Authors: Michael A Stackpole
Viruka word for it was
“etharsaal”
—his heart had caught in his throat. He’d been certain the Viruk had come to kill him because of what had happened in the capital, or to avenge
the Viruk his brother had killed. His stomach had knotted and he doubled over to vomit.
The warrior had indeed come for him, but not in the way Keles feared. He explained to
Moraven and Tyressa that he had been sent by his consort to protect Keles. The Viruk
ambassador had correctly discerned that Keles would not have been sent into the Wastes
were it not for the incident at the party; therefore, his safety became a matter of honor for
the Viruk. Rekarafi had anticipated their arrival at Eoloth and had been waiting there to
follow them—though how he had gotten that far that quickly had never been explained.
Keles assumed it was through Viruk magic, and that made him wonder how Men had ever
thrown off their Viruk overlords.
But for all his helpfulness, Rekarafi was also the greatest impediment to progress. Keles
could not remain in close proximity to him for more than a few minutes. One time he made
the mistake of drinking water downstream from the Viruk. The water that had washed over
Rekarafi made Keles violently ill—so much so that he could not be moved for two days,
and remained sickly for the rest of the week. Nightmares haunted his dreams, and more
and more frequently he woke unrested, with fierce headaches, his body feeling as if he’d
been trampled beneath horses’ hooves.
The headaches and illness affected the way he was able to send information back to his
grandfather. Many days he could not concentrate enough to make contact, and when he
did it remained insubstantial and vague. He was used to his grandfather’s making
demands on him, but the old man did that less and less. Keles put it down to the fact that
when he did reach him, he was communicating so much information in a lump that his
grandfather had all he could do to digest it. The other possibility, that his grandfather’s
mind was failing with age, was not something Keles even wanted to think about.
Instead of concentrating on his grandfather’s aging and the problems it might cause, Keles
grasped at the idea that the difficulty with sending him information might also have to do
with the nature of Dolosan itself. Dolosan had caught the first blast of magic energy
released by the battle in Ixyll. The evidence of it was undeniable. The land had broken and
shifted, with vast plates of stone rising out of the earth and stabbing toward the sky.
Beyond that, however, the upper edges were softened and rounded, as if melted. The
magic wave had rolled out, coursing through valleys, washing over mountains, eroding
stone, and changing everything it touched.
Some of the sights he would not have believed were he not taking exact measurements.
In places huge boulders moved between dusk and dawn, slipping out of alignments he’d
drawn the day before. When he went to see if they’d been rolled aside—by what he
couldn’t imagine—he found no evidence of disturbance. He marked one of these stones
with chalk on the north side, and the next morning found the mark all the way around to
the south. The mark itself had migrated, but the feature he’d drawn the mark around had
not.
Dolosan had been steeped in virulent magic, and even though it had retreated over the
years, its effect was inescapable. In one valley a whole copse of trees had been
transformed into a living copper forest. More strangely, they swayed with the languid
motion of seaweed undulating beneath the waves. The party paused on the valley’s rim,
uncertain if they should go down or if they would drown in some unseen liquid. When they
did enter, they felt increased pressure and were forced to move more slowly. Their words
came more thickly, and Keles felt the tug of currents on his clothes and hair.
Keles looked for plants and animals to see what effect living in that sort of place would
have on them. Did birds breathe fire so they could mold leaves into nests? Or would they
have to become more like fish to swim through the air? And would fish be able to swim
around out of water? He didn’t see anything that answered his questions, but in looking for
them he began to understand his brother’s curiosity about the world. For Keles, those
things had always been
on
the land; but for Jorim, they were
of
the land.
As they went further west, they truly entered the Wastes. In the day, the land visibly
shimmered as if heat rose off it—yet one valley would be frigid enough to frost their
breath, and the next would make metal hot to the touch. Hills shifted—albeit slowly, but
they shifted—as if made of blankets beneath which children crept. In places, Keles could
recognize many plants, but they appeared larger or smaller than normal, and often their
blossoms were out of proportion to the plant and boasted colors he’d never seen in
nature.
Entering the Wastes made Borosan Gryst happier, and Rekarafi and Ciras more morose.
For the
gyanridin,
the Wastes were a land alive with magic energy,
where
thaumston
could be found to make his creations live. But Rekarafi looked on a land his people had once ruled, and found it unrecognizable. For Ciras, it was the womb of a
new magic that threatened the art he struggled to perfect.
One evening, Ciras’ irritability increased because the day’s sun had reddened venom-
stung flesh. Ciras nudged the mouser aside with his foot. “Keep that abomination away
from me.”
Borosan blinked his wide eyes. “Abomination? It slew one of the maned snakes as easily
as you did.”
The swordsman shook his head. “It killed with no honor, no sense of what it was doing. It
is an abomination because it does what it does without consideration.”
Moraven poked a stick into their fire. “Is it not true,
Lirserrdin
Dejote, that the consideration is that of Master Gryst in his creation of the
gyanrigot
?”
“To agree to that, Master, I would have to weigh the consideration of the swordmaker as
being greater than my own in using his tool. The swordmaker may have intended his
blade to slay indiscriminately, but I choose when and where to employ it. I accept the
responsibility for the consequences of actions.”
“And do you not think Master Gryst does that as well? Remember, he did apologize for
the
thanaton
’s failure.”
