Enchanter (Book 7) (60 page)

“That’s a fair assessment,” I agreed.  “I did pass along the hint that I got, to go through the center.  Did that bear any fruit?”

“Yes and no,” grunted Azhguri, flopped on a bag of mortar, smoking his more intricate pipe.  He was an avid smoker and had a collection 0of them.  “We both changed our approach, and was able to make some progress, but ultimately the result was the same.  However,” he continued, with a smile of triumph, “while trying to sing the thing, yet again, I realized something: the center portion of the damn thing is actually
separate
from the rest of the structure, for just the briefest of moments.”

“We’ve established that,” I nodded.

“But what we didn’t notice is that the effect producing a kind of arcane sheering effect, for the briefest of moments, around the entire crystal, like a flash of lightning.  I never would have noticed it, myself.  Too focused on the song and the stone.  But this ugly scarecrow happened to be watching the entire matrix while I was singing, and when that flash happened he noticed the effect.”

“A sheering effect,” I said, thinking hard about that.  “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means that the center is briefly unstable.  Oh, you still can’t move it – your Sire Cei could smack at it all day with his mighty hammer and get nothing but a sore shoulder, I’d think.  But when the sheering effect happens, the
entire centerpoint
goes slightly out of phase.”

“Enough to be subject to certain dimensional magics,” Azhguri nodded. 

I stared at both of them.  “You mean I could put the Snowflake in a
hoxter
pocket?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” laughed Onranion.  “That is a
molopor,
my boy.  It’s unmovable by definition.  Quantumly locked to the planet’s magosphere.   But,” he continued, with a smile, “the centerpoint, during the sheering, is just a little quantumly . . .
wobbly.”

“Wobbly?”

“Wobbly!” Azguri proclaimed.  “Wobbly enough to become just unstable enough to slide into an hoxter pocket, under the proper conditions.”

“Like what?” I asked as I stroked my beard, intrigued.

“A huge amount of power, for one thing,” Onranion said.  “A really staggering amount of power, just to keep it there.”

“All right.  So we have a portable centerpoint—”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Azhguri interrupted.  “The centerpoint never actually leaves the center of the Snowflake.  Theoretically.”

“But you just said it was in a pocket,” I said, confused.

“It is.  But the pocket isn’t
anywhere
.  So when the center is pulled out of the pocket, it returns to the Snowflake.  Or re-appears at the snowflake.  Something like that.  We
think.”

“So what do we do with it?” I asked, still confused. 

“
’What do we do with it’
, he asks?” laughed Azhguri, choking smoke all over the room.

“My lad, a
molopor
is a powerful magical tool, if you know how to use it.  The problem with the damned things is that they’re always off in the middle of the wilderness, or in the sky, or at the bottom of the sea, or some other inconvenient place.  Usually the site of some horrific magical catastrophe of old, so local conditions can be challenging.  Having one whose powers you can access anywhere you happen to be would be . . . almost inconceivable.”

“You think we could do that?”

“It’s all theory, but we’ve been discussing it in detail,” Onranion assured me.  “We think it could happen, under the right conditions.  With the right combination of magic, luck, and skill.”

“Well, what kind of thing are we talking about here?” I insisted, a little frustrated.  “What the hells could it do?”

“You told us that the Snowflake was a fulcrum?  This is the part of the fulcrum in which you stick the lever.  What we’re telling you is how to build the lever,” Azhguri said, patronizingly.  “I think that big whopping crystal you have might serve as a physical anchor.  Embedded in a chunk of irionite, for instance, to sustain the power to keep it in place—”

“By my calculations, a volume of around half a kilogram would do it,” Onranion said, casually.  “With some songspells to bind it to the gem.”

“And then I’d sing the two in concert,” Azhguri finished, “and add some runes to help bind power flow.  Like building the banks of a stream up,” he said, saying the words slowly and clearly, as if I was an idiot.

“Once the power stream is established and maintained, the rest should be easy, theoretically.  The gem acts as a conduit, an interdimensional space that can filter the power of the centerpoint and into your, what do you call it?  Your thaumaturgic awareness,” he said, remembering the technical term.

“So I get lots and lots more power,” I sighed.  “I’ve already got plenty of magical power.  What can it
do?”

“Theoretically?” the Alkan master mused.  “Anything that the Dead God could do, and perhaps more.  He has a simple
molopor
.  This is that . . . and more.  You wouldn’t even need as much power, to match him, as once the initial work was done, the construct would be self-sustaining . . . as long as there was a consciousness compelling it to be.  A heart, so to speak, to keep the magic pumping.”

“That’s where we are stuck,” Onranion admitted.  “And where your quaint little magical system comes into play.”

“And just how is that?”

“Well, the weakness of the proposal lies in the interface between the crystalline matrix’s intricate depths, and the mage’s mind.  Your bloody minds are just too . . . simple.  So are ours,” he added, before I could get offended.  “So we think you need some sort of paraclete.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” I nodded.

“The fact is, the mutable nature of the matrix requires a mind of such complexity that . . . well, I’m not certain it exists.”

“Well, not anymore, perhaps,” Onranion sighed, wistfully.  “Long before either of our peoples came to this world, there were the great intelligences of the deep.  Minds of such staggering complexity, legends say, that their awareness encompassed millions of creatures.”

“It would take something like that, I think,” nodded Azhguri, grimly.

“We don’t happen to have something like that laying around,” I said, suddenly discouraged. 

“Don’t you?” asked Onranion, suddenly.  “I’ve seen the wonderful toys your people have made, bypassing your usual crude spells and using enneagrammatic magic.  You must be capturing them from somewhere.  Animal sacrifice?” he proposed, curious.

