Gemworld (17 page)

He found his Da sitting at the work table in front of the main house, keeping company with a pair of men sitting opposite of him. As Keth approached, the pair looked to Keth, then shared a secret look that the boy didn’t altogether trust. They were mages, after all, a ruby and a sapphire. And they seemed a bit too interested in Keth for his liking. “Ah, and here’s me son now,” Keth’s father said, following their eyes.

“The wind kisses the wheat,” the sapphire greeted him, extending his hand in traditional Plainsfolk greeting.

Odd, coming from a Valenese, Keth thought. He took the hand anyway, pumping it firmly. “It weaves through the stalks, and they sway,” he answered neutrally. The sapphire’s smile faltered, and his parents looked positively scandalized. That obviously wasn’t the response they’d hoped for.
How unfortunate
, Keth sneered inwardly. His initial reply, “the wind precedes the storm,” still squirmed on his tongue, begging to be let loose. Keth had little love for mages—they were murderers and house-dividers, the lot o’ them; everyone knew that—but it would not do to insult the sapphire so in his Ma’s presence.

The ruby, on the other hand, didn’t use the traditional greeting, didn’t expect the polite response, “the wind bears the seed to new fields.” He had watched the exchange between Keth and the sapphire dispassionately, and now greeted Keth with a simple bow, as was the custom among the Onatae. His slanted crimson eyes betrayed no expression, fair or foul. They just smoldered.

Finally, Keth’s father bade them all sit. The boy was still wary, but there was something about the mages, something odd. Keth was curious. Shaking hands with the sapphire had made his eyes tingle. Apparently, he intrigued the mages as well, for they shared that secret look again.

“He’s a hard worker, me boy is, and smart as a whip,” his father said, clapping Keth on the back. “Up at dawn to do his chores. Works hisself weary, then studies his lessons long into the night. Listen ye to his speech, see if’n they ain’t the words of an industrious man. Even now, he’s fresh from the smithy out back.” He punctuated this last with another fond slap, oblivious to the pun between the words “fresh” and “smithy”.

“We have no doubt that your son is quite industrious, Master Tucker,” the sapphire said, addressing Keth as much as his father. “It is the extent of his talent we’re here to determine. You see, boy, we feel that you may have the potential to become a mage, which is something that you cannot do here on a farm. Simply the fact that you’ve grown to this age and not ascended is testimony to that.”

Keth took in the earnestness of the sapphire. He seemed a nice enough fellow, and outgoing to boot. He definitely had a way with his Da, who Keth had always seen as the ultimate judge of character. Still, the whole thing stank like a stall in need of mucking out. “Alright, then do whatever ye must, and go,” answered Keth tightly. Mage he may be—or no, as willed the Crafter—but he determined that no one would tell him he had to leave his Da’s own farm, whatever happened.

“It’s not that simple,” the ruby said, his tone as dark as it was quiet. “We must administer a test of your magical abilities. If you pass, we will aid in your ascension, and then take you to a place where you will be able to learn to control your talents. You will become more powerful than you could possibly imagine. If you fail, you stay here, and we will never bother you again.

“But we cannot allow you to remain untested. If you were to accidentally ascend on your own, you would be a danger to everyone you know and love. We would have no choice but to return, in force, and... resolve the problem.” There could be no mistaking the note of finality in the ruby’s words.

“You leave me little choice,” Keth muttered cheerlessly, setting his will against what might happen. This was his home, and he’d rail against the Gates of the Abyss before he let those
minta
’
hk
divide it.

Nodding his satisfaction, the sapphire produced a plaque. It was little more than a lacquered slat with the bejeweled design of a hand on the front of it. Keth hissed and backed away. “
That
’
s
your test?”

Keth had heard of the Tiled Hand. He’d had friends that had touched the plaque, only to be smitten unconscious. When they woke days later, they were... different. And not just their eyes or their ability to wield magic. Whatever the Hand bestowed, it wasn’t good.

