Key to Magic 02 Magician Read online

  Magician

  The Key to Magic: Book Two

  H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  © Copyright 2010 H. Jonas Rhynedahll. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, scenes, dialogue, and descriptions are purely the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, real events, or actual places is entirely coincidental.

  In honor of three greats from my youth:

  Robert A. Heinlein, Keith Laumer, and Andre (Alice Mary) Norton

  There is, of course, the corollary: A sufficiently advanced system of Magic is indistinguishable from science.

  A note regarding the Imperial Calendar:

  The Imperial year consists of thirteen lunar months of twenty-eight days each: First through Third Springmoon, First through Third Summermoon, Harvestmoon, First through Third Autumnmoon, and First through ThirdWintermoon. Each month is divided into two fortnights, Waxing and Waning and each fortnight is divided into fourteen named days: Firstday through Fourteenthday.

  The length of years does not vary; all years are exactly three hundred and sixty-four days.

  The accounting of years is entirely arbitrary, varying with location and political and social circumstances, and although the Imperial system is generally accepted, there is no single universal standard.

  However, the following are in common use throughout the world:

  Thirdday of every fortnight is the holy day of all Gods.

  No day in the month of Harvestmoon is a holy day.

  Eighthday is the end of the merchant fiscal cycle.

  ONE

  15th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension

  Fourthday, Waning, Second Summermoon, 1641 After the Founding of the Empire

  When the bells rang the end of evening prayers, Brother Ishgeikos rose from the cold floor of his cell. He took a moment to stretch his stiff back – the ritual prayers had become something of an ordeal for his arthritic frame -- and donned his robe. He seated himself at his simple table and waited. His cell resided deep in the bowels of the monastery and the ancient stone channeled all the half-heard sounds and movements of the thousand-strong community to him. Occasionally, a teasing whiff of the musty-drab-ochre odor of emaciated magic would skirt the edge of his awareness. He had learned to read these almost non-existent clues over many years and could often trace a man’s steps through the entire edifice. He was never surprised when someone approached his refuge, and almost always knew the identity of the culprit. Footsteps, he had confided to some of his students, were as identifiable as a man’s voice.

  This time, however, the cadence and force of the steps -- measured, cautious, hesitating just a brief moment at a turn -- were unfamiliar, and this fact in and of itself was an identification.

  Just before last midnight bell, his visitor slipped through the thin door of his three armlengths square stone chamber. The visiting monk stopped immediately; with the door closed, the room was almost completely dark. The last lit sconce was twelve paces down the corridor and its weak illumination scarcely filtered through the narrow gap beneath the door.

  “Welcome, brother,” Ishgeikos said quietly. There was just the one stool and no point therefore in inviting the other to sit.

  “I did as you requested. None saw me,” the man replied. Clearly an orator, his voice was slightly hoarse at the edges. There was also a quickness in his speech, a tightness that suggested an accelerated heartbeat. His cloister robe brushed the age-polished tiles with a sound like new cloth. The clothes underneath had a better-worn, somewhat weathered sound and were no doubt the standard traveling trousers and vest of his order. A vague corona of cabbage soup and spiced bean mush hovered about him.

  The visitor’s body language changed. “You are blind.”

  This was a rather astute declaration. In the light, most strangers recognized this instantly, but the blackness of the cell surely hid Ishgeikos’s clouded eyes and his ravaged face.

  “Some nine years now.” Ishgeikos replied cheerfully, offering a contented smile that his visitor could not see.

  “Brother, on Kh’ordhif there is a community of the Great Phaelle that defends several small medical magic relics ensconced in a massive obelisk. Perhaps one of those could be used to improve your condition.”

  It was an offer. Ishgeikos was not permitted to travel – he was, in fact, restricted to this very cell except during the most holy of rites -- and relics were under the tightest controls. Only a special dispensation or a careful conspiracy would accomplish such treatment.

  “I fear it would avail naught,” Ishgeikos judged. “It was magic that made me blind to the physical world. A small relic that I was endeavoring to key suffered a cascading malfunction and exploded.”

  “This incident also gave you the Sight?”

  Ishgeikos had always remained circumspect when discussing his accident. He had never revealed to another soul the exact nature of the source of this “visions,” allowing others to speculate as they were wont. He had originally feared that some unfortunately invasive attempt might be made to recover the relic fragments and had since learned that his brethren and superiors were more comfortable with a traditional explanation. Now, these concerns no longer mattered.

  “Archdeacon Shaeiddl, blessed be his sacred rest from the Work, ruled an Interdiction on that information but yes, that is apparently true. It also provided what are told to me to be horrendous scars. Apparently, tiny bits of the relic were embedded in my brain.”

  “The device had the capability to perceive the future?” The visitor did not try to disguise the eagerness in his voice. Many had had the same thought: If only another could be found!

  “No, it was simply a recording device. It stored in a very methodical and cross-referenced way – I think of it as an encyclopedia – the notes of a minor wizard who assisted a sorcerer in theoretical studies at some point in the distant past. The scattered fragments of it that remain active in my head indicate that the sorcerer had developed some method for gaining detailed views of events unrestricted by time or location.”