“No!  In fact, I have access to a node of Ghost Rock, known to my profession as the Grain of Pors.  It was discovered a few centuries ago north of the Kulines, in the wilderness, and used to retrieve enneagrams for use in his constructs.  After the Conquest, it got locked in a vault, until we retrieved it.  And started researching it.”

The Alon exchanged meaningful glances.

“We thought it might be something like that – although I was curious to see how you do an animal sacrifice.  No matter.  Ghost Rock?  Yes, that would be sufficient to give awareness to your toys.  But dangerous, Minalan.  You don’t realize how dangerous,” he warned.

“Aye,” sighed the old Karshak heavily.  “That stuff is trouble.  The legacy of times long past, when the sun was new and the mountains young.  Some not even formed yet.  Aye, we’ve come across such deposits before, and the wise avoid them.”

“Well, humans do have some facility with enneagrammatic magic, owing to their odd collective subconsciousness,” Onranion pointed out.  “Their awareness doesn’t bleed away so easily in the context of such endeavors. 

“But that only mitigates the danger,” Azhguri said, shaking his head.  “The issue isn’t their capacity for madness – which is vast – but their foolishness in unleashing powers they don’t understand on the world!”

“Oh, posh!” Onranion dismissed with a wave of his long fingers.  “We do that sort of thing all the time, all of us.  Who was responsible for bringing dragons into this world, after all?”

“Yes, thanks for that!” the Karshak said, bitterly.  The Stone Folk and the Iron Folk had always been special targets of the beasts, in the Alka Alon legends.  “What the hell did
my
people ever do?”

“Unleash the Beldurrazeko on the world?” he asked, an eyebrow raised accusingly.

“Oh . . .
that
,” Azhguri said, suddenly looking away, guilty and ashamed.  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“As did the dragons,” agreed the Alkan spellsinger.  “Both our races have learned a valuable lesson in humility, after indulging in tragic explorations that led to horrific catastrophe.  Its high time humanity had its turn.”

“What exactly
are
you proposing?” I asked, still confused.  I had no idea what a Beldurrazeko even was.

“What he’s suggesting is that you find within your Ghost Rock some ancient horror who hasn’t seen the light of day for millions of years, pull its enneagram out, and slap it into the Snowflake,” explained Azhguri.  “Which is the most foolhardy and suicidal idea these ears have ever heard.”

“Yet it would nicely solve the thaumaturgical problem, if you could integrate the enneagram into the matrix and manage to keep it there.  That would take power, too . . . but once the centerpoint was captured, there would be no real issue, because the power is pouring through the centerpoint, which is, in fact, still at the center of the Snowflake.”

“You think that would be enough to keep the enneagram stable?” I asked, realizing that what he suggested was, indeed, thaumaturgically sound.

“It would if you used that other pretty rock on it,” agreed Azhguri.  “The stability stone, or whatever you called it.”

“The Amara Stone.  You are the ones who named it, remember?  So a part of the enneagram would be in the irionite, with the gem, and part would be in the Snowflake.”

“Theoretically speaking, it would be present in both places simultaneously.  Depending on the complexity of the enneagram, that could be sufficient to act as an interface.”

“That would also allow it to access all the various energies implicit in the Snowflake,” I agreed.  “How would a human – or Alon – consciousness control that?”

“With a tremendous effort of will, I would imagine,” answered Onranion.  “I’m guessing a familiarity with the crystal would be helpful, and some sort of affinity with the enneagrammatic creation would be advisable . . . hence the vital importance of selection.  I imagine this node of Ghost Rock is filled with such things?”

“Tens of thousands, perhaps more,” I agreed.  “I thought you Alkan used the Ghost Rock to visit your ancestors, or something?”

“Such things are reserved for only the mighty and the wise,” assured Onranion.  “I’ve only done it myself in my youth.”

“When you were mightier and wiser, do doubt,” Azhguri replied.  “But these
humani
seem comfortable with messing about with such horrors, it seems.  The question is, do they have the wit and wisdom to know one of the Mighty Ones of the Deep from a
true
ancient horror?”

“That is the question,” agreed Onranion, looking pointedly at me.

I sighed.  “Gentlemen, your insights are magnificent.  It truly is an elegant solution, if it can be managed.  Yet I have around a thousand questions just off the top of my head.  But as for the issue of the ennegamatic interface . . . well, I might have your answer.  He’s eleven, and my new apprentice.”

Chapter Twenty Eight

The Transitory Siege of Rolone Castle

The impromptu revel in the hall that night was legendary, for a number of reasons.  It marked the high point of the goddess’ spell, or grace, or whatever it was she did to me.  It marked the turning point in a number of relationships, and more than one wedding was held in its wake.  Less formal liaisons were more common, however.

It was also a day for fights.  In particular, the noon-time scrap between Sir Festaran, who was going to visit Dara at the Mews in the Westwood, and Gareth, who was returning from doing just that thing.

I wasn’t positive of the nature of their argument, but I could guess.  Ishi
loves
a good scrap.

But with cautious discussion and calm direction, no one drew a sword or knife.  Perhaps someday I’ll tell the full tale of that wild night, but for my part I only had eyes for my wife.  She bore the brunt of my resurgent interest, and was as eager and willing as any young maid behind the barn.

The next morning saw dozens of violent hangovers and more than a few regrets, and the effects of the spell waning steadily.  I was feeling fortunate to be summoned to witness the fall of Rolone Castle that morning.  I wouldn’t be around when people started to look each other in the eye over the previous evening’s excesses. That suited me fine.

Banamor and Dranus both elected to join me, and we left quietly before most of the castle was awake, through the Waypoints.  A few moments later we were sixty miles away, on the southern slope of the long, low hill on which the town and castle of Rolone was perched, watching Lorcus eat breakfast.