Keth moved to stand, but his Da held him fast. “Sit yerself, boy, and listen.” The older man’s voice was firm, but sympathetic to his son’s fears. “Me and yer Ma shan’t be around forever, and we want to know yer taken care of.” He pointed at the Hand. “That may well be our guarantee. A mage leads a grand life, respected and admired by his peers. I’m a farmer. Me Da was a farmer, and his Da before him. I want somethin’ better for ye, son.”

Keth looked to the Tiled Hand, then to the sapphire mage holding it. The gemstone eyes he found there frightened him. He felt trapped in them, as a fly in amber. But within those sky blue orbs, he also saw the hint of the wondrous power that could be his. He had to admit that the prospect excited him almost beyond his fear. His emotions swirled, his gorge heaved reflexively. He looked to his Da for stability, but the older man’s eyes just continued to plead with him. Keth sighed deeply and shook his head. What was he to do? He didn’t want to be a mage, wanted nothing of the sort, but he’d be a fool not to take advantage of that kind of power. Besides, mages didn’t
have
to be murderers and house-dividers, did they? Fear and possibility chased each other around inside his head, until finally, he grit his teeth and threw his reluctant hand forward, bringing it down upon the plaque’s multicolored design before he could convince himself not to.

As his hand came down on the Tiles, his head erupted in a mad rush of pain. He tried to scream, but the pain stole his breath. He fell to the ground clutching his head as, before his dimming eyes, the world blurred, the colors bleeding together as they inverted, and eventually faded altogether as he slipped into the black void of sleep...

***

The thunk of Master Seti’s hammer brought Keth back to the present. He had no idea how long he’d been lost in his memories, but the fires of the forge had softened the steel bar to a blue that approached turquoise.

He pulled the bar from the fire and laid it on the anvil, positioning it precisely, so that every swing of the hammer would achieve maximum effect. Satisfied, he went back to work pummeling the steel bar, exerting his will upon the metal as it slowly took the form of his choosing. This one was to be a scythe, for use in the wheat fields east of Caravan, should the village stay put long enough to see that particular crop come in. One of the many tools he’d mastered through the years, he could have forged it with his eyes closed. As the blue metal darkened—hardened—beneath his hammer, he was tempted to do that very thing, to close his eyes and slip once more into the past.

Blue the metal was, like his Nanette’s eyes had been once upon a lifetime. That last time he’d seen them, they were wide with shock, and grey as ash. The tears were still wet as they coursed down her crumbling cheek...

He hadn’t recognized her. To him, she’d appeared as some horrific caricature of a woman. Not his Nanette. But he knew the mages by their glowing eyes. He saw clearly the icy blue and the burning red of the ones who’d done this to him, to Nanette. He’d lashed out at the nearest one, directing all his anger at those demonic red orbs. Their precious Tiled Hand had stolen his eyes, and replaced them with mocking stone parodies, polished rocks that would never again see a sunrise or a flame. All he could see now were flaws, weaknesses in the things he once thought were perfect.

As he pounded the blue steel into blue-black, the events of that replayed in his mind—almost unbidden, but undeniable in any case. He remembered the confusion as he first opened his eyes. He hadn’t recognized a single face—not his Ma, nor his Da, nor the two mages. Their faces were nothing more than a blur of mismatched colors. He fought to contain the sheer panic growing within him, fought wildly, but it slipped from his grasp as he laid eyes on the woman he would learn, too late, had been his betrothed.

Nanette’s once-copper skin was now orange. The sun of her hair was now a dull orange-red. Her proud cheekbones now gleamed yellow, showing through her flesh as were her forehead, jaw and teeth. Her eyes, once a radiant blue, were now meaningless red blobs. When she approached, she was too stunned to speak, so she just reached out to touch his face. His eyes...

