Enchanter (Book 7) (75 page)

“They smell like feet and taste like . . . feet,” he decided. 

“Well, we wouldn’t be very good wizards if we couldn’t avoid eating feet, if we could help it,” I agreed.  “I think you’re going to have to work late at the castle, tonight.  But first some non-foot-oriented dinner.”  I thought a moment and then made a decision.  In seconds we were in my house in Sendaria.  I led Ruderal to a vendor by the docks where we secured fried eels and potatoes and boiled eggs.  I sprung for a honeyball, encrusted with pecans, afterwards, which we shared while we watched the sun go down over the river.

“Ruderal, tell me about this . . . intelligence,” I prompted.  “The one in the Grain.”

He took a deep breath and looked thoughtful.  “She’s like all the stars in the sky,” he decided.

“She?”

“Definitely a she,” he affirmed.  “Like a mother.  Like the All-mother, or the Seamother.  And powerful!  I’ve never seen a pattern so powerful.”

I pulled the Grain of Pors out of my pouch and held it in my palm.  “Do you think you can take me to her?”

He swallowed.  “Here?”

“We should be fine,” I assured him.  “I’ll cast a spell to discourage people from even noticing us, and then we can proceed.”

“All right, Master,” he agreed, licking the honey from his fingers before putting his sticky palm over mine.  I made a note to reward the child with sweets only after the work was done, in the future.

“Remember, just relax, focus your concentration, and let the stone draw you within,” I reminded him, as I closed my own eyes.

I found my consciousness within the mental space of the Grain within moments.  A node nearby made itself known as Ruderal.  He didn’t exactly talk as express a desire for me to communicate, and then indicate that I should follow.  We descended.

It was deeper within the Grain than I had ever ventured, beyond the memory of any creature who still lived.  We saw the glimmers of Callidore’s primordial past, the reflections of the self-awareness of creatures whose lives had been lived under different constellations than our own.  Within that forgotten eon Ruderal brought me to an enneagram of breathtaking sophistication. 

It was like an endless tree of awareness, sectioned and organized with startling precision.  The simplistic nature of the patterns I was familiar with were nothing like it.  Most were like simple pine trees in their complexity, a solid trunk and many branches representing different facets of self-awareness.

But the brilliant pattern I saw in front of me was so vast and intricate, it had no less than six main trunks all connecting at a central point of such impossible capacity and complexity that I had no context for it.  Each trunk spun off sub-branches, each of which was vastly more complex than the most developed of men.  Or anything else I’d seen.  Here, it seemed, was a great intelligence.

And Ruderal was right.  It definitely felt female.

Then it hit me.  Six great trunks of awareness.  Six arms of the Snowflake.

I decided I had found my paraclete.

*

*

“You want to transfer . . . her,
into
something?” Ruderal asked, incredulous, when we had retired back to my Sevendor Castle workshop.

“An artefact of great power,” I agreed.  “One which, at the moment, is more an object of nature – or supernature – than a mundane ‘thing’.  It is a cart with no driver.  She . . . would be the driver.  Someone you could speak to, in a manner of saying.  The artefact is far too complicated to be directed by a human mind.  Or even one of the Alon.”

“That’s . . . amazing,” he sighed.  “Like your . . . baculus?”

“Yes,” I agreed.  “And a good number of other enchantments we’ve built this year.  But this would be the largest such feat we’ve ever attempted.  Theoretically, it should work just as well as when I put the . . . curious creature I chose for my baculus.  I’ll use a larger crystal, instead of common quartz, but if the attempt fails there should be no danger.  I will need you to help me in the attempt, if you are game.”

“Is it dangerous?” he asked, suspiciously.

“It shouldn’t be,” I shrugged.  “It’s not like a pattern is going to leap out and start slaying us all.  In fact, it takes a lot of effort to imbue an enneagram into an object, and then integrate it.  That’s even before we find a way to power it.  Until then, it’s a cart and a driver that’s missing a horse.  You need all three to go anywhere.”  The boy seemed to like to speak in metaphors, which was helpful.  That was partly out of ignorance – he’d never had any formal schooling – but partly out of inclination. 

“I see.  All right, I’ll give it a go,” he said, bravely.  “Now?”

“Not yet,” I chuckled.  “I still have to plan the spell and gather some components, which will require extensive conversation with masters Azhguri, Onranion, and others before I consider it.  But if all goes to plan, which it never does, I might have finally constructed the weapon I need to defeat the Dead God, once and for all.”

