The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1) (36 page)

Aravia read through the page of prophetic ramblings, frowned, and read it again. The skewed letters actually grew bigger as Romus had written, as if he we wanted to make sure readers took him seriously. “So the Ventifact Colossus is a
turtle
?” she asked. “One big enough that it will take three people to kill it?”

“I’m thinking of my Seer-dream. The one with a turtle walking towards a toy city and threatening to step on it.”

“Right, I remember,” said Aravia. “But then Eddings killed it with a letter opener.”

“What if the city was life-sized?” said Morningstar. “What if the Ventifact Colossus is really that big?”

Aravia read the prophecy one more time. “Hmm. Remember this was written by someone known as Romus the Mad. This could all still be symbolic. Or, worse, a bit of misleading lunacy that means nothing.” But her mind was picking apart the details of the page, turning them over, analyzing.

“Summoned by the red trespasser,” said Morningstar. “Which could be Aktallian Dreamborn, with his red armor.” She frowned. “But…isn’t that good? We want the prophecy to come true, don’t we? So that the way to Kivia gets opened? And in order for that to happen, the Colossus needs to get called so that the Stormknights can kill it.”

“I suppose that…”

“But what if the Stormknights
don’t
kill it?” Morningstar continued. “Then it will lead an army of giant turtles that will lay waste to the kingdom. Maybe it would be better to stop it from being summoned in the first place.”

“
If
Romus is correct, then yes, we’ll have to figure that out,” said Aravia. “But right now this isn’t enough to go on. At the very least we need to find out where Ganit Tuvith is. I don’t recall that name.” She pictured the map of Charagan in her head and mentally scanned its various islands but came up empty. “It’s not on my map. Can you ask Previa if she can look that one up too?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Or maybe Abernathy knows.”

“He’s still out,” said Morningstar. “I checked on him before I came downstairs.”

Aravia sighed. This saving-the-world business was stressful enough knowing there were wise and powerful wizards steering the ship. Now they were adrift. “Ask your sisters about Ganit Tuvith then. I’m not sure what to do next, and the more information we have, the better decisions we can make.”

* * *

YOU MUST SECURE MY BROTHER.

Bumbly had flared to emerald green life once all six of them had come down for breakfast. They crowded around the little bear, allowing Kibi to stand the closest.

“We tried that,” said Kibi. “But someone else got there first and nabbed it.”

HARD BY NORLIN’S HEADWATERS, A KEEP CRUMBLES. TIME AGAIN IS SHORT. WHEN THE WORLD IS UNMADE, YOU WILL NEED MY LAST BROTHER. WITHOUT HIM, NOTHING MATTERS.

“Last?” Ernie said. “You mean our enemies have all the others? Sagiro, or the Sharshun?”

“Dammit,” said Kibi. “Can’t you speak plain? What does that mean?”

KEEP ME SAFE, KIBILHATHUR.

The Eye of Moirel clunked on the wooden table, leaving Bumbly looking as confused as the rest of them. Kibi let out a growling bellow. “Safe from what, you confounded rock? I ain’t got nowhere safer to keep you, but you keep blastin’ your way out!”

“Maybe it just means the Greenhouse,” said Ernie.

Kibi gave a helpless shrug. “Tell you what else. Did the rest of you notice? Bumbly said ‘when.’ ‘When the world is unmade.’ Not ‘if.’ Made it sound like somethin’ we ain’t gonna prevent.”

“Maybe,” said Aravia. “But the Eye clearly prefers to speak in obscurities, so we shouldn’t get hung up on the niceties of its vocabulary. And it still strongly believes we need to find a second one, which wouldn’t matter if the world is going to be unmade no matter what we do.”

“So, great,” said Dranko. “We have something else to keep us busy until Abernathy wakes up. Hey Map-girl, where are Norlin’s headwaters?”

Aravia raised an eyebrow. “Map-girl?”

“It’s a compliment.”