Keth’s fear fed upon itself, doubling with each passing moment. It was all he could do to hold on to his sanity as he took in the quivering mass of confusion that the world had become. But when his eyes fell upon that yellow visage of a skull wreathed in orange, his mounting fear gave way to full blown terror. Not knowing who she was—
what
she was—he lashed out. He was only trying to protect himself. How was he to know?!? It was only after his fear had evoked his magic that it dawned on him. He saw the familiar crook to the nose, the proud cheekbones, the tiny scar where they’d pierced each other’s left ears as the Plainsfolk customs of betrothal demanded—now all shades of grey in powdery death. What had he done?

Terrified disbelief gave way to anger, anger to unfettered rage. He turned his dreadful gaze to the ruby mage, the closer of the two recruiters. The mage, his eyes dead black within the shimmering red aura of his power, drew upon the ruby magic in defense of the attack he knew was coming.

The defensive mage was exactly the target that Keth needed to vent his grief-riddled hate. After all, a defensive posture begged an offensive move, did it not?

The sapphire mage’s appeals to reason fell on deaf ears as Keth charged the ruby. He studied the mage in a way quite detached from his anger. He found that not only could he see varying colors denoting strength and weakness, he could see patterns
within
those colors. And on some level—perhaps knowledge imparted to him directly from his magic—he knew that those patterns were what made up the sapphire’s skin, his bones, his gemstone eyes. He knew those patterns instinctively… and he knew that he could affect them! Time slowed to a crawl as Keth raised his fist. A telltale brown tinge had already begun spreading throughout the ruby’s face. As Keth cocked his elbow back, the brown aura mixed with the orange of the mage’s facial tissues. By the time Keth’s fist, crackling with brown energy, met the mage’s jawbone, brown and orange had completely merged to form a muddy grey. The fist met little resistance as it made contact with the mage’s jaw and pushed through it. The mage’s head shattered, sending dusty shards across the room...

Keth noticed the relative silence of the forge, and it startled him out of his memories. He turned to find Master Seti staring at him, saying nothing. Self-consciously, Keth shoved the steel bar back into the fire pit.

“You know, I’ve never had any love for the Highest,” said the blacksmith gruffly, “or his granite henchmen. But you ain’t one of them. Your trial proved that to the Council, and that’s good enough for me.

“Granted, acceptance into our little clan don’t solve all your problems, and I don’t believe a man should solve another man’s problems for him anyway, so I wouldn’t try even if I knew how,” he admitted, his turn to be self-conscious. “But I do believe in helping a man to achieve his
own
victory.”

“What’s the difference?” Keth asked, for lack of anything else to say.

“Even a blind man needs to look at himself once in a while, and be able to accept what he sees. He can’t do that if someone
else
is telling him where to look. We can only tell you what you’re seeing, not what you’re to do with it once you see it for yourself.” The older man fell silent for a moment of reflection, then shrugged and returned to his work as if not caring what the young granite made of his personal observations.

But Keth watched the blacksmith for a while after, watched him hammer away at a thin shaft of steel, a broadsword in the making. Keth’s Da had once described smithing as “only helping the steel become what it was already meant to be.”

Smithing was an art. You couldn’t force the steel into a certain shape, and you shouldn’t try to. You had to coax it, persuade it, almost allow the metal to shape itself. If you did it right, the steel would accept your guidance and shape itself into whatever you desired, and be stronger for it. If you did it wrong, the steel would break.

The blacksmith’s words came back to him, fitting perfectly with his Da’s teaching. This blacksmith, along with all of Caravan, had been there for Keth, constantly offering to help him, to guide him. He supposed he should be more grateful. Granted, their reasons were selfish; they wanted to coax him into fighting for their cause. But was that really such a bad thing, considering the alternatives? He thought not.

But one question plagued him as he worked. After everything that had happened since his ascension, after all he’d seen and experienced, could he trust anyone enough to let himself be molded? Or would he break, as the steel that refused to be coaxed?