Ciras pressed a cool cloth to the right side of his face. The venom had burned him,
twisting the flesh near the corner of his mouth and his eye as if they had been touched by
fire. “I remember, Master. Master Gryst takes responsibility, but there are those who would
not. You have seen the
thanaton
. Imagine a company of them patrolling a castle or, worse yet, being sent to drive villagers from their homes. They would do this regardless of
reason. They would not listen, could not be convinced that the lord who gave them orders
was wrong and evil.”
Tyressa rolled out her blanket. “So you fear these
gyanrigot
will replace the
xidantzu
?”
“No. That could never happen.”
“Then what do you fear?”
“I fear nothing. The problem with
gyanri
is that it confers on the untrained skills that ordinarily require years of study. It will erode respect for those who have developed skills.
Hard work will become a thing of the past. People will no longer respect or fear magic, and
that will pave the way for the return of the
vanyesh
.”
Keles, relishing the sorts of discussions he used to have with his brother and sister, raised
a hand. “Forgive me, Ciras, but you make quite a leap. Having
gyanrigot
work for
someone does not make them want to become a magician.”
“I said nothing of the sort.”
“But you implied it. Freed of the need to till the earth and plant and harvest, a peasant
might learn many things. He might become a great poet or artist or a skilled potter or even
a swordsman.”
Ciras’ eyes shrank. “Or a magician?”
Keles shrugged. “He could be anything. You should credit him with enough sense not to
be a magician.”
“You have greater faith in common sense than I do, Master Anturasi.” Ciras pointed at the
mouser. “It travels and measures for you now, but could it not do that for anyone? Training
is not required. The link between self-discipline and the ability to control magic is broken. If they see magic as simple in one area, they will see it that way in another. Just as
the
gyanrigot
scout paths out for you, they will lead others to the madness that destroyed the world.”
Moraven Tolo frowned. “Your thoughts are interesting, but your reasoning unsound.”
Ciras sat up straight. “How so, Master?”
“You see the
vanyesh
as purely evil, for this is how you have been taught to see them.
They rode with Nelesquin, but so did many
serrdin
. Were the swordsmen evil for fighting in Nelesquin’s cause?”
“They must have been.”
“Or might they have been deceived?”
“That, too, is possible.”
“Which would mean, Ciras, that some of the
vanyesh
may not have been evil, but just
deceived.” Moraven pointed at the mouser. “Just as that is a tool, so can men be. The
difference is that men have a chance to control their behavior. Your concern should not be
for which behaviors to allow or not, but how to encourage people to be responsible for
their behaviors. Prohibition will always fail at some point. Responsibility does not have to.”
Ciras hesitated, then bowed his head. “I beg forgiveness for my lack of sufficient thought.”
Moraven, the firelight shimmering through his black hair, hardened his eyes. “The lack of
thought will be forgiven this time. You allowed yourself to become as mindless as
the
gyanrigot
. That makes you as dangerous as you claim they are. The only way you
show restraint is if you actually think. All too often people confuse their being
able
to think with their actually having done so. A more pernicious mistake does not exist.”
Their journey took them into the very heart of Dolosan, entering the southern edge of a
giant basin roughly two hundred miles from southwest to northeast, and a hundred and
fifty miles wide east to west. Scrub vegetation provided sparse if colorful cover. Each of
the countless gullies etched into the landscape was home to rainbow streaks of plants.
Rekarafi remained silent for several miles as they descended the gradual slope. “This was
Isdazar.”
Keles spat sour saliva. “Shining waters?”
The Viruk warrior nodded. “A vast lake. I sailed here with my Ierariach in the times before.”
Moraven turned in the saddle and looked back at the loping Viruk. “Was there a large
Viruk population here?”
“Once, yes.” He pointed a clawed finger toward the north. “Tavliarch was home to many.
When the
tavam alfel
came, the water boiled. It rose in a scalded cloud that fell in black rain. What it touched died. It melted Tavliarch. The waters flowed back into the basin and
boiled again and again. Finally, they drained into the land.”
Borosan nodded. “The continual process of draining and raining allowed minerals to
collect in deposits. Some are simple geodes, while others are full layers. It is here that
deposits of
thaumston
are found in abundance, though the magic in them often is weak.”
“How can it be weak?” Keles stood in the stirrups and pointed to a plant with a cluster of
feathered berries. “We’re on Ixyll’s doorstep. Things should be stronger here.”
“No, Keles. You see, the water here, perhaps because of trace minerals, was a poor
conductor of magic. It collected it, but transferred little of the magic to other things. What
we have seen before are signs of the magic
itself
having touched things. Here it touched the water, which insulated the underlying area. West of here, heading to the uplands, you
will see more and stranger things, especially where magic had continued to stream, but
here there is only residue.
“The advantage to this
thaumston
is that it is concentrated and capable of absorbing a
great deal of magical energy. People dig it up and set it in places where it can be charged.
Once it is energized, the possibilities are limitless.”
Keles frowned. “How is it charged?”
“It’s relatively simple. You put the samples in a metal box and raise a mast above it, or
spread leader lines around it; techniques differ. Then you wait.”
“For?”
“For a very special storm. You want a moderate chaos-storm. Enough to charge
the
thaumston,
but not much more. Luckily, the basin tends to contain the storms.”
Moraven raised an eyebrow. “What if the storm is too large?”
“It would kill us.” Borosan smiled. “But don’t worry. I’m sure it would be a most spectacular
way to die.”
3rd day, New Year’s Festival, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Meleswin (Helosunde)
Deseirion
Prince Pyrust smashed the iron edge of his shield into the Helosundian’s face, spinning
him away. The man’s weapon went flying, and the Desei Prince advanced, thrusting deep