finally bring him peace, were just beyond the treeline to the north, within the—

Nestor stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his chest as his view panned past the sapphire mountain. In a detached sort of way, he realized that he was goggling, and that Jaeda would likely see the shock and awe as some sort of weakness unbecoming the man who had once been her Chief General, but he didn’t care.

It no longer mattered. None of it mattered. He never could have imagined how small and insignificant he would one day find himself, as he found himself now, staring out across the vast expanse of valley on the far side of the lake. Five pyramids—not just the one, but
five
—surrounded the valley like a ring of sentries, each constructed from a different soulgem. Most were broken like the sapphire pyramid they’d found in the midst of the lake, though one—a granite structure, judging by the aura it gave off—still appeared whole.

But all this had been afterthought, for he stood in awe not of the monolithic gemstone sentries, nor even of the strange flying creatures that he could barely make out at this distance, hovering in the open air between the peaks. Rather, his attention was riveted to the massive black structure in the center, enshrouded by the opalescent aura that they’d been seeing for miles. Even at this distance, Nestor could see the distinct patterns of a diamond.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” rumbled a soft, oddly-slurring baritone from somewhere over Nestor’s shoulder. So awe-struck was he that he didn’t immediately react. When it finally registered that the voice most definitely did not belong to Jaeda, he slowly turned his head to find the source of the voice.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Nestor,” breathed the great blue reptile before him, its leathery wings silently churning the air, and one foreleg cradling an unconscious Jaeda. “You took your time getting here, didn’t you?”

The twin flames bobbed gently in the telescope as the ship rocked back and forth. In Jaren’s green-tinged sight, the lamps in the Archive windows were difficult to distinguish from all the other lamps and torches in the city. But they were there.

“It’s time,” he said aloud. “Are we ready?”

“Yes,” answered Menkal. “We’ve just received word that our forces just north of the city walls are in place, ready to assist if things turn sour.”

“And Marissa’s sure that thing is going to work?” the emerald asked, indicating the wand that swung from Menkal’s belt. “If it doesn’t, we’ll just be another fireworks display in the night’s sky.”

“Senosh spent half a day going over the runes with her,” the sapphire shrugged. “If it don’t happen...”

Jaren sighed. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough.”

He had to admit, the wand was a dazzling specimen, possibly the artisan’s finest work. The rod itself was silver, about a foot long, with three dragon statuettes winding their way up the shaft from the grip. Each mythical beast had gemstone eyes upturned—emerald, amethyst, and sapphire. Their bodies and tails, exquisitely crafted to the finest detail, spiraled down the rod almost to the grip. At the other end, the statuettes were attached to the rod with one claw, while the other claw reached upward, the three of them coming together to form the setting for an enormous ruby. Intricate runes covered the rod in places where the dragon bodies left it bare.

It was a stunning artifact, much too beautiful for its simple purpose. But Jaren understood. With Sal gone, Marissa had needed something to take up her time, her attention. She needed the wand almost as much as Reit did.

Unhooking the wand from his belt, Menkal pointed it out over the harbor and caressed the activation runes. At his touch, the gems flared to magical life. Green, blue, and violet fire danced in the eyes of the dragons, their fire building and lending flame to the ruby. The stone shook with growing power, then finally erupted. A ball of magical flame shot from the ruby with such force that the wand recoiled. The fireball streaked across the sky in a high arc, a fiery gout trailing behind like the tail of a comet.

Higher and higher it shot until, at the arc’s apex, the fireball exploded. The starburst threw red streamers out over the harbor. As they fell, the tendrils shifted color, first to green, then to blue, then violet. Cheers filled the city streets so that even Jaren and Menkal could hear them out in the harbor.

“It’s showtime,” Menkal breathed, borrowing a slang phrase he’d once heard from that strange young mage with the single gemstone eye.

***

From Retzu’s vantage point, he couldn’t see the west-facing front entrance of the Archives, but he could see the explosion clearly. The light from the starburst reached him a full second before the sound. Even as the tendrils spread, he picked out the fading streak that led from the epicenter to the ship bobbing below it.

“Impressive signal, girlie,” he commended.

Standing, he scanned the area around him for the quickest, most secluded route from his perch. He spied an alley on the other side of an adjacent street. As far as he could tell, the alley ran clear down to the wharves. Perfect.