Jaren was very thorough in his examination of Sal. Nothing was left to chance. Blood pressure, adrenaline concentration in the blood, residual muscle spasms, all were investigated in exhaustive detail. When the emerald was satisfied that Sal was in no immediate danger, he began to drill Sal on “constricting his conduits”—whatever that meant.

As simply as Jaren could put it, mana flowed through a mage in “conduits”, intangible magical constructs similar to blood vessels. In constricting or relaxing his conduits, a mage could control the release of his magics, or prevent it entirely.

In James Salvatori terms, it was squeezing the hose so that all the water didn’t come out at once and drown everyone. The emerald mage didn’t know exactly what to make of that.

The lessons were exhaustive to the point of being monotonous, lasting the better part of the morning, but Sal eventually caught on. He practiced constricting and relaxing his conduits for yet another hour, all the while under the more experienced mage’s intense scrutiny. Finally Jaren was satisfied that Sal was safe to be around, and gave him leave to return to life as usual. He did caution Sal about returning to work too soon, however. “It takes a good bit of concentration for a newly-ascended mage to maintain his conduits,” he said by way of explanation, “especially for the first few hours or so. Quite like the breathing of a newborn baby. Similarly, it becomes more or less instinctual with time.”

Sal promised to keep an eye—diamond or figurative, he couldn’t decide which—on his conduits, and Jaren left. Once alone, Sal dressed, and went out to face what was left of the morning.

His first thought had been to go back to work, heedless of Jaren’s warning. He was fine; he just wanted to be busy. He wanted to be useful. Mostly, he wanted to see Marissa. But instead, he found his feet pointing him toward Reit’s wagon. There was something Sal wanted to do.

Delana was courteous as always, offered the proper commiseration for what he’d just been through. She told him that it was normal to be a little out of sorts for the first couple of days following ascension. Sal was hardly interested in all that. He wanted to know where he could find the granite mage.

Delana’s directions led Sal across the green to the Foundries, an area, in this village as in most others, set aside as an industrial district. Here he could find any trade that involved a forge fire—weapon smiths, armor smiths, glass blowers, potters, refineries, and the like.

Finding Master Seti’s establishment proved fairly easy. The man was well thought of, his work highly regarded. All the smiths knew where to find him.

Sal found the wagon in its expected clutter, bedecked with half-bent horseshoes, sooty forge tongs, discarded slags, scores of dirty leather mitts, and a few finished items yet to be picked up by their new owners. But to one side he found the forge, and in much different condition. The master’s workshop, a one-walled collapsible shed, reflected the pride he took in his work. Tools not currently in use were hung neatly on pegs on the back wall. The other three sides were open to the morning air, making the forge well ventilated and easy to clean. Within the shed was the forge itself, a squat metallic bowl that reflected the nomadic nature of the rest of the village—set on an axle, wheels chocked on either side, and stabilized with loose brick. The forge was flanked by a pair of anvils and a number of barrels filled with rain or brine or oil, all well used.

And there, hunkered down at the base of the forge, putting a whetstone to a newly forged scythe blade, was the young, tousle-headed granite.

The mage looked to be Sal’s height and well built. Stocky, even. His shaggy straw-colored hair hung in damp mats over his face. His body was thick and glistened with perspiration, corded muscles rippling as he worked the whetstone over the wicked looking edge. All in all, he seemed the type of person that Sal didn’t want to make upset.

Then he looked up.

And he saw Sal.

Sal was frozen in place for a moment, like a deer caught in a car’s headlights. He felt the granite’s scrutiny for a moment, then felt himself dismissed as the granite stood and turned toward the rain barrel. He dunked his head in the barrel, and whipped back out, letting the water course down his back, cutting dark trails in his leather vest. He stood there, reveling in the cooling touch of the water. Steeling his courage, Sal approached the granite.

“So, you’re the one what saved me from my captors,” the mage said, his eyes still closed as Sal neared him.

“Yeah,” Sal said lamely. “I owed Reit a favor, and it seemed like the thing to do and all...”