“It’s on Nahalm, same duchy as Sand’s Edge. In fact, it’s the Norlin River that empties out into the Sea of Storms just north of the desert. But the river starts about a hundred miles north of there, in the Norlin Hills.

“What about the turtles?” asked Morningstar.

The others looked at her curiously.

“Oh. Right. Look at this.”

Morningstar passed around her excerpt from the
Gleanings of Romus the Mad.

“I’d be inclined to chalk this up as meaningless ravings,” she concluded. “Except for two things. One is my Seer-dream about a turtle crushing a city. The other is Romus’s mention of a ‘red trespasser,’ which sounds like Aktallian. We don’t know where Ganit Tuvith is, but I’ll see if Previa can find out.”

“Do the Stormknights even know they’re supposed to slay this enormous turtle?” asked Dranko.

“Who knows?” said Morningstar. “Probably? Romus predicts they’ll have been warned.”

“Maybe by us!” said Tor.

Aravia had little to add; she expected that the turtle was a symbol that would become clear in time. But there was something else on her mind.

“In a little while I’ll know what all our magic stuff can do. Another hour with the spellbook for
identification
should be enough; it doesn’t look particularly complex or taxing.”

She read over breakfast, barely aware of what she was eating. Even a relatively simple spell (and
identification
was one of the easiest in Abernathy’s library) took concentration and discipline, not to mention a good deal of tricky memorization, but she knew she’d be up to it.

When the meal was done, the company adjourned to the living room, where the table was mostly covered with Hodge’s metal pyramids. There was also his prayer mat, and Ernie placed his sword Pyknite down as well. Aravia added the Eye of Moirel, and Dranko fished his Black Circle pendant from around his neck and tossed it in with the rest.

“Wait!” said Ernie, before Aravia could begin. “Let me get the bracelet they found on my statue.” He dashed upstairs and soon returned, placing the golden circlet onto the table.

Aravia began to cast.
Identification
was a three-minute spell, its syllables spoken slowly and gestures repeated in sets of five. As she neared the end, a tiny voice in the back of her mind warned that she might be misinterpreting Abernathy’s notes on vocal inflection, but she pressed on nonetheless.

As she spiraled her thumbs to end the spell, the objects on the table began to glow and rise, just a few inches. Ernie’s sword tilted up hilt first until it was balanced on its point.

Hmm. If the spell had worked properly, knowledge of the magic items’ history, purpose, and function should have appeared in her head, as though she had just read full descriptions. But that hadn’t happened, and the glow was getting brighter, and the objects were jittering and bumping against the table.

Now that she thought a bit harder about it, Abernathy’s notes on thumb spirals were ambiguous, particularly regarding the base energy types. Had she inadvertently invoked a kinetic component
inside
the oral divinatory shell?

Uh oh.

One of the metal pyramids flared with white light and bounced nearly to the ceiling. Then another one hopped and thumped
against
the ceiling, ricocheting off at an angle toward the dining room.

“Everyone down on your stomachs, as flat as you can, and shut your eyes tight!” Aravia shouted. “Now!”

She flung herself down, half under the table, just as the living room filled with a cacophony of clattering metal and hard
thunks
as the pyramids smashed into the walls and ceiling. Through her closed eyelids came pulses of light like flaring suns, and she hoped the others had heeded her warning lest they be blinded.

Someone let out a cry of pain.

“Down!” she yelled. “Stay down!”

For a short while the living room sounded like an enclosed archery range with fifty amateur bowmen aiming while blindfolded. When it was over (and it couldn’t have been more than ten seconds), Aravia opened one eye and then the other, sat up, and smacked her head against the bottom of the table.

“Is everyone…?” She meant to say “okay,” but a torrent of knowledge chose that moment to rush through her brain like a raging river, physically knocking her over with its intensity. Information about Ernie’s sword, the metal pyramids, Hodge’s rolled-up carpet—everything except the Eye of Moirel—was deposited in her mind like shore-silt from a retreating wave. She groaned.

