I sat and I stared at the little green stone like it might bite me. It didn't;
it persisted in lying there on the little pillow of silk and pretending that it
was just an innocent, pretty little piece of harmless rock. I knew better. I
took a deep breath and let it out.
Irionite. The stone of fable.
It is at once the most dangerous and most useful substance in the world.
It is said to be rarer than diamonds, more precious than gold, more powerful
than any known magical component. It had been mentioned in universally
reverent tones by my instructors at the Academy.
My own experience with the stuff was less than helpful. All I can
remember about irionite was that miserably stormy night in Farise, when
my unit raided the palace of the Doge, his army and his sorcerous lackeys. I
still wake up screaming, dreaming about that night.
Orril Prak, the Mad Mage of Farise, had used a piece of irionite in
crafting the deadliest magical weapon since the Magocracy, and he wasn't
prepared to come quietly. He hurled bolts of death at us that blew holes in
the streets and started raging fires so hot that they burned the masonry. He
made the heads of my squadmates explode and sent huge chunks of ruined
city flying out to smash our siege engines. Had it not been for superior
planning, pure desperation, and more luck that we were probably entitled
to, it's quite possible that that little green chip of stone would have defeated
us.
The one in front of me was twice its reputed size. And it had been taken
from the hand of a simple goblin shaman.
I stared at that damn stone for hours before I got up enough courage to
probe its arcane depths. I'd done what research I could first, of course. I am
a Thaumaturge, after all, among other things, and I approached my
investigation like a school project. It hadn't taken me long to exhaust my
tiny library for references on the subject. I had learned a little more than I
thought I would, which only made me more afraid of what we were facing.
Jarik's Metaphysical Reality had a small listing for irionite, and said it
originated in the loamy meadows of mountain valleys of the Minden Range
(where I was standing). Apart from a few minor pieces of folklore and
obvious lies, the Sage of Sherbrook had little else to say on the manner.
Koval's Talismans and Sigils had a more complete listing, and included
an account from an even earlier epoch that declared that the Magocracy had
stolen its powers from the gurvani and the Tree Folk when they came to this
land. Koval made some astute speculation that the powers that they stole
were in the form of irionite gems, and mentioned a few references that I
wasn't familiar with as back-up.
Lister's Magical Miscellany described a little of the stone's use in the
Magocracy, including some theories about their origin. This last entry was
by far the most helpful – and the most frightening.
Lister wrote of several accounts of the stones being used for
phenomenal feats of magic, including the destruction of whole towns,
freezing of rivers in the middle of summer, animating armies of the dead,
that sort of thing. Lister's theory about the origin of the stones was
interesting and made a great deal of sense. Irionite was not a mineral, he
contended; it was an organic substance. He theorized that it was a type of
amber, possibly from the sap of the kellesarth tree.
Kellesarth, as Lister explained, is an evergreen shrub whose berries are
rich in a substance that was named kellan by the sages of antiquity. Kellan
has the effect of temporarily increasing the expression of potential magical
talent in a mage, which is why a distillation of the berry is sometimes used
in the early days of an apprentice's training if he is having a hard time
producing power.
Sometimes the distilled essence will allow the pathways used for
magical work to open up more fully and less painfully than if left to
develop on their own. It has been used to varying degrees of success to treat
a few of the rare magical ailments that our profession is hazard to. The book
also mentioned that some mountain peasants eat the raw berries before
orgiastic fertility rituals, as it increases their awareness.
(That last one I doubted. I had been in the mountains for over six
months, now, and if someone was having orgiastic fertility rituals they had
failed to invite me.)
Prolonged use, however, can be addictive and toxic, causing madness,
gradual degeneration of nerve control, and eventual death. That part wasn't
in dispute. There is even a fringe element of my profession that perpetually
seeks to discover a way that kellan can be used safely. They haven't had
much luck, and you can find the poor, palsied bastards hanging around the
Academies sometimes, begging their wiser colleagues for money for more
"research."
Kellesarth was not uncommon in the lowlands, where it often made a
fragrant and decorative shrub around manor houses and old Imperial
buildings. When found there, it usually isn't potent enough to produce
kellan in any quantity. And while it is a bit sappy, I couldn't imagine a
single bush producing enough sap to solidify the kind of volume I assumed
it would take to form a witchstone. Botany is not my strong suit, but the
kellesarth shrubs I had grown up around simply don't get that big.