  The visitor seemed to consider his next questions carefully. “Then you do not truly have the prophetic gift? How is it that you produce such accurate prognostications?”

  “The wizard was very meticulous and detail oriented, with a keen ability to place details in context. The data that survives within me are all concise but extensive summaries of specific events. Each extant entry provides dates, names, and circumstances and, on occasion, pertinent peripheral facts such as weather conditions, measurements that I take to be magical in nature, astronomical observations, and even, once, a recipe for an Irhfeii’n delicacy.”

  “Are you able to access this data at will?” This indicated another astute insight.

  “No,” Ishgeikos lied. “The glimpses come and go at random. The destruction of the vessel destroyed whatever control or indexing functions that might have once existed within the spell.”

  It was vitally important to protect certain information. Due to his unique perspective, he understood the dangers of tampering with coming events.

  “It is clear that this data has given you understandings not available to most.”

  Ishgeikos waited. Thus far, he had followed the script stored in his mind exactly; his visitor would reveal his purpose shortly.

  Silence of a sort (for Ishgeikos, no moment was truly silent; there was always the soft whisper of breath, the quiet bass thud of heartbeats, the intangible feeling of weight being shifted from one foot to the other, a thousand other indefinable hints of sounds) prevailed.

  Finally, the visitor, with an almost imperceptible nod of acquiescence, said, “We believe that you can aid us
in the revelation of the Restorer, brother.”

  “I am not the man you seek”

  “You are named in the prophecy.”

  “There are many prophecies and many interpretations.”

  “This very date is given.”

  “Unusual, but not unknown.”

  “Would you offer another interpretation?”

  Ishgeikos sighed. “As you will.”

  The visitor retrieved a scroll from an inner pocket of his robe. “Should I read it to you?”

  “No, I can manage. When I was first blinded, my deacon fetched a man from the school on Khikhos, where they teach the sightless to read the scratches of a pen.”

  Ishgeikos unrolled it and began to trace the script with his fingertips. He finished the scroll and then went through it again to confirm that he had deciphered the indentions in the paper correctly. He could read manuscript through touch, but it was not a perfected skill, and many times he simply had to guess. A short gap existed in his data regarding the scroll and he wanted to be careful to hold true to the sequence of events.

  He began to read aloud, ”On a fourth day of a month in the wane of summer, in a year with little rain on the isle of the autumn blooming tree, a holy prophet will reveal through another -- who has preformed the translation?”

  “Learned brothers who support our Cadre.”

  “Sadly I must inform you that they have mistranslated the final phrase. Rather than ‘the one who is destined to unlock the power of the ages,’ it should read simply ‘the key to magic.”

  The visitor evinced surprise. “You have read the original prophecy? We thought it uncommon and were not aware that you were a scholar of dead languages.”

  “No, not at all. It is not my translation, but that of my data.”

  “How complete is the vision you have of it? Does it explain the prophecy?”

  “No. The entry is only a fragment of a fragment.” Another necessary lie.

  “And your interpretation?”

  “The date is inexact. It could be today, as you suggest, but “fourth day” in this case is most likely an enumeration and not a unique specifier. Not knowing the calendarial system under which the prophecy was created, it is impossible, in my opinion, to correlate an exact date. I know of three distinct species of tree that put on blooms in autumn, two of which are native to the islands of the southern Silver Sea. Both exist on islands in generally arid conditions. As you and your fellows have no doubt determined, one of those species, the Arawacq, does indeed exist here. The other, the Wzhai, is a fragile plant that does not prosper alongside human presence. At best, if the tree indicated is indeed the Arawacq, you would have a set of some several dozen possible islands. Finally, as I have already explained, I am not a prophet.”

  “But it is clear,” the visitor argued, “that your accident has given you unique insights into prophecy. “

  “That is as it may be,” Ishgeikos conceded. “But as I have said, I am not the man you seek.” The most important lie.

  “I am not convinced of that,” the visitor countered. “I will consult with my brethren and we will speak with you again.”

  Ishgeikos rose and clasped his visitor’s arms in farewell, then, following the words in his head, recited, “That, I am afraid, will be impossible, brother. Many of the data that emerge from the remains of the relic relate, oddly enough, to me. I have, for good or ill, been afflicted with a mostly complete accounting of my own life for some eight and a half years. I have had time to accommodate myself to the anxiety and distress that this might often bring and have become content with my fate. I know that I will expire quietly in my sleep this very evening. I gain some comfort from this; I have lived a long life and pass from it with few regrets.”

  The visitor tensed, stood a stiff moment in thought, and then pulled the trigger of the relic he had slipped from his sleeve. The soundless device fired a steel spike into Ishgeikos’s chest with the force of a crossbow. The visitor caught the old monk as he collapsed and eased him tenderly to the floor.

  “Forgive me, brother,” the other said quietly. “I had to learn if it is possible to alter foreseen events. Sadly, it seems clear that the future may be altered by informed action.”