“Gods, but that smarts!”

The others were slowly standing, except for Kibi who remained on his stomach. Most of the little pyramids were embedded in the wooden walls, a few had been driven into beams near the ceiling, a few more had failed to find purchase and lay strewn about the floor…and one was lodged point down in Kibi’s left buttock. It was obviously painful, but Aravia couldn’t stifle a snort of laughter. Dranko stood over Kibi and rolled up his sleeves.

“I’ll heal you, on the condition that no one ever mentions this outside the Greenhouse.”

“Seems like we get attacked ’n awful lot in this business,” said Kibi from the ground. He was trying to smile but his face contorted into a pained grimace when he spoke. “You better get yourself used to puttin’ your hands on anyplace we get hurt.”

“Sorry about that,” said Aravia. “I guess my understanding of Abernathy’s magical dialect could still use some fine tuning.”

Dranko looked pointedly at Kibi, then up at the ceiling where Pyknite
still quivered, jammed point-first into a wooden rafter. “We have our front-runner for understatement of the week.”

While Dranko tended to Kibi’s unfortunate injury—using conventional medicine, as he was disinclined to channel—Aravia sifted through the knowledge that her spell had placed in her head. It was like recalling from memory a set of facts she had read in a book only minutes before.

“First thing, the Greenhouse itself is overwhelmingly enchanted. It has so many layers of arcane protections and abjurations infused into its construction, I can’t even keep track of them all. That’s both encouraging—that Abernathy should have gone through so much trouble—and worrying, that he felt we’d need such extraordinary protection.”

She turned to Ernie. “Your sword Pyknite was forged with three drops of goblin blood 114 years ago. A wizard named Ellivia enchanted it as it was hammered, so that it will carve through goblins like blocks of soft cheese. The potency of the magic is tied to the confidence and skill of the wielder.”

Ernie gave a worried little smile. “I wonder if Old Bowlegs knew that.”

“The pyramids are hundreds of years old, but the spell didn’t give me an exact age. They are critical secondary components in a complex ritual meant to open a direct portal between two gartine-infused arches.”

“We guessed that already, didn’t we?” asked Morningstar.

“Sort of,” said Aravia. “They’re secondary because they’re only meant to augment the efficacy of the primary ritual. Hodge was softening up the target, but someone else is performing the ritual that will activate the arch. That’s good news, since it implies we didn’t shut down Hodge’s plan in its entirety.”

She pointed to Ernie’s circlet. “That’s still something of a mystery,” she said. “It’s something called a Talisman of Stability, and one of its effects is to prevent the wearer from traveling between worlds. There’s more, but the spell didn’t provide any additional detail. And as far as my spell is concerned, the Eye of Moirel isn’t magical at all. Something about its nature defies arcane scrutiny.”

She picked up the Black Circle pendant they had taken from Haske in Sand’s Edge. “This thing shields minds, mostly to prevent them from being read, but it will also protect you from other magical spells that can affect your brain.”

“Are there a lot of those?” asked Dranko.

“Sure, though they tend to be extremely difficult to cast, not to mention the ethical concerns. There are spells that can compel a person to take certain actions or
not
to take them. There are also spells that can erase or modify people’s memories. Serpicore mentioned once that that class of magic is illegal in Charagan, and so he had no plans to teach them to me.”

She held up the red rug. Tor was going to love this. “As for the prayer mat, it’s not a prayer mat. It’s a flying carpet.”

Tor’s face lit up like a sunrise. He grabbed the rolled-up carpet from Aravia and dashed to the back yard. A minute later his voice shouted, “How do I get it to fly?”

Aravia and the others joined him on the lawn. The carpet was small—barely five feet long and maybe three feet wide, thinly woven from red and gold silk threads. A gaudy fire motif was prominently featured in its design, and a row of orange tassels lined one of the shorter edges. Tor had it rolled out on the grass and was sitting cross-legged on its center.