“Really?  The Goblin King?”

“That’s my plan,” I agreed.  “The last time I met him, he almost killed me.  I only escaped because a bunch of brave Alka Alon sacrificed themselves in battle with him.  Not even they, the greatest of the Alkan lords, were powerful enough to defeat him . . . so what hope did I have?”

“This gives you hope,” he observed.

“The first hope I’ve had that I might defeat him someday.  Together with the Alon and the gods, I have been working on this weapon – this grand enchantment – for six months or more.  With your help I might finally be able to craft it.”

“Really?  My help?”

“I couldn’t have found
her
without you,” I pointed out.  “Or recognized how ideal she is for this.  You’re a part of this enchantment, now, Ruderal.  That’s a big responsibility,” I acknowledged, “but it’s also a great honor.  You’ve just begun studying magic.  I know that’s a lot to ask of you, but I truly believe you can do it.”

“Well, just let me know when,” he agreed.  “If you don’t think it’s dangerous.”

Actually, I wasn’t certain it wasn’t.  But it would be a surprise to both of us, and one he didn’t need to worry about.  “I will.  Why don’t you go find Sir Festaran and have him put you up for the night?  It’s too late to walk home, I’m too tired to transport you without effort . . . and I think it’s time you spent the night at the castle.  You’re certainly old enough. I think you’re ready.”  He took the news as a greater honor than the offer to assist in the greatest enchantment ever attempted by Alkan or Man. 

Once he was gone, I closed my eyes and made contact with Pentandra, mind-to-mind.

Penny, Lady Mask is back.  Or she was.  And she broke my witchsphere.
  I quickly filled her in on the events of late, including the story of the trap at Rolone Castle.  She was nearly speechless.

Oh, Min!  I had no idea!  Do you think she’s dead?

There’s been no sign of her.  Dara swears that Faithful dropped her over rough country, and that she was unlikely to survive.  But her body hasn’t been recovered.  I sent Tyndal to search for it, and he found nothing.  So . . . I’m worried.  I’ve been searching, but . . . well, she broke my witchsphere, and while Onranion is repairing it I’m using one of the Seven stones. 

You have other resources,
she reminded me. 
You fought without magic, you can defend yourself without your witchsphere.  Stop letting this girl get to you, Min.  She took a shot and was lucky enough to wound you.  She won’t get that lucky again, not with you vigilant for her.  So relax.  You sound nearly frantic.

I’m feeling a little frantic,
I admitted. 
Not by choice.  Just knowing she’s out there, in league with Isily and likely Sheruel, makes me anxious.  I don’t know what to expect. 

It’s not becoming,
she pointed out. 

So sorry to disappoint you,
I said, sarcastically.  I was feeling pretty low.

Damn it, I mean it, Minalan!  You are the
Spellmonger,
and despite how you feel, you have a responsibility to the rest of us to keep
being
the all-powerful Spellmonger.  Too much rests on that for you to let your emotions get the best of you.  This mummer’s play masquerading as a duchy wouldn’t last three weeks if it wasn’t well known that Anguin has the friendship and guidance – and financial support – of the Spellmonger.  A whole conclave of your professional colleagues is going to look to you for confident leadership and astute guidance when they haul their arses down to Castabriel in a week, and you have got to be there, being the Spellmonger, despite your melancholia!  Do you understand me, Min?

Yes, Penny,
I answered, dully.

Oh, I could choke that murderous bitch myself for what she’s done to you!

It’s just a scratch on my arm,
I said, feeling pitiful. 
And Onranion says he can fix the sphere . . . eventually.

I’m not talking about Mask, you idiot, I’m talking about Isily!  She’s the one who has your heart in knots!  I know she’s as big as a pumpkin right now, about to deliver her brat unto the world, but she’s the one who’s affected you like this, not Mask.  Gods, I wish she were going to the Conclave, so that I could face her myself!

She’s not coming?

Don’t you ever read the Order’s reports?  The committed attendees list was attached to the revised agenda, just as I established. 

I’ve been busy.  Fighting for my life,
I reminded her.

Excuses.  Baron Dunselen and Baroness Isily have sent their regrets, but will be skipping the Conclave for the anticipated birth of their first child.  She didn’t waste any time, did she?

She has a thing about magical blood lines,
I explained. 
She’s committed to breeding with only the most powerful magi.