However, in the few months I had been in the mountains I had noticed
that the kellesarth grew much larger at this altitude. Until now it had merely
been a curious footnote of botanical lore for the book I would some day
write in my dotage. If those more robust kellesarth trees produced a
significant amount of sap, then it was only logical that the magical
properties of the plant were present in stronger quantities – enough to
produce a kind of amber, perhaps, over a few centuries.
It also explained why the rivers that were spawned from these hills
produced a bumper crop of magi in the valleys below: particles of irionite
or kellesarth sap would have washed away into creeks and streams with the
rain. Water runs down hill. People drink water. Therefore, kellesarth
particles became infused in the tissues of future magi. Like me.
The gurvani have inhabited these mountains for far longer than humans,
and they must have come into contact with both the tree and the rock, I
reasoned, the same way that people did. Despite prejudices to the contrary,
the average gurvan is not any more or less stupid than your average human
peasant. In fact, from what the Lore Masters taught us at the Academy,
there is evidence that the gurvani once had a vibrant, if primitive, kind of
nascent civilization in the lower valleys . . . before humans showed up and
shoved them back up into the hills.
I knew that there were ruins of pre-Imperial structures that seemed to be
of gurvani manufacture, not the Alka Alon's. While their magic differed
greatly in form from Imperial or Alkan styles, it has proven to be potent. It
was almost a certainty, then, that the Mountain Folk had knowledge of
irionite, and were now using it.
That begged a couple of pressing questions: Was this raid a fluke, a onetime occurrence by an opportunistic leader? Did this particular tribal
shaman luck onto this mammoth chunk and decide to vent his rage on our
village? That seemed the most plausible story. But why now and why here?
Too many questions, not enough answers. But they had to be there, and I
had to find them. Quickly.
So I stared at that little chunk of pretty rock and I tried to muster up the
courage to delve deeper into its mysteries. I studied plenty of Thaumaturgy
("the science of magic", technically) and knew how to begin, at least in
theory.
After five hours, with sweat pouring off of me like rain, I gave up.
There was just too much I didn't know about it, and what I did learn was
tantalizingly incomplete. As far as I knew, there were no magi who
specialized in this field of magic – hard to do when it's proscribed by law.
In fact, as far as I knew I had in my possession more irionite than any single
mage in the Five Duchies had ever had – me, a village spellmonger in a
backward little mountain hamlet.
I needed help. Magical help, and Inrion Academy and all of my
professional colleagues were leagues and leagues away. Not that they would
have been any more help than my neighbors when it came to figuring out
the mysteries of the shard. Indeed, there was only one place I knew of
where I might get knowledgeable advice on such short notice. But that
would mean a short journey, one I had been eagerly anticipating since I
arrived in Boval Vale.
"Tyndal!" I hollered, not tearing my eyes away from the stone. I didn't
have long to wait – the boy was rarely out of earshot.
"Yes, Master?" he said, eagerly appearing at my elbow.
"Pack our things. Cloaks, supplies for six days, travel clothes, blankets.
Then run over to the stables and have Karres saddle up Traveler and see if
he'll rent a horse for you, as well. Then find one of the village boys who
wants to make a penny by running a message up to the castle. You got
that?"
"Pack, horses, message. Got it!"
"Good lad," I said, taking down a piece of parchment and an inkpot
from the top shelf. Trying to remember my best court manners, I penned an
ass-kissy letter to the local lord explaining what I was doing, out of
courtesy.
To Sire Koucey, House of Brandmount,
Lord of Boval Vale, Liege of Brandmount,
I bid you greetings.
My Most Gracious and Puissant Lord:
After due and serious consideration concerning the Object which was
discovered in the hands of the goblin shaman, I have come to the conclusion
that, indeed, further research will be necessary to ascertain the nature of
the Threat with which we are faced. To this end, I shall depart from the
Village of Minden's Hall this very morning with my apprentice on a journey
that should last no less than six days and no more than nine. During my
absence I beg that you station at least a brace of your good gentlemen here,
lest a similar misfortune befall the Village before my return. While I think
such an attack is unlikely, it is nonetheless a prudent course of action under
the circumstances.
I also urge you to continue your preparations as if for war, for I fear
that this raid was but the beginning of a conflict that could embroil all the
lands along the Western March. Drill the militia, make a good store of
provisions and arrows against the necessity of siege, and take especial care
to patrol the frontiers of your lands against a similar incursion. I will do my
best to discover the nature and the extent of the Threat to our peace.
May Trygg and Luin Bless Your Reign,
Master Minalan the Spellmonger