Sal’s voice trailed off as the granite turned to look him squarely in the eye.
Those eyes. Those cold, rock eyes
. Though not necessarily malevolent, the polished rock orbs were bitter to the point of menacing. An image of the granite flashed in Sal’s mind, standing over the dusty remains of the axe guard like the Angel of Death. On the night of the SEAL team strike—it seemed like a lifetime ago—he’d met another granite mage. He’d seen neither granite very well, as both instances were in the heat of battle, so this was his first chance to actually see one up close. Now, holding that scythe blade, he really did appear to be Death in the flesh.

“Keth, actually,” the mage said, correcting Sal’s unconsciously spoken thought.

Sal shivered inwardly at the granite’s voice. It was cold, like his eyes. His words were dispassionate, as if he expected to be shunned by every creature that walked, and had come to accept it.

Awkwardness turned to pity for Sal, and pity to kinship. This young man was just as displaced as Sal himself was—torn from his home, his loved ones, granted new and frightening gifts. His old life destroyed in the blink of an eye. Or the touch of a Tiled Hand, rather.

“I’m Sal,” he said, clearing his throat. He extended his hand to the granite mage.

The mage studied the proffered hand for a moment, then took it, pumping it firmly. “I suppose I should be thankful,” he said gruffly, not exactly indicating that he was grateful in the slightest.

“No sweat—err, I mean, you’re welcome,” Sal answered. “After what the Recruiters had put you through, I—”

“It was their place to take me,” Keth said brusquely. “I am a mage, and a dangerous one at that. They—
he
—had every right to detain me for the murderer that I am. I was bein’ taken to Schel Veylin to stand for my crime. Beggin’ your pardon, but you had no right to interfere.”

Sal was taken aback by the granite’s outburst. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he was positive that it was a little closer to gratitude than this! “No, maybe I didn’t have the right to interfere,” Sal conceded irritably, and growing more heated with each word. “But I did interfere, and so did the rest of us. We knew full well what your ‘crime’ was. Any one of us might have done the same thing in your place. It was an accident. Was it wrong? Yes. Could it have been avoided? Maybe. But we’ll never know. Only you can determine that.

“Listen,” he spat. “Lord knows I don’t want to interrupt you when you got a good pissed-off going. I didn’t come here to lecture you on the ethics of what you did, and I
definitely
didn’t come here to be told I was wrong to risk my neck to save yours. I came to introduce myself, and welcome you to Caravan. Now that I’ve done that, I’ll say ‘see ya later’, and let you get back to your pity party. I got stuff to do anyway.”

Sal turned on his heel and began to stalk off, but stopped after a pace or two and placed his hands on his hips, confused.
What the heck was that?
He half turned to look back at Keth and found the young granite standing there, dumbfounded. Seeing that look, Sal realized what he had said, and was struck dumb himself.

The two young men looked at each other for a moment, then both started laughing. It started as a chuckle, and grew into a side-splitting guffaw. Sal clutched at his gut as he doubled over, trying vainly to catch his breath.

The odd pair slowly regained their composure, and both felt better from the laugh. The tension that had been there before—Keth’s guilt, Sal’s fear of granites—was gone, at least for the most part. All that was left was an unlikely pair of young men, coming to terms with their own situations.

“Pity party, huh?” Keth said with a chuckle. “A good ‘pissed-off’?”

“Yeah, I know. I kinda got a way with words.”

“Aye,” the granite laughed. “A strange way... but a welcome one. Everyone’s been nice and all, but when it comes to bein’ straight with me, people tend to get a wee bit skittish. I can’t for the life o’ me understand why.” The young man’s face clouded over, a hint of bitterness tainting his smile.