Checking first to make sure the fire still sparked in the hearth below him, he dropped the package down the chute. Turning, he leapt over the street and dropped to the alley below. He had barely touched ground when the blast from the package reached him, throwing him bodily into a very unforgiving wall. He saw star bursts again as darkness slipped over him.

***

Sal stared at the woman, quietly reading by the light of two lamps. It was completely insane, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen this all before, or read about it, or
something
. It was like a faded memory from his childhood, not necessarily something important, but something he should have recognized immediately. Something from his school days, he thought.
One if by land
...

Brilliant light scattered his thoughts as the fireball exploded, followed shortly by the clap of its report. The explosion flung streamers out across the sky, which turned colors as they arced toward the earth. Sal’s men were captivated by the display—and rightly so; it
was
beautiful—but it only served to heighten Sal’s suspicions. For hidden amongst the streamers was a fiery tail which led down to a solitary ship, rocking gently in the twilit harbor.

Ship...

Lamp...

One if by land...

“Two if by sea!” he gasped as the old memory bubbled to the surface. The lamps in the window... It was a signal, just as surely as the one that sent Paul Revere on his historic ride, shouting out a warning of the British attack and calling the minutemen to arms. In a city lit up with Festival lights, no one would notice two more lamps in a window sill. No one, that is, except someone who was looking for them.

Reit was on the move.

Sal threw his single eye about, scanning frantically for a familiar face. Momentarily forgetting himself, he grasped the amethyst magic, allowing its magical currents to energize him. His vision shifted from green to violet, and he took up his secondary sight.

The bustling celebrants sloughed off their flesh in his sight, taking on the violet-lined look of living x-rays. But all the skeletons were looking to the sky, staring in awe at the fireworks display. No one seemed to be sneaking around, trying to move through the crowd unnoticed. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—

A blast from a couple of blocks south knocked him off his feet, and sent him sprawling onto the green expanse of the courtyard. A column of flame shot toward the heavens, its top spreading out and back into itself like a giant mushroom as flame cooled into smoke. The shockwaves from the blast sent shards of clay and wood flying for blocks. Sal threw up an arm to shield himself from the falling debris.

He staggered to his feet, searching the pandemonium that had taken the crowd out in the streets. They were panicked, yes, but that was to be expected. He wasn’t interested in the chaotic ebb and flow of the Festival-goers. Reit’s men would be as cool as a cucumber. Seeing nothing of interest in the crowd, he turned his violet sight upon the Archives—and froze there.

***

The blast rocked the cellar, toppling wine racks and pantry shelves. Reit and Keth tumbled to the ground in a heap. The Archivist, who’d known something of what to expect, held tightly to the wooden banister, just barely keeping his footing.

“Effective distraction,” Keth growled. Helping Reit to his feet, he shot an accusing glare at the bald scholar before heading up the stairs.

“What?” the old man asked defensively as he followed. “Did I do something wrong?”

***

The commander of the Granite Spire, Uri Ghert, skimmed the field reports before him. Foil-laced ink scrawled across the parchment’s surface, forming words that stood out more clearly in the granite’s sight than normal ink would. In concept, it was a marvel of granite ingenuity, creating a method of writing that any granite with an education can appreciate. In reality, it was an irritation. To squander such a gift on inventory lists, official decrees on the disposal of urban wastes, the current status of his forces...

“‘Forces’, indeed,” Ghert muttered irritably, slamming the page down on the desk as he reached for his wine goblet. “Seven mages all together—including
myself
—and they call our pitiful party ‘forces’.”

As he took a pull from the chalice, he felt obliged to admit—if only to himself—that he wasn’t upset by the low number of centurions-to-be left available to him. How could he be? Even without having completed the training regimen, the centurion cadets were still functional. Six granite cadets, even half trained as they were, were more than enough to repel a small army if necessary. In fact, he
preferred
such a low number of subordinates. Fewer barroom brawls to explain to his superiors. Fewer hard-headed youths to break down and remold. Fewer problems in total. What
did
stick in his craw was the fact that after forty-five years of service to the Highest, he was still forced to babysit the rawest cadets during the Harvest Festival, while the rest of his charges were rewarded for their hard labor. Not that his granite eyes could truly appreciate all that the Festival had to offer...

