Gemworld (36 page)

***

Delana paused in her steps as Marissa caught her eye. The artisan was hunched over a workstation, attacking her signaling artifact with feverish intensity. The amethyst had never seen the scatter-brained woman so focused.

She didn’t need to shift her vision to a more ethereal spectrum to know what the artisan’s preoccupation was. Everyone in Caravan knew. It was Sal.

Delana sighed lightly and shifted her bundle of groceries, then continued on her way. If she didn’t get dinner started soon, Reit would wonder again if
she
was preoccupied with Sal’s disappearance.

She couldn’t blame him, really. For one reason or another, it seemed that
everyone
in Caravan was preoccupied with Sal’s disappearance. All the mages, at least—along with Marissa, who at least had the excuse of being in love with the one-eyed mage. Reit had noticed it right off, but really didn’t know who to talk to about it. Ultimately, he only discussed it with Delana by default, and that only because she was his wife, not that he expected any real solutions.

The distraction didn’t seem to be causing any real problems per se. It was damned odd. More odd was the fact that she didn’t notice it herself until Reit had brought it to her attention. What was it about Sal that could so occupy the minds of the mages in Caravan?

Surely it wasn’t the young man himself. Caravan hadn’t known many new recruits in the past few years, but even so, the rebels rarely placed such importance on a single individual.

Perhaps it was his unique manner? Doubtful. As diverse as Caravan was, with its residents hailing from all corners of the Mainland, one oddity more or less would make little difference, even if he
were
from another world!

His diamond eye?

Delana wondered, her steps faltering slightly. Could it be that? Could there be something arcane going on, some residual effect of his unique brand of magic on the village? Perhaps
drawing
the mages to him in such a way as to leave them adrift in his absence? Jaren would probably know more...

She scoffed, and continued on her way. If such a thing were possible, there would have been record of it passed down through the ages since the time of the Rending. There would have been recorded incidents in the histories and traditions that would mention such attractions between the mages, as all gemstone mages were new at one time or another.

Delana forced a little bounce into her step, and forced all thought of Sal aside. She, at least, was determined not to be bound by whatever malaise had taken the magical community of Caravan. She had a stew to prepare and a husband to satisfy. She had no time for such nonsense.

On the advice of my new instructor, I am recording my experiences here at the Camp of the Unmarked in Bastion. This will serve to chart my progress as I learn more about magic, particularly about Emerald, my soulgem
.

It is said that as a mage grows more structured in style and ability to wield, the ability to improvise will likewise diminish, a tendency my instructor calls “specialization”. This journal is supposed to help me combat that tendency by providing a link to my open-minded, idealistic past, or so I’m told. Quite frankly, I fail to see the point
.

It’s been twice a fortnight since I first set foot on the island of Ysre. In some ways, it seems like only yesterday when I first saw the walls of Bastion; in other ways, a lifetime
.

Everything here is so different than it was back home. I remember a point in my life when I judged the passing of time by seasons, the joys of hunting in the winter, the idle days of summer. The actual marking of specific days, such as a birthday or a holiday... that was something left to the town elders
.

But here in Bastion, time seems so important. I’ve been introduced to what the instructors call a “calendar”, a precise—if somewhat cold—device for ordering the days of the year. I’ve found that the year is divided up into five months of seventy three days each. A three-day festival is placed in the middle of each month, with every fourth year adding a day to the Festival of Harvest. I always wondered how it was that the elders decided when to hold our festivals back home. Turns out that they had been planned out long before the elders were born. I’ve yet to see what city folks might consider a festival, but I’m looking forward to it. Apparently, I missed the last one on my way downriver from Scholar’s Ford. Just my luck
.

My orientation period is complete. Having mastered General Mana Theory, and gained absolute control over my conduits, I have been deemed ready to move on to the next phase of my training. Tomorrow, I am to begin formal training with the camp’s commanding officer, Emerald Rank Master Aten’rih
.

Master Aten’rih says that I have a knack for magic, an instinct. I don’t know about all that. I just think that Fiol back home did an outstanding job teaching me the whys and wherefores of magic. His guidance makes it somewhat easier to grasp the concepts they teach here
.

Home. I’ve been thinking a lot about home lately. I look out the window of our barracks, expecting to see the fields speckled white with budding cotton, or green with new ears of corn. Instead, I see grey stone. Make no mistake, the city is alive. Since learning how to use my secondary vision, I can hardly miss the vitality of Bastion. But it’s still not home. I miss my family. I miss Marissa
.

I can hardly wait to see her again, to hold her, to show her all the wonderful things I’ve learned how to do. The more I learn, the more I realize that I have been given a very special gift, one that may yet serve to make this world a better place
.