“Let ‘em,” Sal said with a shrug. “My granny once told me that there’s only three things in life you can’t do. You can’t pass lead off as gold. You can’t live today if you’re stuck in yesterday. And you can’t make people love you. Love, trust... those are things that you have to earn, and they take time. And... well, I guess you
can
change lead into gold. This wacko in my world figured out how, and we—never mind. The point is, you can’t change who you were or what you’ve done, so don’t waste time worrying about it. Just make the most of who you are now, and the present will kinda cancel out the past. I mean, take Saul of Tarsus for example.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Just trust me on this one, okay? Anyway, I gotta go. I’m gonna go nuts if I don’t do something constructive around here, no matter what Jaren says. See ya later.” With a smile, he clapped Keth on the shoulder, and turned on his heels, headed for Marissa’s shop.

Had he looked behind him, he would have found the granite watching him curiously as he walked.

***

From behind a mounted magnifying glass, Sal waged war against a stubborn ruby chip, trying for the thousandth time to fit it into a silver setting along the edge of a piece he was working on. The battle had been raging for well over an hour now, and so far, the gem was winning. Sal swore his frustration as the stone slipped from his pliers yet again.

“What does that word mean?” Marissa asked from her workbench, absorbed in her own project.

“What word?” Sal asked absently as he moved his pliers once more to the ruby chip.

“The one you say when you’re frustrated. If you must keep saying it, I may as well understand you when you do.”

“I shouldn’t be talking like that. My granny would have my hide if she heard me using that kind of language. Sorry,” Sal said, blushing furiously. Marissa just stared at him, waiting for him to finish explaining. “It’s a figure of speech. Not exactly a polite word. It means... what... lovers do. At night,” he finished lamely.

“Enjoying yourself that much, are you?” she said, glancing mischievously over her shoulder.

“Not hardly,” he muttered, then paused. “But while we’re on the subject—”

“Hail, milord mage,” Jaren said cheerfully as he approached, breaking Sal’s train of thought. He grit his teeth as yet another opportunity to “discuss intentions” with Marissa slipped away. He toyed with the idea of telling Jaren to take a hike, but thought better of it. The slang term would probably be lost on the emerald anyway.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said, as much in answer to Marissa’s resulting snicker as to Jaren’s greeting.

“Get used to it. And a good morning to you as well, Mistress Artisan,” Jaren continued, undaunted. Marissa gave a gracious nod and returned to her work, keeping her head cocked toward the conversation as Jaren turned back to Sal. “Interesting couple of days, hasn’t it been?”

“I could think of a better word to describe them,” Sal grumbled.

“One not so polite?” Marissa chimed in sweetly. Sal winced at the comment.

“Well, be that as it may,” Jaren said, obviously not catching the inside joke, but pressing on regardless. “Whether you can use your powers or not, you
are
a mage, and a most unique one at that. There is much to discuss, much to learn, and my father always told me that you must first start a project if you ever aim to complete it. Which is why I’d like to ask if you’re free tonight?”

He glanced quickly at Marissa, then shrugged. He’d much rather ask Marissa to dinner again, maybe gain a mutual understanding—the kind that generally involves chocolates, suggestive winks, gossip across backyard fences—but there was something curious about Jaren’s invitation. “Sure, what’s up?”

The emerald started to glance at the cloudless sky, then caught himself, shaking his head with a wry smile. “I’m having Menkal of the Sapphire Order over for dinner, as well as our young granite friend. I’d like for you to join us.”

“Keth? I met him just a little while ago. Nice kid, a little strange though. Not too talkative. Got rocks in his head.”

Jaren chuckled at the observation. “So I can expect you to be in attendance?”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll be there.”

“Excellent,” Jaren said with a hungry gleam in his eye, which gave Sal pause. He hadn’t thought much about magic since Jaren had took him through his paces that morning. If he was as unique as everyone claimed, it could be weeks—even months—before he could use magic with any proficiency, to say nothing of the years that Jaren, Menkal, and others had spent in mastery of their own,
common
soulgems. But seeing that hunger in Jaren’s eye stirred his soul, if ever so slightly. Perhaps he wasn’t as alone in this as he thought.