He had just turned his attention to the warehousing report—”Fancy that, lost three sacks of grain to weevils this month”—when one of said cadets burst into the room. “Commander Ghert, there’s something happening in the city!” the student said breathlessly.

“Of course there is. It’s called a ‘Festival’,” he replied without looking up from the report.

“No, sir. I mean, something bad, sir.”

Ghert looked up from his page and studied the student casually. The lad’s right leg was cramped with the stress of running up the seven flights of stairs that led to the commander’s study—either he lacked confidence in his ability to travel in a melted state, or in agitation he’d simply forgot he could—and his lungs heaved with exertion. Or was it excitement? The boy hopped from one foot to the other, as anxious as a stripling looking to a tavern wench for his first roll. Most granites were more reserved at this point in their training, either through discipline or depression. “Explain,” the commander grunted impatiently.

“Sir, Hicks and I were joined with the ground, monitoring the surrounding lands,” the student said. “We figured if we couldn’t actually
go
to the Festival, we could sort of spy on it, so we were—”

“The
point
, cadet!” he barked.

“Sir, we felt a very large disturbance in Bastion, near the Archives. An explosion. It destroyed at least one house, and damaged many others nearby.”

“Adequate assessment,” Ghert commented shortly, “but none of our concern. It was probably an errant pyrotechnics display, or a spell gone awry. That’s the city’s problem, not ours.” He returned his gaze to the report, summarily dismissing the student.

“But, Commander,” the boy persisted. “Just after the explosion, we felt the presence of a granite.”

That got the commander’s attention. “
What?!?
In the city?”

“In the Archives, sir. The explosion must have knocked him down, for all we felt was his aura. He was holding no magic, sir.”

Ghert fell silent, thoughtful. He and the students were the only granites left on Ysre. All the others had been called away to Veylin for the Harvest celebration in the Palace of the Highest. None would dare shirk that honor, that command. That meant a renegade.

“Scholar’s Ford,” he muttered. The lad who’d killed a Bearer of the Tiled Hand, then escaped with the rebels. But rumor had it that he was killed in the doomed attack on Caravan. That
was
only a rumor, however...

“Take the others—not Liem; he’s too new yet—and go out to Bastion. Bring the granite to me, alive if possible. He should be relatively helpless, given that he could not have had access to formal training, but use caution all the same.”

The student bowed his acknowledgment and left, sweeping the door closed behind him.

Commander Ghert slipped off one of his supple leather boots and pressed his bare foot to the floor, melting into it. His awareness expanded as he became one with the stone. He leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a rare smile as moments later he felt the five granite auras trundle—albeit at breakneck speeds for them—toward Bastion. It seemed that his invitation to next year’s Harvest gala was all but assured.

***

Sal froze in place when he saw the skeletal forms running through the kitchen of the Archives, laden with packs. The violet apparitions turned a corner in the building, and started down a flight of stairs—and disappeared into nothingness! Sal scanned the courtyard surrounding the Archives, searching the ground frantically for the fleeing forms. But try as he might, he could find no evidence that he’d ever seen the forms to begin with. He trotted toward the courtyard gate that opened to the west, hoping to get a more complete view of the grounds.

“Sal, what do you—”

The ruby had come running up behind Sal from where he and the others were standing, watching the skyline above the blaze a few streets to the south. The young Valenese mage choked on his words as Sal fixed him in his violet gaze.

The ruby swallowed hard, and quickly regained composure. “Sorry. Seeing you do that a few times doesn’t exactly make it normal. So, what do—”

“Nothing, Frasyr,” Sal ordered. “Do absolutely nothing. I need you to remain at your post. Tribean’s covering the Commons. He can take care of the fire.” He scanned the ground again. His eye swept westward from the kitchen, leaving the building and going out across the courtyard...

There! Midway across the courtyard, he caught sight of two faint violet forms, just barely tickling the edge of his visual spectrum. “You’re in charge until I get back,” he ordered as he gave chase to the purple forms, dashing across the courtyard and into the crowd of violet skeletons that was gathering in the avenue fronting the Archives. He was sure that Frasyr was watching him in bewilderment, just as curious as the Festival-goers filling the streets for blocks around the fire, but he didn’t have time for lengthy explanations. He was going to have a difficult enough time following the pair of subterranean auras through a city filled with violet without having to worry about whether or not his charges can follow simple instructions. All he could do is give the command, and pray that it is followed.