For the glory of the Highest.

Subsergeant Sal, Fourth Regiment of Garrison

Eternal Service of the Earthen Ranks

Camp of the Unmarked, Bastion

69th day of Sunglory, 4135

“Twice a fortnight?” Sal muttered with a grimace. It frustrated him to no end, having to talk like he was some twelfth-century hick just waiting on someone to lead a revolution against an evil Duke or something. Still, he knew his journals would be read—Rank recruits had no privacy whatsoever—so he had to make sure that any curious reader would read exactly what he expected to read. Still, Sal choked a little as he wrote the last line. He quickly scribbled his name, and placed the date beneath. For the glory of the Highest, indeed.

Satisfied, he blew the ink dry, sprinkling in a little powdery sand to be sure, then carefully replaced the journal in his footlocker. Many of the other students were doing the same—those who could write, anyway. They were writing about their studies, Sal was sure. Writing about their aspirations, their dreams, all for the glory of the Highest. But Sal couldn’t help wondering how many of his comrades actually believed all that. He hadn’t seen anything specific that would make him feel that way. He hadn’t heard of any dissension in the ranks—or in the Ranks. He really couldn’t say what, if anything, made him feel like his fellows were less than loyal to the Highest. It was a baseless gut feeling, but it was there all the same.

He crawled onto his bunk and turned down the wick on his lamp, then settled back, making himself as comfortable as the stiff grass-woven bunk would allow. As early as it was, he knew sleep would be a long time coming. Sighing, he shifted his weight on the bunk once more and tried to relax, fingering his eye patch to make sure it was still in place, as he did every night before bed. He closed his singular gemstone eye and idly replayed the events of the past month.

The trip downriver had taken all of about two weeks, and was rather uneventful. The ship had actually left for Bastion at little more than half its maximum capacity. Many of the
Academic’s
normal fare had opted to take a later ferry, deciding that the upcoming Festival of Summerheight was worth the delay. So much the better, as far as Sal was concerned. The few remaining passengers, mostly new students or Rank recruits, paid little attention to Sal, or if they did notice him, the grim demeanor and the wicked-looking eye patch dampened their curiosity. The few students who dared approach the one-eyed mage lost interest quickly enough. Sal wasn’t sure if it was his charming demeanor or the doeskin hilt of his katana, but he just couldn’t seem to keep a conversation alive. Sal chuckled at this, tugging reflexively at his eye patch

The sword drew as much attention as it deterred, both on the ship, and when he’d disembarked in Bastion. Swords were not uncommon in Bastion, especially among emeralds, who had limited offensive magic. But his katana was obviously of a more deadly make—a cut above the rest, one might say—and sporting the emblem of the Order of the Silent Blade on the hilt and scabbard. True, the hilt was only doeskin, denoting his novice abilities, but it was a
shol
’
tuk
weapon all the same, not a sword of the Earthen Rank, and it garnered as many wary glances as a gold hilt. The sword gave birth to all sorts of rumors about Sal. Perhaps he was a decourted lord of some sort? Or maybe he was an adherent that left the shadows to pursue more legitimate goals? Or perhaps the sword was a souvenir, a trophy snatched from the hands of some unwary
shol
’
tuk
who hadn’t noticed the emerald gleam from his single eye? Sal hadn’t aided in the creation of any of the rumors, but he did nothing to quell them, either. He just let people think what they would. And why not? If it kept people out of his way, he really didn’t care what the current story might be.

So it was that Sal spent most of the trip alone. His favorite pastime was to walk the deck, casually taking in the scenery as the ship navigated the wide banks of the river. It was ten days from Scholar’s Ford to the Sea of Ysre, which was little more than an enormous freshwater lake. It would fit in nicely with the Great Lakes back home. Upon seeing the broad blue expanse, the captain ordered all sails to full, and they reached Bastion by noon on the fifteenth day.

He found the Earthen Rank training camp without too much difficulty, and they accepted his identity without question. Odd. The disguise worked just fine in Scholar’s Ford, but he expected a bit more scrutiny from the Ranks. As it happened, he didn’t have to wonder about it very long. Master Aten’rih’s address to the recruits brought it all into perspective.

“They are Scholars,” he had said, pointing to the towering Academy in the distance. “You are Rank. They do research, form theories, help to make policy and law under the governors of the respective territories, and ultimately, the Highest. You uphold and defend those policies without question. Never take it into your head that you have a better understanding of what is right and wrong. In Bastion,
I
am your moral compass.
I’ll
tell you what’s right and wrong.”