  His strength already faded, Ishgeikos did not attempt to reply, simply allowing himself a satisfied smile as his life faded away. He had taken the poison with his supper as the image in his head dictated and had felt almost no pain from the thrust of the spike. He, for one, had never had any desire to attempt to alter what had been foretold. At least, not as far as his own life was concerned.

  The visitor turned to depart, then turned back about to offer a blessing for the dead. “As you rest from the Work, the Duty will be done, so that the Restoration – and the Restorer – shall come nigh.”

  TWO

  816 Before the Founding of the Empire

  The moaning began at moonrise.

  “Mother’s Grandfather!” Streb shook the old man’s shoulder urgently.

  “Mhuph?”

  “The Demon wakes!” Streb hissed, his twelve-year-old voice breaking.

  The old man groped groggily about his pallet for his staff. Streb snatched it from the ground and pressed the gnarled shaft into his elder’s hand. Their fire had long since burned to embers and though the moon lit the high pasture well, he knew his ancient relative would have had difficulty finding the staff even in broad day.

  Mother’s Grandfather took the staff, but did not rise. He gestured and Streb fetched him a cup of water from the pail. He drank some, gargled, and spat out the rest onto the heath.

  “I told you to call me, Medj, boy.”

  “Aye, Mother’s Grandfather.”

  Medj snapped the staff around toward Streb’s ankle, but his target danced out of the way, grinning.

  “You’re getting better,” Medj approved.

  “Aye, Mother’s Grandfather.”

  Streb, always alert, saw the old man’s knuckles tighten again and quickly backed out of range. Safer than trying to dodge -- Medj would fling the staff if he thought he could catch it on the rebound.

  Medj smiled, more or less toothlessly. “And smarter.”

  “Aye, Mother’s Grandfather.”

  A keening moan, carrying through the chill of the night, forestalled further chatter.

  Medj cocked his head, listening. “That’s the demon?”

  “Aye, Mother’s Grandfather,” Streb agreed, his excitement making him bounce from foot to foot. Ready to begin their adventure, he snatched up his small pack and hung one strap over his shoulder.

  “Sounds like the wind between rocks.”

  “The air is still tonight,” Streb pointed out, waving his arms and rolling his eyes. Mother's Grandfather could be so dense, sometimes.

  “It’s a dog caught in a deadfall.”

  Streb offered a pithy maritime curse that he had learned from Mother’s Grandfather.

  “Your mother hears you say that and she’ll skin us both for fish bait.”

  “Let’s go look!”

  Medj sighed. “Aye, might as well. That’s what we are here for. Mind our deal – you’re not to tell your mother nor anyone else.”

  Streb nodded eagerly.

  “I’d imagine that the flock will keep themselves while we are gone, aye?”

  “Aye! There’s not been no sign of a wolf around here since, oh, a hundred years!

  Medj gestured for Streb’s shoulder.

  Watchful, the lad eased near enough for Mother’s Grandfather to pull himself to his feet.

  “We need to hurry!” he urged. “The moon will be down within the hour.” He, nor none of the other youths tasked to tend the family’s flock, had ever heard the demon moan but on nights with the brightest moon at this certain time of year.

  “Ha! Boy, I have long since forgotten more than you will ever know about the heavens. Why, when I was navigator second on the Sea Spirit out of Krendithol…”

  Mother’s Grandfather launched into o
ne of his seafarer stories as they started out across the pasture toward the promontory to the east. The old man used the rocking pace that had often caused Streb to wonder if his frail kinsman might fall headlong at any particular moment. Medj could maintain that gait for hours, however, if need be.

  Not that it was a particularly fast pace. Unable to contain himself, Streb ran ahead a few steps, stopped to wait, then ran ahead again. Since he had first heard the whispered stories of the demon trapped within the mound from his cousins, he had wanted to see it for himself. Yrivol, Father’s Brother’s Second Wife’s Son, had even claimed to have been to the mound, though the others all called him liar.

  Medj slowed even more as they reached the rocky slope. “Is there no trail?” he demanded.

  Streb hopped onto a piece of cracked granite that protruded above the rough grass. “Nay, everyone avoids this end of the pasture. It’s Forbidden.”

  “By the Clan Elders? Bunch of ignorant old codgers who think the world ends at the edge of the uplands, if you ask me –“

  “Nay, not the Elders. The Elders will have me beaten if they catch us. You, I don’t know, maybe banished. Those who imprisoned the demon left warnings!” Streb ran up the hill toward an upright slab of rock. He smacked it with his hand. “Look!”

  Medj ambled up to the indicated stone and peered at it blankly.

  After a moment, Streb demanded, astonished, “You can’t read Mother’s Grandfather?”

  Medj grunted. “Aye, you irreverent snipe, I can read. New Stroovish, Merchant scribble, some of the Palchreg alphabet, Inn and Pleasure House in just about any language around the Silvered Sea, but I must admit that I have forgotten Clan Script. No one uses it but the Clan.”

  Medj tapped the deeply chiseled but worn markings on the face of the stone with the end of his staff. “What does it say?”

  “Beware!” Streb recited. “Death awaits all who disturb the demon who rests beyond!”