That explains her initial desire to seduce you, and I can almost understand that.  But Dunselen?  He’s as powerful as a Tal matron, even with a witchstone. 

I know.  Isily is playing some deep game.

She’s playing on our board, Min,
Pentandra reminded me. 
We built this godsdamned board. 

Speaking of which,
I said, desperate to change the subject,
how is your Ishi problem?

Actually, less problematic,
she admitted
.  I don’t know what you said to her, but she’s turned her attention from the court and the gentry to the army.  Ever since the 3
rd
Commando arrived in Vorone, it’s been nothing but patriotic support and discounts for military personnel at the brothel.  But that’s the other problem: she’s organized the brothels.

Well, you have to admit, a disorganized brothel can be a frightful place.

That’s not what I mean.  I mean she’s used her influence and money to convince the proprietors of Perfume Street to organize a kind of professional association. 

A guild . . . of whores? 

Essentially.  There are nine members, including Lady Pleasure, who runs it.  At first no one paid any attention to it – they held a festival, drummed up some business, nothing too dramatic.  But then prices stabilized, and the various houses stopped competing head-on.  She’s also used the combined purchasing power of them to negotiate better deals from merchants, tailors, guards, and even taxation.  She’s hired a coinsister to keep everyone’s books, to keep things honest, and mandated that each brothel take a day off in turn. 

That all sounds pretty reasonable,
Penny, I answered, after some thought.

It’s completely reasonable.  It’s also unheard of.  Who has a whore’s guild?

Vorone, apparently.  Why does that bother you?

Because I know she’s not doing it for the girls, she’s doing it for some political or spiritual or other purpose I can’t fathom.  Now she wants to be friends with me, under the polite fiction that she’s really just a middle-aged human noblewoman.  I’ve debated with her a dozen times, and she’s giving me a headache trying to figure out what she’s really up to!

Perhaps you should take her at face value, I suggested.  Maybe she really is just trying to help, like she says.

Minalan, have you ever known a woman to act without concealing something?
she asked, patiently. 
Outside of a saintly priestess, every woman has deception in her heart.  And Ishi isn’t just any woman, she’s every woman.  Of course she’s concealing her real purpose!  Gods, how did you ever get to be the Spellmonger?

You made me do it,
I sighed, heavily. 
I just wanted a funny hat.

Chapter Thirty Five

The Celestial Mother

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” Onranion asked, skeptically.

“I leave for the bloody Conclave in two days,” I grumbled.  “If this doesn’t work, then I want to be able to ask the experts of the kingdom just why it didn’t.”

“Human
experts?” he asked, amused.

“Enough with that,” I sighed.  “Let’s just prepare the spell.  I’ll need you controlling the energy flow, now that my sphere is being re-shoed – do you think you can manage that?”

“I could do it dead drunk,” the Alkan songmaster assured me.

“Lucky me.  Azhguri, you’ll oversee the transfer into the crystal.  You’ve selected one?”

“That big whopping Apophylyte crystal we found in that first vesicle,” he said, with satisfaction.  “That’s got a matrix big enough to transfer anything.  I did the abstergent spell to prepare it already.  I’m fairly certain I can sing the Snowflake enough to still it so that you can imbue the enneagram from the crystal.  I’ve prepared it, according to Ulin’s specifications,” he added.  Then he stopped and frowned.  “Are you certain this is a good idea, lad?”

“It’s
your
bloody idea, so you tell
me
,” I said, as I prepared the spell on a table in front of the big hissing thing.  I tried not to look at it.  “This still doesn’t give us a power source,” I reminded them.  “This thing is going to sit there like a puppet without strings without power.”  We had established early on that the ambient magical energy that the Snowflake attracted was hardly sufficient to bring the enneagram to full effectiveness.  Not that it would be an issue for a while.  We still had no idea if it would even work.

“It’s a good idea,” Azhguri agreed.  “What concerns me is the execution.”

“We’ve discussed this for months, in one way or another,” I pointed out as I opened my notebooks.  “A complex, sophisticate enneagram is going to be the only thing powerful enough to interface between a human – or Alon – mind and the Snowflake, you said.  Well, I found the paraclete you told me didn’t exist.  What’s the problem?”

“I’m just thinking that maybe unearthing a creature who has been dead for that long might not be the best idea,” the ancient stonesinger said.  “Enneagrams are powerful things.  The Alka screwed around with them, and got Korbal as their pay.”