Scholars and Rank were each the antithesis of the other. One school was of contemplation, the other of action. One strove to make life better, the other brought life to an end. Scholars saw the world in all its ambiguity, where Rank officers saw it in black and white. So when Sal arrived at the training camp bearing the armor and sigil of an Earthen Rank subsergeant, they saw no reason to doubt the veracity of his story. After all, what mage in his right mind would dare risk certain death by impersonating a soldier of the Highest, when legitimate recruitment and service were so highly esteemed?

No one would ever guess that he was doing precisely that.

None of it had been Sal’s plan, actually. He’d only thought to use the uniform and the story to get to Bastion, and figure out what to do next when he got there. But he’d been so readily accepted by the Rank recruits on the ship, and then on the wharves, that he simply blessed his good fortune and went with it.

It was an easy enough role to play. Command lower ranked soldiers. Obey superior officers. Respond to every order with a loud
yes-sir
. It was all routine to the ex-SEAL. In a strange way, it gave him a feeling of having come home. The “three hots and a cot” was also nice.

And it gave him access to the schools of magic, which was an added bonus. Unlike formal magic schools, so he was told, Rank orientation was, by necessity, a mixed population. All new recruits, with the exception of granites, were given their initial subjects—Mana Theory, Military Protocol, Theology—in joint session, regardless of their gemstone Rank. Apparently, it was to familiarize all new recruits with the abilities of the other Tiles. After all, an emerald couldn’t trust a ruby until he knew what the ruby was capable of. By the same token, an amethyst couldn’t destroy a sapphire without first knowing his weakness.

All of which suited Sal perfectly. He listened just as intently when the instructors spoke with an amethyst or a ruby as he did when they spoke to the emeralds. It took a little practice, bending his ear to how the various Ranks viewed magic, but within the first few days of enrolling at the training camp, Sal touched Ruby for then first time, and then finally Amethyst.

It was slow going at first. Ruby and Amethyst were very aggressive magics, unlike Emerald and, to a lesser extent, Sapphire. And the instructors never went over how to actually touch the various soulgems. It was assumed that each mage had that kind of access already. After all, Bearers of the Tiled Hand were ever vigilant, and would never leave a newly ascended mage without first making sure that he had access to at least the most basic instruction. Such abandonment could be disastrous, and was avoided at all cost.

And yet, as estranged as the varying viewpoints of the different Rank instructors were concerning their soulgems, Sal was able to pick out a single link between them. Each soulgem, save Emerald, had a projectile nature to it. Fireballs, iceballs, lightning bolts—all were projectiles formed from the most basic magics inherent to their respective soulgem. Sal already knew from the raid on Keth’s prison coach. But as he listened to the various instructors, he noted that they all seemed to approach projectile magics from a similar perspective. Regardless what Rank the instructor who spoke on the subject, they all described their magic bolts as the essence of their soulgem, pressed together, then hurled in a specific direction. However they took hold of their soulgem, they all created and released the projectile in the same manner. Ultimately, it took nothing more than finding that lowest common denominator and building upon it.

That afternoon, the instructors called a recess to their studies. It had been two weeks since the arrival of the new class, so the instructors decided, in their unending generosity, to allow the new recruits to pass the day in private study, or if the recruit felt it would be better not to remain so idle, he or she could opt to run a few errands in town. It was laughable the number of hands shot into the air.

Sal chose to use his free time to go off into the southern woods just beyond the perimeter of the camp. “Herb Lore”, he claimed as his excuse as he passed the guard at the southern gate—a more seasoned recruit not much older than Sal himself.

“Herb Lore? That’ll be the day,” the guard chuckled knowingly, his amethyst eyes flickering in amusement. “Don’t get yourself killed.”

As Sal moved off down the southern road, he had to chuckle a bit himself. He should have known that he wasn’t the first recruit to ever go off by himself to indulge his burgeoning talent.

About a mile down the dirt road, he spied a game trail leading off to the west. It seemed as likely a spot as any, so he followed the trail, the road behind him disappearing almost instantly as he made his way through the untamed brush.

The game trail, little more than a narrow path of matted down high grasses and bramble vines, wound its way through a grove of shiny-leafed trees. Back home, Sal would have sworn they were magnolias. Eventually, the game trail came out on a clearing amidst the trees.

The clearing spread out over the top of a squat, flat hill. It wasn’t terribly large, enclosed on three sides by magnolia, with the open side facing due west, giving a rather grand view of the Sea of Ysre. In the center of the clearing stood a boulder, ancient beyond measure, and pockmarked by uncounted thousands of young mages, each—Sal was sure—with the notion in their heads to go out into the woods to brush up on their “Herb Lore”. A smile stretched wide on his face as he settled into his place in what was no doubt a grand tradition, held fervently throughout the years by the industrious youth of Ysre.