22. N #3
He’d never worked with magic in this way, and was gratified that it didn’t seem difficult.
Simply spell the jar open, and draw what you need.
At least until the jar had been emptied.
He started the Gate spell again, and fumbled it, feeling the jar’s energy bleed away.
Focus! Confidence is key! You’ve done this a thousand times!
He raised the spell again, drawing the energy out of the jar, using it to fill his spell.
He used a small tendril of power for a second spell, juggling the two as he opened a second jar and drained it.
He felt a resistance as the first one went dry …
sooner than he would have expected. He opened a third, then a fourth, enough to Spell the Gate, and arm it, then began transferring energy into it.
He did the spell from long memory, making the hand-passes that shaped the magic and the mnemonics that helped him focus his energy on the outcome he desired.
The repetition and ritual helped steady him, offset by the pit of anxiety in his stomach.
Normally, a failure meant only some lost time, a bit of a headache, and a second try.
Here, with a finite, and diminishing number of jars, a failure would seal the Gate. He might die.
That realization shook him, and he fumbled the words, and had to struggle to hold the shape of his spell.
He transferred more energy in, and released the portion of the spell that let the Gate draw ambient energy of its own accord.
Normally, the Gate would continue from here of its own accord, drawing the magic it needed until it was fully powered. This time it stuttered and dimmed.
He quickly opened the remaining jars, and drew their contents out into the air. The Gate sucked it up eagerly, drawing in whatever it found in its vicinity.
Despite the pain and weakness, he worked with the most precision and care he ever had in his life, and started the second series of enchantments.
These would let him pass through. This was a lesser magic, but more precise …
and his own reserves were sufficient to this task.
He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily.
This casting appeared to be working. He felt the Gate come to life, and respond to his commands.
He felt the last of the jars drain. The Gate had taken all of the magic it could glean from those storage jars. He hoped it would be enough.
He released the second set of spells, and sensed the Gate reaching out to the exiles’ world, seeking the portal on the other side.
He continued the incantations, ignoring the pains from the wound, the splints, and the tourniquet.
The Gate made the connection, but it was weak.
Tentative. He tried to open the Gate. It flickered for a moment.
He swore. The jars had served well enough to establish the connection, but not quite enough for him to go through.
He looked around for something else he could tap for power. Just a bit more.
“Good evening, my lord,” he heard a cool voice say.
He turned back towards sound, only then appreciating that he had left the doorway to the hall standing wide open.
He turned. A tall, thin elf in a baggy soldier’s uniform and wrong-color boots stood in the doorway.
For a moment, the uniform confused him, then he looked at the face.
He knew that face. Oh, how he knew that face!
He felt a flash of hatred, and fought to maintain his cool.
“Hello, Triana,” he said coolly, as though greeting a supplicant in his office.
He pointed with his chin towards the courtyard and city wall.
“This is your doing, I think?” She glanced in the direction he pointed.
He used that opportunity to limp in the direction of the bench, where he had leaned the spear-shaft he’d used for a cane.
The coldly rational part of his mind saw him grasp it like a club and brain her with it.
Once he’d stunned her, he would finish her off.
He felt a cold rage build … not like the hot, unreasoning tempests of his wife’s anger, the storms of female emotion …
or his own furies, the red rages that sometimes overcame him.
These were the icy fury of logic and calculation.
He could see the blows, see her fall, and see himself strike until he’d finished her.
The shaft was out of reach, for now. How to get to it?
He leaned against the table, felt it roll a bit.
It would be heavy, but if he could time it right, he might knock her down, or disable her with its weight, or the jars’.
That might gain him the few moments he would need to lunge for the spear-shaft, then to deal with Triana.
His mind’s eye saw her on the floor, struggling with the table’s weight, while he armed himself and struck. Repeatedly.
She glanced briefly behind him, towards the Gate.
“Ah, excellent. Less to figure out.” Her eyes snapped back to focus on him.
Her voice was as cool as his. “That mess out there? My doing? Not really.”
She didn’t take her eyes off him. “In fact, when it all comes down to causes, it’s all your doing, you and every other person in this world that either knew about, or was directly responsible for, imprisoning and torturing creatures that meant you no harm in order to live off their life force.”
He snorted with derision. “Says the slaveholder who tortured her own … what was your word you used … property? That was it. Property. Sent your property to their deaths, sent them to your breeding pens … how did you just phrase it … while you ‘lived off their life force.
’ You don’t get to lecture me.”
But she just smiled. “The difference between us is that now I know better, and intend to do better. You’ve had—how many now?—at least a dozen fallen cities to learn better. You didn’t. So, one more will fall.” Her expression grew still, and he could see what looked like pain and regret.
He snorted.
She rallied, and waggled a finger at him as if he was a particularly dense student.
“Now, now, now. Was I here when Sapphirine fell? When Jadeite? Or Topaz? I was not. The creatures you had imprisoned either freed themselves or were freed by their own kind from outside the walls. Or you tortured them until they died, and before you could replace them,
your shields failed and the vengeance began. They know what you are now, what you are doing, and how you are doing it, and they won’t stop until their fellows are free. The fall of this city, of all your cities, is just as inevitable. You could turn that around if you wanted. If you cared to.
If you bothered to think. People can change. I’m certainly going to try. I have a lot to atone for.”
She paused then. “But … I don’t think you will change, not even when it’s too late.”
“Too late?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Now you’ve killed one of their elders, one of their Old Ones, and they are most assuredly incensed. And highly motivated.”
He thought back to the tripedal creature and the use of the king’s Last Word, the actinic dropped directly on it, and crater left behind. He tried to muster a confidence he didn’t feel. He shrugged.
“Because of you?” he asked. “You did do this?”
She considered a moment, glanced away, and then glanced back. He took the moment to shift his weight, working to position himself for the shove that would careen the table into her.
She shrugged, still cool. “By an accident of kindness, in truth. I knew you were stealing from him, and that the rods were hurting him. I didn’t make the connection until I got outside and saw the blue sky.”
She glanced away again, frowned a bit, then looked back.
He wasn’t stupid enough to turn his head to look.
He took advantage of the moment to shift his footing a bit more.
One more glance away, and he would have her.
He tensed, readying for the shove that would take her down.
Her eyes steadied on him, and he saw her lips moving, working a spell.
She made a twisting motion with her thumb and forefinger.
He braced himself for the shove.
He heard a click behind him.
“I think your creature wants a word with you.”
Triana pivoted on her heel and fled.
Haldeen turned. The Probe rose up from its haunches as its cage door opened. Haldeen looked frantically around for the control rod. The creature came out of the cage. He stepped back against the table, using his hand to hold himself up and favor his injured leg.
“Stop,” he commanded, pulling all his authority into the single command.
The Probe halted. It stood completely still for several moments, then turned its gray, scaled head towards him.
It regarded him with its oversize, coal black eyes.
It had no pupils and its gaze gave him the feeling of being prey before a serpent.
It stood frozen, with only its head turned towards him.
He held its gaze, holding it by virtue of the command in his voice.
It had followed his commands, been subject to the will of his voice, but always with the control rod in his hand.
The spells that connected the control rod to the ones implanted in its brain …
miniatures to those used to control the Sources, but identical in principle, held it in check, and restricted its behavior.
Haldeen had never tried … been foolish enough to try … holding it with just his voice.
He felt his heart hammering in his chest.
He knew he stood on very thin ice, and it would take little for it to crack.
He held its eyes, worried that his tenuous hold would break the moment he looked away.
He normally kept the control rod on his work-table, but on his return … he didn’t recall where he had set it.
The creature’s shoulders tensed, and it raised one hand, and looked downward, studying it. Haldeen risked a glance around, and saw the control rod. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It was further than he could easily reach with his injured leg, but perhaps slow movements ….
In the end, it was the rolling table that betrayed him. A spasm in his leg caused him to lean more heavily on it, and it shifted. He stumbled and nearly fell. The Probe’s head snapped up and it tensed. It took a step towards him.
“Stop!” he commanded. It took another step, tentatively, then a third more firmly as the chastisement didn’t come. Haldeen swore. His tenuous control had failed.